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“Smells good,” Hitoshi says as he saunters into the kitchen, hands in his pockets. “What’s on the menu today?”
“Katsudon,” Shouto responds, not looking up from the pan.
Hitoshi clicks his tongue. “You’re spoiling him,” he says, even as he leans in to peck Shouto’s upturned cheek. “Do I get to have some too?”
“Maybe if I’m feeling generous.”
Hitoshi rolls his eyes, a retort ready on his tongue, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is a yawn. Shouto gives him a quick sidelong glance, and the bags under Hitoshi’s eyes seem heavier with the weight of his stare.
“Tired?”
Hitoshi can’t help it; the huff he gives is a little derisive, though Shouto looks nonplussed. He leans against the counter on Shouto’s right and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m pretty sure that’s my default state.”
Shouto studies him for a few more moments, and Hitoshi lets him. He used to find Shouto’s stare unnerving — too sharp, too piercing, too judging. But that was back when he was just Todoroki: just another obstacle, another powerhouse of the hero class that Hitoshi needed to beat. It’s still sharp and piercing now, but no longer judging. Hitoshi’s not sure it ever was judging.
Well, he’d probably describe it instead as beautiful or captivating now, but that’s besides the point.
For a moment, as said mismatched eyes examine him, he considers voicing that thought — but his throat constricts and heat rises to the back of his neck so he elects to discard that notion with a small pang of something stinging in his brain.
He’s saved anyway, because Shouto just gives a small nod and turns back to begin meticulously flipping one cutlet piece after another, the breading turning a lovely golden brown.
The kitchen is empty save for the two of them tonight, the windows shut tightly to stave off the growing winter chill. The overhead fan is working overtime to disperse the steam that rises from the stove in steady, lazy wisps.
It’s late on a Saturday — late enough that most people have already eaten dinner, but not late enough that anyone has gone to sleep; Hitoshi can hear the low murmur of his classmate’s voices from the common room, a blend of sounds that once grated on his nerves but now tiptoes on comforting. There’s some soft guitar strumming that’s probably Jirou experimenting with a new riff, and some methodical clicking that’s probably Tsuyu knitting.
Shouto reaches into the cabinet, rummaging unhurriedly through the contents. Hitoshi silently notes the furrow of his brows, the set of his jaw. Shouto approaches cooking like he approaches heroics and fights and exams and everything else — with grim resolve and his full, undivided attention, like the weight of the world is riding on how much pepper is sprinkled onto the pork.
It’s cute, Hitoshi thinks.
He hovers his pointer finger next to Shouto’s head, careful to keep it just out of the other’s field of vision.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hm?” Shouto turns, stiffening when Hitoshi’s finger is suddenly poking against his cheek. His eyes widen; on anyone else it would have been nigh unnoticeable, but on Shouto it’s comical. His mouth is parted ever-so-slightly: the Shouto equivalent of slack-jawed gaping.
It’s endearing as fuck.
Hitoshi feels the corners of his mouth twitch. Laughter is bubbling up his throat and a few manage to escape before his finger gets encased in a thin sheen of ice.
“Oops,” Shouto says, not looking the least bit sorry. He turns back to his food.
Hitoshi narrows his eyes and — wow, okay, honestly he’s gotta admit that he’s kind of proud of Shouto for that. He keeps his poker face steady, though, and lifts his finger to examine it. The ice goes almost up to his knuckle, the crystal clear casing laced with frost and preventing him from bending his finger. It’s a little numb from the cold, but it doesn’t hurt. He knows the ice would crack easily if he were to tap it a few times against the counter.
Instead, Hitoshi pushes himself off the counter with one arm, maneuvers to Shouto’s other side, and pokes the finger against Shouto’s left cheek. Shouto looks at him from out of the corner of his eye, the katsu still sizzling on the pan.
Hitoshi raises one eyebrow and waits.
The staring contest lasts a few beats, and an outside observer might have read it as tense, but Hitoshi can see Shouto’s eyes flicker with a playfulness that he knows likely mirrors the one in his own, and Hitoshi wrestles to make sure his smirk doesn’t turn into a smile.
Shouto exhales a near-theatrical sigh that makes his bangs flutter in front of his face, and Hitoshi can feel the warmth radiating off his boyfriend and settling into his also-fluttering heart as the ice melts away, leaving only stray water droplets.
“Thank you,” Hitoshi says, making a show of lifting his finger to the light, turning it this way and that, checking for any sign of injury even though he knows there are none. He lets out a gasp anyway, turning back to shove his now slightly-dripping finger directly in front of Shouto’s face.
Shouto leans back, expression cross-eyed.
“I got a boo-boo,” Hitoshi says seriously, waggling his finger. “Kiss it better.”
The corner of Shouto’s mouth curls up, just barely. It’s more a plea than a command and they both know it, but Shouto complies easily, leaning forward to drop a light kiss on Hitoshi’s fingertip, lips cool and dry. Hitoshi’s heart jumps.
“Better now?” Shouto asks, beginning to remove the katsu from the pan.
“Much better,” Hitoshi says, his voice even.
He walks over to the fridge and throws it open, sticking his head in to ostensibly look for something to eat, but really just relishing in the rush of cold air that combats the tickle of heat that had threatened to creep onto his face.
“If any of this is burned, it’s your fault,” Shouto calls.
“Note taken.” He closes the fridge door once he's satisfied that the blush is gone. The chill also seems to have pushed a bit of his tiredness away, so that’s a double win.
Shouto hums as he unplugs the rice cooker. “Where’s Izuku?”
“Huh? Am I not enough for you?” Hitoshi says, voice dripping with hurt as he brings a hand up to his chest.
Shouto doesn’t even turn around, but Hitoshi is certain he just rolled his eyes.
“Well, if you must know,” Hitoshi says, stealing a piece of katsu off the cooling rack and dodging Shouto’s swat as he walks past and grabs the now-abandoned pan, “he said he got caught up in training and still needs to shower, so he’ll be a bit late. But not to start the movie without him.”
Shouto nods and begins to neatly pack the food into an assortment of bento boxes. One is boldly striped in red, white, blue, and yellow; another is patterned with small cartoon cats and scuff marks; the last is plain stainless steel.
Hitoshi pops the katsu into his mouth and turns the sink on. He grabs a sponge, holds it under the running water. It’s a bit cold, but that’s okay, because it keeps him awake. It’s easy to slip into a practiced rhythm, moving on autopilot as he starts scrubbing the pan, watching the soap suds foam and grow.
It’s quiet again in the kitchen, but Hitoshi doesn’t mind, and he knows Shouto doesn't either. Shouto’s silences are comforting, familiar, like all that he asks of Hitoshi is that he exist. And that’s easy enough to do in this pocket of space they’ve carved out for themselves, where Hitoshi’s mind can drift to idle thoughts of the upcoming movie night. It's some much-missed quality time in the midst of exam season and he's been looking forward to it all week, but he'd rather disappear than admit that out loud, and so he keeps his sappy thoughts between himself and the white noise of running water, clinking pots, and an overhead fan.
“You gonna eat that?” Hitoshi asks, clicking his chopsticks at a piece of katsu.
“You have the exact same food in yours.”
Hitoshi pouts. “But I want yours.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“You’re a nuisance sometimes, did you know that?”
“Nope. No one’s ever told me that before.”
“Pity. Trade you for some cabbage.”
Hitoshi rocks back and forth, schooling his expression into one of deep concentration. Shouto stares at him impassively. “O-kay,” Hitoshi sighs. “I guess.”
Outside, the sky is teasing snow; the smallest of flurries are drifting down, carried by a gentle breeze past the screen windows. Shouto hasn’t turned the heater on in his room yet, but Hitoshi supposes that he doesn’t really need it. He wonders what fraction of a cost Shouto manages to save the school in heating bills.
Hitoshi finishes his meal first — Shouto is notoriously slow when it comes to eating anything except cold soba — and leans back on his elbows and closes his eyes. He thought that he might feel a bit more energetic after eating, but he supposes a food coma should’ve been the better bet. Classical music spills from the speakers of Shouto’s laptop, placed on the floor between them. It’s not really Hitoshi’s first choice in music, but Shouto likes it so he doesn’t complain. It’s some violin piece, slow and full-bodied.
The tatami mats are cool under his hands as he runs his fingers methodically over him, and he marvels, not for the first time, how the fuck Shouto managed to revamp his entire room in a few hours. By himself. Frankly, both his boyfriends had ridiculous room setups, even if it was for completely different reasons.
His phone vibrates at the same time that Shouto’s chimes, breaking him out of his focus. Opening his eyes is a bit more of a chore than he’d like, but that’s nothing new. Still, there’s a small smile that comes unbidden to his face as he picks up his phone.
“What’d he say?” Shouto asks, chewing with his mouth open.
Hitoshi wrinkles his nose at that, but sits up properly and swipes to open the group chat, smile growing when he sees the contact photo — a beaming baby Izuku in an All Might onesie — light up the screen. “He’ll be here in about ten minutes, complete with way too much apologizing and a thousand emojis.”
Shouto huffs a little bit, though there’s a fond smile on his face too.
Hitoshi tosses his phone down, pushes the laptop to the side, and then promptly falls over so that his head is pillowed in Shouto’s lap. To his credit, Shouto only gives a tiny noise of surprise.
“I’m still eating,” he protests mildly. “I might drop some food on you.”
“But you won’t,” Hitoshi says easily, words muffled into the fabric of Shouto’s sweater. He wraps his arms lightly around Shouto’s middle, breathing in the faint traces of lemon fabric softener.
“You’re gonna fall asleep on me, aren’t you?”
“Who knows.”
“You need to get more rest.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Hitoshi closes his eyes, buries his face deeper into the absurdly expensive cashmere, and falls asleep.
Or, at least, half-asleep. He blinks awake after what’s probably just a few minutes, because he’s pretty sure Izuku still isn’t here yet. There is, however, a hand combing through his hair, gentle and rhythmic. It takes a few moments to process what’s happening, still working through the groggy haze in his mind, but when he does, he can't help but melt and let out the smallest, barest of contented sighs. It’s really kind of stupid, in Hitoshi’s opinion, how much his stomach still swoops at contact like this.
“You must be really tired if you fell asleep that fast.” Shouto’s voice comes from above, soft and quiet.
“Rough week,” he mumbles. “Present Mic’s essays will be the death of me.” He stifles another yawn. “Finally finished your food? What a slowpoke.”
“Some of us have manners and prefer to enjoy and savor our food.”
“Says the guy who chews with his mouth open.” The cashmere tickles his nose. “You’ve gotten better at cooking though.”
“Thank you. Fuyumi’s been giving me tips. Although,” Shouto says, and even in his sleepy state, Hitoshi can imagine the wry grin that’s probably ghosting over his porcelain features, “I’m not sure that’s a high compliment, coming from you.”
“What is that supposed to mean.”
“You subsist off jelly packs half the time,” Shouto says matter-of-factly. “Therefore, your standards for food are minimal.”
“Hey, if Aizawa-sensei can do it then I can too,” Hitoshi says. He wiggles his feet like a petulant child, enjoying the hollow tapping sound that rings against the tatami mats.
“Well…” Shouto says in that one specific tone of voice that Hitoshi has learned to fear. “I guess that makes sense, since—”
Hitoshi immediately flips so that he’s on his back, momentarily alert and staring directly up at Shouto’s near-expressionless face.
“Don’t,” he growls.
Shouto blinks and tilts his head. “I—”
“Don’t you dare.” Hitoshi wills his stare to form literal daggers.
Shouto blinks again, slowly, but then the corner of his mouth curves up. “You’re cute,” he says, in that same matter-of-fact tone of moments before.
Hitoshi sputters, tries to call up a cocky smirk so he can retort with an airy I know, but then Shouto leans down and brushes their lips together.
Instinctively, Hitohi reaches up to wrap his arms around Shouto’s neck, tugging him closer and melting into the kiss. Kissing Shouto is a little different every time; sometimes his lips feel warm and the heat travels down into his stomach, other times they’re cool and the chill makes his head spin. Sometimes, like right now, the temperature seems to fluctuate and dance, keeping Hitoshi guessing and pulling closer so he can puzzle it out.
The kiss is long and slow and gentle and Hitoshi feels a little like he’s floating when Shouto finally breaks it, though Hitoshi keeps his arms locked around the other’s neck and maybe whines just a little bit. He can feel Shouto smile against his mouth.
“I’m serious, though,” Shouto murmurs, lips brushing against Hitoshi’s with every syllable.
“Mm?” Hitoshi’s eyes are still closed, too distracted by the hand still stroking his hair.
“The jelly pack thing. You shouldn’t be ashamed of being Aizawa-sensei’s love ch—”
Hitoshi immediately bites down on Shouto’s bottom lip — light enough that it wouldn’t bleed but hard enough that it would sting — and smirks as Shouto jerks his head back and glares.
Hitoshi keeps that smirk even as his eyes linger on Shouto’s lips, wet and red and regrettably too far away to nip at again. He watches Shouto’s tongue dart out to swipe along his bottom lip and represses the urge to do the same.
Not even a second later and Shouto’s mouth is over his again, this time harder and more insistent, and Hitoshi is ready to meet him inch for inch—
The door opens then, the hinges creaking as it swings. “Hey, sorry I’m late— oh, is this a bad time?”
They separate and Hitoshi has to tilt his head almost upside-down to see Izuku, but even at this angle he can see the amused look overlaid on a freckled blush as his boyfriend kicks off his signature red sneakers and closes the door.
“I-zu-kuuu,” Hitoshi singsongs, stretching his arms out towards him. “It’s never a bad time.” He waggles his eyebrows, pulling up a wicked grin. “Wanna join us?”
Izuku’s blush strengthens predictably even as he gives Hitoshi a light smack on the shoulder. But he sits down beside them with a plop and leans down anyway, even if the kiss he gives Hitoshi is woefully quick and light. Hitoshi still shivers just a bit when Izuku’s damp curls brush his chin. Shouto lets out a small huff of laughter, and Hitoshi desperately hopes it’s because Izuku has turned to give him a kiss too, and not because he felt Hitoshi’s shudder.
Shouto leans over to grab the last bento and a pair of chopsticks and hands them to Izuku, whose eyes are already shining with excitement. He’s practically vibrating in place as he opens the lid; the vibration reaches an all-time high as the smell wafts forward.
“Katsudon?” he gasps. “Shouto, I love you!”
Hitoshi opens his mouth.
Izuku turns immediately and points at him with his chopsticks. “Shut up, you know I love you too.”
Hitoshi closes his mouth.
“How was training?” Shouto asks. He starts threading his hand through Hitoshi’s hair again. Hitoshi feels a newly-acquired blush grow, and also screams a little internally because how do they just say stuff like that so casually and then immediately move on.
“Good!” Izuku says in between mouthfuls of food — and seriously, was Hitoshi the only one raised with table manners — “Got to test out some new gear that Hatsume made me, I'll show you guys later—Shouto, do you want some of my cabbage?—and I'm so sorry it took so long for me to get here—say ahh—I swear I would’ve been here earlier but then I got stopped by All Might on the way over cause he wanted to talk for a bit and I couldn’t say no—”
“‘S okay,” Hitoshi says, awkwardly tapping Izuku’s knee with the back of one of his outstretched hands. “You made it.”
Izuku beams and it shoots an arrow right through Hitoshi’s heart.
He switches gears immediately. “Besides, it makes sense,” Hitoshi continues gravely, tone even and measured. “Of course you’d want to talk to All Might, seeing as how you’re his secret love ch—”
Shouto lets out a borderline-scandalized gasp. Izuku sputters and so does Hitoshi, though for very different reasons.
Hitoshi glares up at Shouto.
Shouto glares right back.
And, more importantly, Shouto glares right back while pinching Hitoshi’s nose.
“Izuku,” Hitoshi whines when it’s clear Shouto isn’t going to let go. The blocked airflow makes his voice tinny and higher-pitched. “Shouto’s being rude.”
“Hitoshi’s being an asshole,” Shouto counters, pouting.
Izuku lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Isn’t he always?”
“Ha!” Hitoshi says, raising a fist in victory. Then he pauses. “Wait, who were you responding to?”
Izuku laughs and shoves another bite of rice in his mouth.
“You’re a little shit,” Hitoshi tries to growl, but it comes out way too nasally too intimidating. The other two are snickering as he swats Shouto’s hand away. “Let me revise; you’re both little shits.”
“Don’t mind him, Izuku,” Shouto says. “He just woke up from a nap so he’s cranky.”
“I am not cranky—” Hitoshi starts, but then another yawn balloons out from his lungs and he’s forced to squeeze his eyes shut, but not before catching a glimpse of the satisfied glint in Shouto’s eye.
“See?”
Izuku nods sagely, cheeks puffed like a hamster. He swallows, then taps his chopsticks lightly against the rim of the bento. “He’s like a baby.”
“You’re calling me a baby—”
“A very angry baby,” Shouto agrees, also nodding.
Hitoshi opens his mouth again but then closes it and simply groans, melting bonelessly into Shouto’s lap. He throws one arm over his eyes, the very picture of a shunned Victorian lover if said Victorian lover was a high school student with purple hair and a crumbling cool-guy reputation.
“Oh wow,” Izuku says. “You must be really tired if you gave up that fast.”
“Mm.”
There’s some shuffling — Izuku readjusting his sitting position, probably. Then Izuku’s voice, still bright but without the teasing lilt. “Maybe you should just get some rest? We can watch a movie another day—”
“No,” Hitoshi says, maybe a little too quickly. He can feel his ears start to flush. Good thing his arm is there. “No,” he says again, double-checking to make sure his voice comes out steady. “It’s fine, don’t worry.”
“Are you sure?” Shouto asks, voice rumbling through Hitoshi’s core. “It’s no issue.”
“I’m sure. I want...” Hitoshi starts, insistent, before pausing. To spend time with you guys is on the tip of his tongue, ready to slip out. We don’t get to do much except on the weekends. But he can feel his throat closing up again and so he swallows the words back down. He takes a deep breath (but not too deep, lest Shouto feel it) and digs the nails of one hand into his palms. “I want… to relax and watch a movie.”
They’ve been dating for months, why the fuck is this so hard.
“Okay,” Shouto says with a soft chuckle. “I trust your judgement.”
And that — that does stupid, stupid things to Hitoshi’s heart too because Shouto says it like Hitoshi’s just announced a promising new theory on an unsolved mystery rather than talking about his capacity to stay awake, and between Shouto’s easy compliments and Izuku’s casual I love yous, Hitoshi is going to die.
He decides to not wait for any other response and instead swings his arms up and out, putting all his focus into doing a slow, awkward sit-up off of Shouto’s lap, just to create some distance.
“You look like a zombie rising from the grave,” Izuku says, and Hitoshi is nearly blinded by the fondness etched into his face and smile when Hitoshi turns to look at him.
But he’s still kind of trying not to be a flustered idiot so he latches onto this new topic, immediately shifting onto his knees and holding his arms directly in front of him. “Brains,” he groans, tone scratchy. He puts his voice training to good use as he begins a slow shuffle towards Izuku. “Give me your braaains…”
“Eek!” Izuku squeals, leaning away from the snail-slow onslaught. “Shouto, protect me!”
“Sorry,” Shouto says. He sounds almost genuinely apologetic, but then he turns to his laptop and the edge of a smirk sneaks in. “You left me alone with him for too long, so now it’s your turn to deal with him.”
“Shoutooo,” Izuku wails at the exact same time that Hitoshi drawls out a “ruuude.”
Izuku unfolds his legs from under him and shifts so that he’s on his knees too, awkwardly cradling his food to his chest as he starts to shuffle away from Hitoshi, giggling the entire time.
“Izukuuu,” Hitoshi intones, chasing — or, as much as you can call this slow shuffling ‘chasing’ — Izuku doggedly, arms still outstretched. He’s still kind of tired, his muscles not yet fully awake after their brief nap, but he figures that the genuine weight and drag of his movements probably adds to the act so he’s not complaining. “Let me eat your braaains.”
“Never!” Izuku says, in between laughs.
There’s a click, soft and unassuming, but the resulting noise is neither of those things: suddenly there’s an entire band performing in the confines of Shouto’s room, the music blasting directly into Hitoshi’s ears and out again to bounce off the walls and run along the floor. Both pursuer and pursuee freeze; Hitoshi chances a look over at Shouto, who sits primly in front of his offending laptop with a smile of serene grace but eyes that sparkle with mischief as the rapid-fire, high-energy notes hammer through their skulls.
The music is thrumming under Hitoshi’s veins, encouraging him to go, go, go as his heart instinctively beats faster. He deliberates for a moment; he was literally just musing about being able to accurately mime sluggish and tired. But it’s kind of hard to be tired when there’s so much energy in the air, so he leans forward and begins shuffling with a renewed vigor, tottering wildly from side to side as he tries to match the pace of the song.
Izuku starts laughing harder, nearly spilling his food as he half-doubles over with tears in his eyes. But there’s a competitive glint there, now, and not even a second later and he’s mirroring Hitoshi, rapidly shuffling onward, holding the food protectively against his chest. He’s wearing one of Hitoshi’s hoodies, and it’s so long on him that the hem nearly reaches the floor.
He looks like an idiot, Hitoshi thinks with barely-contained fondness. And to be fair, he knows that he looks like an idiot too, feels like one as he carpet-burns his jeans on this not-carpet, but then he looks at Shouto biting back a grin and Izuku’s wobbling head of curls and decides it’s worth it.
The two of them circle Shouto against a lively backdrop of sixteenth-notes punctuated by Hitoshi’s moans and Izuku’s giggling, looking for all the world like a pair of hyper-caffeinated wind-up toys. Hitoshi feels his heart soar, drowsiness temporarily banished — and maybe it’s the adrenaline from the music, or the lingering pressure of Shouto’s lips on his, or the bell-like chimes of Izuku’s laughter — but he feels lighter than air and he locks this memory into the vault of his mind and has to focus very hard to not let a smile break the veneer of mindless apathy on his face.
Very quickly, though, he realizes he has no chance of catching Izuku — Izuku is fast when he wants to be, and if Hitoshi didn’t know any better he’d swear quirk usage was involved. And on top of that, somehow he’s managed to sneak in a couple bites of his food while shuffling at a frankly ridiculous speed. It’s incredibly unfair, really, and a year ago maybe Hitoshi would be bitter about it but now he’s just kind of impressed.
Well, he thinks. Time to change tactics.
Abruptly, he alters course and heads for Shouto, wiggling his outstretched fingers as menacingly as he can. “Braaains…”
Shouto simply tilts his head and makes no move to get out of the way or defend himself, and so Hitoshi easily and immediately makes himself at home in Shouto’s personal space; he wraps both his arms around Shouto and leans forward so that he’s draping half his body weight against his captive’s side. Shouto takes his weight easily, and if anything, leans in too. Hitoshi nuzzles briefly into the side of Shouto’s neck before turning to Izuku with a sneer. “You can run all you want, Izuku. I’ve got my prey now.”
“Oh no,” Shouto says amicably.
“Shouto!” Izuku gasps dramatically, one hand splayed against his chest. There’s a wobble in the line of his mouth and in his voice that says he’s dangerously close to another fit of laughter. “I’ll save you! Fear not, for I am here!”
“No,” Hitoshi says, tightening his hold even as he purses his lips to stop the smile that comes at hearing the line. “It’s too late, he’s a zombie too now.”
“It’s true,” Shouto says, completely deadpan. “Forget me, Izuku. Run. You must save yourself.”
“No!” Izuku declares, placing his bento box on the floor. “I could never forget you, Shouto!”
Hitoshi can’t help it — his facade cracks a bit, there, and he snorts, even as he tries to pass it off as some zombie-coughing. He buries his head into the crook of Shouto’s neck, eyes squeezing shut, muffling his laughter into the fabric.
“Oh no,” Shouto says again, but this time it’s tinged with apprehension.
Hitoshi looks up, a question on his lips, but his eyes immediately widen as they catch the faintest green sparks dancing on tan skin. “Wait— hold on, Izuku, wait—!”
“For Shouto!” Izuku yells as he shoots forward in the space of a blink, sending them all flying into a tangled heap of arms and legs and groans and shouts.
Izuku is hiccuping laughter next to his ear when Hitoshi dares to open his eyes again, green hair paling into a near-seafoam in the fluorescent lights. There’s an arm radiating heat pressed against Hitoshi’s stomach and a leg or maybe two or three crossed and criss-crossed with his own where they dangle off the futon, and Hitoshi takes a moment to mentally thank Shouto for putting his mattress directly on the floor. Hitoshi can feel the reverberations travel from Izuku’s chest into his own and that’s all it takes for him to start full-on laughing too, one hand slapping over his eyes. Shouto’s breathy laughter joins in, and all of Hitoshi’s strength is needed for him to snort out, as coherently as he can, “unsupervised quirk usage isn’t allowed, Izuku. I’m gonna report you. To your dad.”
“Shut up!” Izuku protests in between giggles. To Hitoshi’s right, snug against his side and on top of one of his arms, Shouto’s quiet chuckles turn into pointed snickers. “And it was, like, a fraction of a percent of power! And, more importantly, I had to save Shouto!”
Hitoshi lets his hand slide off his face and turns to peer over Izuku’s mess of curls. “Hey, Shouto,” he says. “Do you feel saved?”
“Oh yes,” Shouto replies, meeting Hitoshi’s gaze head-on. “Very.”
“Success!” Izuku crows, pushing himself half-up from where he’d been splayed like a starfish on top of them. “A hero saves the day again!”
“Hey, not so fast,” Hitoshi says as a slow grin stretches across his face. He flashes his teeth. “‘Cause guess what?”
“...what?” Izuku’s eyes narrow as he starts to lean away, body tense.
“You’ve fallen directly into my clutches!” Hitoshi growls, pulling Izuku back down with his free arm. Izuku falls with a yelp, head landing on Hitoshi’s shoulder. “Your brain is mine!”
“Hey!” Izuku whines in indignation even as he burrows closer.
“Ahhh,” Hitoshi says, opening his mouth obnoxiously wide. He moves as if to chomp down directly on Izuku’s hair, to the other’s dawning horror.
Then, at the last moment, he changes course and plops the biggest, wettest kiss he possibly can on Izuku’s forehead.
“Holy—” Izuku squawks, higher-pitched than Hitoshi thought possible. He can feel Izuku’s entire body tense up, and he takes a moment to enjoy the hard lines of his boyfriend’s muscles flush against him, before Izuku veers away and to the side. “Toshi, you’re so gross!”
“That’s mean,” Hitoshi comments, right before Shouto leans over to blow a raspberry into the side of Izuku’s neck, to Hitoshi’s complete and utter delight.
“W-wha—” Izuku spins around at record-speed, the utmost betrayal stamped across every line of his face. “Shouto?!”
“Sorry, but it was actually too late. I’m a zombie too now, remember?” Shouto says, polite in the way only he can pull off, completely oblivious to Hitoshi losing it less than a foot away.
Izuku blinks several times in rapid succession, mouth opening and closing without a sound. Finally, he manages to choke out, “what— what kind of zombies do that?”
“Oh, sorry,” Hitoshi says, voice raspy from laughing too hard. It takes just a little effort to transition into a razor-sharp smirk when Izuku turns to him. He lets faux-innocence drip into his voice. “Would you have preferred that we actually bite you?”
Izuku sputters, incomprehensible, and Hitoshi cackles.
Hitoshi might find some things difficult, but teasing? Now that, Hitoshi has on lock.
“Was that a no?” he asks. “Could even leave a mark, if you asked nicely.”
“Shut up,” Izuku hisses, weakly thumping a fist onto Hitoshi’s chest.
“Shut me up,” Hitoshi says, feeling his confidence soar as Izuku lets out an embarrassed whine. There’s an amused exhale to his right, but he elects to ignore that for now in favor of raising a hand to cup Izuku’s cheek.
“You’re the worst,” Izuku mumbles.
“Aww, thanks,” Hitoshi says, running a thumb gently over baby-soft skin. He tugs Izuku down close enough to lightly knock their foreheads together. He keeps the smirk for a few more beats, but then lets it drop for something a little smaller, bordering on real. “So how about it? One kiss?”
Izuku huffs and Hitoshi only gets a moment to admire gorgeous emerald eyes before they flutter closed, tickling his skin, and Izuku’s lips meet his.
For all of Hitoshi’s bravado, he lets Izuku take the lead and decide the tone; Izuku keeps the kiss soft and slow, comforting and familiar, if with just a touch more heat. Hitoshi moves his hand to the back of Izuku’s head, sinks his fingers into still slightly-damp hair as he tugs them closer. A spark travels down his spine, tingling every nerve on it’s way, and Hitoshi drinks in every point of contact, every lazy swipe of Izuku’s tongue.
When Izuku pulls back, he drags his teeth across Hitoshi’s bottom lip and Hitoshi nearly raises his head to follow. “Happy now?” Izuku says, breaths ghosting over Hitoshi’s face.
“Mhm,” Hitoshi mumbles, eyes half-lidded.
“Okay, good,” Izuku says, right before flicking Hitoshi in the forehead.
Now it’s Hitoshi’s turn to sputter, eyes wide. “Excuse me?”
“That’s for being terrible,” Izuku says, before falling back down, but on Shouto this time. “Right, Shouto?”
“Mm,” Shouto hums. The futon dips as someone shifts their weight. “Can I have a kiss too?”
Izuku blushes, but a smile blooms on his face all the same as he gives a small nod. Then he glances sidelong at Hitoshi and quirks a brow. “At least one of you knows how to ask for a kiss normally.”
Hitoshi lets his face morph into one of absolute affront, but drops that pretense pretty quickly when Izuku ignores him in favor of leaning down to kiss Shouto, and Hitoshi can’t really blame him. He can already feel a smile stealing its way onto his face and he doesn’t try to stop it, focusing instead on tracing the outline of both his boyfriends’ faces.
They break apart a while later and Izuku giggles while Shouto peppers his cheek and forehead with feather-light kisses and Hitoshi’s chest erupts with quiet affection. The three of them lie there for a few quiet moments, not saying a word, even though Hitoshi’s arm is starting to fall asleep underneath Shouto and he’s kind of forgotten which leg is his.
“Wait,” Izuku says suddenly, his entire body stiffening. He looks like a deer in headlights. “Oh my god.”
“What?” Shouto asks.
“Oh my god, my katsudon!”
A blink, and then there’s an elbow in his side and Hitoshi lets out a not-at-all-undignified yelp. Izuku bolts up, ramrod straight, and every one of his limbs starts working overtime as he scrambles off the futon. Judging by the small oof that escapes Shouto, he wasn’t left unscathed either.
“I can’t believe,” Hitoshi starts, staring at the ceiling and listening to the clatter of a bento and chopsticks being picked up, “that he just ditched us for katsudon.”
“I can,” Shouto says.
“Okay, yeah,” Hitoshi says, closing his eyes. “I take it back. I can too.”
“Did we ever decide on what to watch?” Izuku asks, one or five or maybe ten minutes later.
“I don’t think so. Do you have any ideas?” Shouto says. He shifts, then lightly nudges the form curled around him. “Or you, zombie boy?”
“Mm.” Hitoshi groans and lazily swims back from the half-conscious state he’d slipped into. Shouto’s left side is just so warm, damn it. It takes a considerable amount of willpower to slowly disentangle himself and sit up, and the only reason he does it is cause he knows he’ll actually fall asleep if he stays. “‘M good with whatever.”
“Maybe something from the Shouto list? One of the childhood classics he never got to watch?” Izuku says, picking up his last bite of food. Faint wisps of steam rise off of it; Shouto had probably reheated it.
“Ah, the ‘Fuck Endeavor’ list?” Hitoshi says with a wry smile, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.
“Fuck Endeavor,” Shouto repeats without inflection, still lying on the futon.
“Hey, language,” Hitoshi says with a tsk. He leans forward off the mattress, nearly falling over but managing to catch himself with a hand on the floor. He slaps the other hand lightly against Izuku’s eyes to a small sound of protest. “There’s a child here, Shouto.”
“You’re literally only two weeks older than me,” Izuku says, nose wrinkling. “Also, shouldn’t you be covering my ears?”
“Who taught you to be so sassy?” Hitoshi says, raising an eyebrow. He drops his hand to cover Izuku’s mouth instead. “Wait, don’t answer that.”
There’s an amused scoff from the futon and Hitoshi starts to turn his head, a glare at the ready, but then something wet streaks across his palm.
“Hey!” Hitoshi flinches, snapping his hand back. Suddenly, he’s awake again. “And you called me gross—”
“First of all,” Izuku says calmly. “Fuck Endeavor”— he ignores Hitoshi’s theatrical gasp—”Second, how about Treasure Planet? I haven’t watched that in a while.”
“Sounds good,” calls Shouto, lazily kicking his legs.
Izuku turns to grab the laptop. “Nice, I’ll set it up then.”
“Hey, I didn’t agree,” Hitoshi says, just to be annoying, wiping his hand on his jeans.
“One of the characters is basically part-cat.”
Hitoshi blinks. “What does that—” he starts, then stops. “You know what, yeah, okay. Also, I call fire side.”
Izuku pauses, eyes narrowed and laptop balanced on one hand. “Hey, no, I call fire side.”
“I said it first.”
Shouto clicks his tongue. “Am I just a heater to you two?”
“Of course not, Shouto!” Izuku says, leaning forward with a gasp.
“Yeah,” Hitoshi agrees, nodding. “In the summer you’re an AC.”
“Wow,” Shouto drawls, and Izuku punches Hitoshi in the arm.
In the end, they compromise and both claim a spot on Shouto’s left; Hitoshi leans back against the wall, one arm snaking around Shouto’s waist, while Izuku sits in between Hitoshi’s legs. The heat radiating off Shouto is heavenly while the snowstorm outside is building, the swirling flurries painting the windowpane with frost.
“Ready?” Izuku asks. The mattress dips as he leans forward to place the laptop on the stack of textbooks they’ve thrown together.
The other two grunt soft affirmations, and Shouto’s head drops onto Hitoshi’s shoulder as Izuku presses play. The opening notes begin to sound as Izuku shifts, his back flush against Hitoshi’s chest. His hair is downy-soft, the faint smell of green apple shampoo still clinging to the strands, and it tickles Hitoshi’s chin and probably also Shouto’s nose.
Izuku gives the tiniest nod so that the top of his head knocks against Hitoshi’s chin and makes his teeth clack together. “Don’t fall asleep on us, now,” he teases, reaching for Shouto’s hand and intertwining their fingers.
Hitoshi gives a small snort, and drops a kiss onto the nest of hair. “Understood,” he says.
He falls asleep.
Hitoshi blinks awake slowly, his eyelids heavy and doing their damnedest to stay closed. Sight and sound and feeling are filtered through a screen of molasses, the edges blurred and running together.
There’s something soft under his head. A pillow. He’s… bundled up. Warm. A blanket. Very warm. Blankets? The overhead lights have been turned off, and his eyes are still adjusting, but it’s not pitch dark; a lamp somewhere is splashing an arc of pale yellowed light into the room.
It’s stopped snowing. Wait, no — it takes concentration, but he can tell that the glass is just too fogged up with frost and bleak greys and whites to see out of. His ears pick up something that might be howling wind, but it feels far away, disconnected from the cocoon he’s in.
He tilts his head, drags his eyes from the window. There are two shadowy blobs in front of him, close enough to touch. He thinks one of them might be the source of the radiating warmth. There’s a thin line connecting them, the edges of the scene lit by a different glow than the lamp, this one constantly shifting.
He wants to reach a hand out, but as that thought crosses sluggishly through his mind, he realizes there’s something in it. It’s rough. He doesn’t remember holding anything prior to passing out.
It takes a moment to remember how to send commands to his own limbs, but at last he gives the thing in his hand an experimental squeeze. He’s only mildly surprised when it squeezes back.
“Oh, did we wake you up?” The warmth that’s been enveloping Hitoshi burrows into his heart at the sound of Izuku’s voice. “Sorry, Toshi.”
“Mm,” he grunts, eyes slowly adjusting to the dim lighting. Izuku peers down at him, body half-turned to do so, an earphone wire dangling in the air.
“Go back to sleep,” comes a deep rumble, and Hitoshi follows the line of the wire to the other end. He has to blink and refocus so that Shouto’s dual-toned hair doesn’t run together.
“Mm,” he grunts again.
Izuku giggles and Shouto gives a light snort, and that, too, sends warmth directly into his bloodstream. The two of them shift, turning more fully towards Hitoshi so that their backs are no longer to him. Hitoshi opens his mouth and then closes it again. Repeats that two more times. “How long have I been out?” he manages eventually.
Izuku hums, his thumb running soft circles on Hitoshi’s hand. The criss-crossing scars are familiar as they brush over his skin. “You made it through most of the movie. So… maybe two hours?”
“Shit,” Hitoshi groans. “Sorry.” He tries to maneuver an arm underneath his body to push himself up, but then there’s a hand, warm and insistent, on his shoulder nudging him back down.
“Sleep,” Shouto says, stern.
“But—”
“No arguing.”
Hitoshi pouts, knowing he looks like a disgruntled toddler but not having the energy to care. He tries to pair it with a glare up at Shouto, but his eyelids are too heavy so it drops to the hand still clasped with Izuku’s. “But,” he says anyway, still pouting as he chews his thoughts over in his head. He spits them out slowly. “Feel bad.”
“For what?”
“S’posed to hang out,” he doles out to the pillow. “Not sleep.”
The hand on his shoulder lifts, and before Hitoshi can miss the touch, it lands on his forehead, delicately tousling the strands that fall over his face. “Well, you shouldn’t feel bad,” Shouto says, voice softer but no less stern. “We enjoy your company in any and all forms.”
Hitoshi feels a blush rise and he burrows deeper into the pillow.
“And,” Izuku says, leaning against Shouto, “it’s hard enough to get you to sleep normally.” His tone is teasing, but warm.
“Hey,” Hitoshi says, but there’s no bite.
“Besides, it’s still the weekend tomorrow,” Izuku continues, excitement lending itself to his voice as he talks. “We can go out and do something. Maybe check out that new bookshop that opened recently. Shouto and I were talking about going sledding? There’s a ton of snow, and I bet if we ask nicely we can get Shouto to make the best ramp.”
“Oh,” Hitoshi says while Shouto bites back a laugh. He can imagine both their expressions — bright and eager for Izuku, amused and content for Shouto. “That… that sounds nice.”
“Yeah?” There’s a smile in Izuku’s voice, perfectly held in that one word. “It’s a date, then. You need to get some more rest so that you’re willing to get up in the morning.”
Hitoshi blinks, long and slow, but he knows he’s not going to win any attempt at an argument. The tiredness is already creeping throughout his bones, dragging him down. He yawns. “Okay.” A pause, then barely above a mumble: “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Izuku says, but there’s a note of confusion in the words, like he’s not understanding why they’re being thanked.
There’s some quiet shuffling as they start to turn away from him. That glow was the laptop, Hitoshi realizes absently in the back of his mind. The hand holding his gives another squeeze, and then there’s a blast of gentle, concentrated warmth washing over him, and suddenly, inexplicably, Hitoshi is gripped with a feeling, an urge, a need for them to understand.
He tightens his hold on Izuku’s hand.
“Izuku,” he says. “Shouto.”
The weight of their eyes and attention as they turn back to him is heavy, but not suffocating. It grounds him to stay awake, to not be lulled into the easy invitations of sleep. He blinks again, faster this time, and searches his sleep-addled brain for the right words.
The silence stretches. It’s comforting.
Hitoshi’s heart feels fit to burst, affection overflowing and wrapping through every thought. He takes a deep breath and drags his eyes up, tracing the lines of two faces he’s already memorized.
They’re patient. They’re always patient.
He unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. The drowsiness and blanket cocoon make it easier to let down his layers and layers of misdirections; it keeps his throat from closing up, a clear passageway, but even then it still takes deliberate effort to get the feelings past his lips, into the open. But he forces it anyway, because he — he wants to.
“I love you,” he says at last, voice just loud enough to be heard over the beat of his heart. “I love you both.”
His blood is roaring in his ears, and every thought that’s not stolen by sleep is telling him to shut his eyes and bury himself under the covers and never come out.
But he doesn’t, because the prettiest smiles are blossoming on their faces, lit from the inside out, and he can't look away.
It’s Shouto that moves first, leaning forward to run his fingers through Hitoshi’s hair again. Hitoshi leans instinctively into the touch, even as doing so makes heat rise anew in his cheeks. “We know,” Shouto murmurs, voice tender.
“We love you too,” Izuku whispers. His eyes are shining, Hitoshi thinks, but it’s hard to tell for sure in the almost-dark. But the smile, he knows, is definitely real. His eyes flutter half-closed as the blanket gets pulled up and over his chin.
“Goodnight, Hitoshi,” one or maybe both of them say. Distantly, Hitoshi feels a light pressure at his temple, like a stray spark in a storm. It’s followed by another, a cool breeze on a summer night. He latches onto those feelings even as his breathing slows and his muscles relax, even as the temperature outside drops and snowflakes pile into crystalline mounds.
It’s not the first time he’s told them he loves them, and it’s not going to be the last. He’s sure of that. Shouto keeps him warm as he feels himself drift off, and Izuku’s fingers are still laced with his; solid, familiar, comforting. There’s a promise of tomorrow echoing in the air and in his hand and in his heart. He should tell them he loves them again, he thinks, tomorrow. Maybe when he wakes up. The first thing he’ll say.
He doesn’t have to, he knows. He’s well aware that they both know it to be true, that they love him all the same regardless of whether or not he says it out loud, but...
But, he thinks, as he shuts his eyes and settles into sleep, I could probably stand to say it more often.
It’s a good thing they’re patient — always, patient. But Hitoshi won’t make them wait, this time.
Tomorrow. First thing.
I love you.