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Hitoshi Shinso despises being a foster kid.
He's never met a kind parent, never been in a good home.
He knows better than to dare see himself as more than a nuisance; knows better than to think any foster parent saw him as more than a quick cash grab. His file has him labelled as a troubled, reckless and angry teenager, someone who needed to be dealt with a 'firm but gentle' hand.
16-year-old and already hopeless.
"Please, watch your behaviour this time around," his social worker, Sayori-sama, mumbles, straightening her shirt for a final time before confidently wrapping her knuckles against the door. She's a nice-enough woman, in Hitoshi's eyes. A little strict and stiff, and always like she's mildly irritated, but Hitoshi doesn't fault her for that considering her job was to constantly deal with broken children.
This doesn't mean she doesn't make Hitoshi's stomach lurch every time they meet.
A tall, slender woman with a tanned skin and light grey eyes opens the door for them. She's dressed prettily, in an outfit reminiscent of 50s traditional wives from Western cultures—a cupcake skirt and puffed-up sleeves. Her thin, red lips are pulled in a perfect smile, black hair falling to her shoulders in perfect curls.
"Hello!" she greets with exaggerated cheer, stepping to the side and beckoning them in. It's a nice house, full of knick-knacks like ceramic animals, potted plants and obnoxiously bright paintings hung across the beige walls. It feels more like something out of a catalogue than a lived-in home.
"Just a moment," the lady makes a gesture with her finger before walking over to the kitchen, heels clicking against the floors.
"She seems nice," Sayori-sama comments. "Please, do not drive them away."
Hitoshi bites back a scoff. It isn't his fault that his previous homes sucked ass. Not that Sayori was aware, or would believe him. All the social worker would be given is a report detailing why Hitoshi can no longer live with the family, painting him in the most unfavourable light. She didn't know that those houses were horrible to him, too. Some screamed at him for rummaging through their cabinets for food; some wouldn't let him leave his room without permission. Others would pretend he didn't exist at all, until the pay cheques weren't worth it any more. A few of them left him with scars: Angry fathers and psychotic mothers who would leave him with bruises so dark Hitoshi discovered new colours. And if the kid already had kids...God, they were so mean. Isolating, horrible little pricks who treated Hitoshi like a contagion for looking different—with untamed purple hair, deep eye-bags and a few facial piercings.
"Sorry about that," the lady returns, a woman dressed in a tank-top and low jeans holding her hand.
"Shinso-kun," Sayori addresses him, gesturing to the couple. "These are the Akanes, Hana and Ai. Akane-sama and Akane-san, this is Hitoshi Shinso."
Hitoshi bows, holding back a flinch when Hana extends her hand as he lifts his head. He hesitantly shakes it.
"It's nice to meet you, Hitoshi. This is my wife, Ai."
Ai awkwardly waves. Hitoshi gets it.
"We're excited to be fostering you for a while."
"Thank you for having me."
"How about I show you to your room while we discuss the final things with Sayori-sama?" Ai says, already walking off. Hitoshi silently follows her up the short flight of stairs.
"Here you are," she creaks open the door. "Hana and I's bedroom is down the hall. Feel free to unpack and do whatever."
She walks away before Hitoshi can express a practised gratitude, not that he minds. The room is bare, unlike the rest of the house, closing the door behind him and laying on the bed to unwind for a moment. His eyes fall shut for a solid two minutes before he unpacks what little he has on himself. Being moved around a lot meant Hitoshi learnt to be a minimalist, often with only a few essentials to make the whole process easier.
It takes him less than 30 minutes to be done, ensuring he's set everything up so it's just as easy to pack again before picking up the book he'd started reading a week ago—a Japanese translation of The Perks of Being a Wallflower—and continuing where he left off.
A loud knock on the door and it being swung-open aggressively makes him jump.
It's Hana, and any and all signs of her precious cheerfulness is gone.
"Okay, listen here," she says, a tone harsh enough to be mistaken for hostile, "so long as you don't cause any trouble for Ai or me, you're free to do as you please. You got it?"
Hitoshi nods.
"Great."
She shuts the door and that's that.
Hitoshi would say he's surprised, except he isn't. He feels the modicum of hope he mistakenly let in dwindle to nothing, yet again, knowing better than to let it fester and grow into something sharp enough to dig into his flesh. So what if these pretty ladies and their pretty home won't be any different? Hitoshi's used to it.
He's lost enough blood as it is.
Deciding anything would be better than wallowing away in his self-pity, Hitoshi climbs out of bed, slipping on his favourite grey-hoodie, and sliding on his sneakers. He grabs his book, headphones and phone, and heads out. He does not interact with the woman, who are lounging together on the sofa, gently opening and closing the front door.
At half-past four in the afternoon, he admires the clear sky, feeling some of the tension leave him with the calming breeze.
He walks around, nodding his head to the beat of 90s American rock until he comes across an old, creaky wooden bench underneath a large tree full of green and yellow leaves, slouching against it. He takes off his headphones and cracks open the book, pulling his knees up to his chest as he reads.
"Is this your first time reading it?" a sudden voice asks, startling Hitoshi, the book falling out of his hands and onto the ground. He whirls his head, eye-to-eye with the pretty, cute face of a boy who'd taken a seat across from him on the bench. The boy bends over and hands Hitoshi the book, to which he accepts absently.
"Uh—" he stutters, fumbling. The boy waits, wrinkles by the corner of his eyes, is amusement evident. Clearing his throat, Hitoshi answers, ears red, "Umm...yeah. It is." He admits, "I stole it from my ex-foster sibling."
Surprisingly, the boy doesn't seem to be put off by the statement. Hitoshi isn't sure if he might've taken it as a joke or not. It wasn't.
"What do you think about Charlie?" the boy asks. "I found him to be a little sad and relatable."
Hitoshi doesn't reply this time, the absurdity of the encounter hitting him.
...what is happening?
"I'm sorry," the boy says sheepishly, a pink tinge to his cheeks. "You must feel weird being approached by a stranger like this."
'Well, yes,' Hitoshi thinks with a nod. This is weird. For all he's aware, this boy has every intention of hurting him—it wouldn't be the first time a stranger judged and disliked him for existing. Sure, he looks friendly—with the same sort of 'outcast' aesthetic Hitoshi sports—but looks were deceiving. They lied.
People lied.
"I'm Izuku," he introduces, turning to face Hitoshi with an endearing smile.
Despite himself, Hitoshi returns the introduction with a meeker, "Hitoshi."
He doesn't know why he goes with his first name. It's informal, and personal, almost intimate, and this boy is someone he has no attachments to. But a part of Hitoshi's convinced he introduced himself with his first name, too. Izuku.
Yes, his first name, surely.
Izuku's smile brightens.
"Hitoshi," he sounds out, the name falling off his tongue pleasantly. Hitoshi's stomach flips. It's...it's...bizarre. He has no other words for it. For someone like Hitoshi, who only knew loneliness and ostracization, to be approached by somebody so seemingly kind. Someone so...beautiful.
'Really, so beautiful.'
"It's a pretty name," Izuku says. "It suits you."
Hitoshi's neck warms.
"You too." He sees Izuku's eyes widen, face burning red, and realises his mistake too late, over-correcting himself loudly, "I m-mean yours too! Your n-name. Yeah. It's pretty too, and...umm...suits you. Yeah...," he trails off, mortified.
Luckily, it doesn't seem like Izuku is put off.
"Thank you," he says, a silence befalling them. Hitoshi hadn't realised the sky having burnt pink, the sun sinking to the sea as evening approaches.
"I should probably go," he tells Izuku, seeing the boy's smile drop a little. The expression looks...wrong, somehow. Unfitting. Hitoshi wasn't to take back his words just to see this stranger's smile again. A beautiful smile. But the warning from his foster mother lingers in the back of his mind, and he doesn't want to be to impose in any way this early on. So, he stands up, giving Izuku a simple wave despite a stupidly strong part of him wanting to protest against the decision.
"Wait!" Izuku's desperate plea stills Hitoshi in his tracks. He reaches out, as if to grab Hitoshi's wrist, before thinking better of it and letting his arm hang limply at his side.
God, Hitoshi is being fucking ridiculous. He should not feel so enamoured by someone he's barely spoken a full paragraph too.
"Hm?"
"Can I take you somewhere? Later tonight?"
"Why should I trust you?"
It's said flimsily, like Hitoshi already does—like he automatically. He never saw himself as someone so weak to beauty, but maybe Hitoshi's more shallow than he thought.
"Just give me the night, Hitoshi." His name is pleaded something heartfelt, and Hitoshi already feels like a goner. "We'll have an unforgettable time together and never have to see each other, again."
A rational, smart part of Hitoshi is screaming at him that this could be dangerous. This beautiful boy and his beautiful smile are unknown to Hitoshi. He is a stranger, and Hitoshi shouldn't forget that. He should leave this encounter as it is, untarnished as a memory, and will eventually forget the face of this kindly person.
A quieter part of Hitoshi tells him he'll regret it, tells him that this isn't a face he could ever forget.
“I live on XXX street, house #3. My room is on the second floor, I’ll keep the blinds open so you can see me.”
'Stupid. This is stupid.'
Izuku beams.
“I’ll see you at eight.”
x x x
At 7:55 (no he isn’t anticipating this) Hitoshi realises belatedly that telling someone to miraculously make their way to the second floor of a house on their own is a little ridiculous. Really, they should have exchanged numbers, or maybe he should’ve told Izuku to knock like a normal fucking person or something.
But his foster parents weren’t asleep, and the new house is something too unfamiliar.
Will they yell at him for being a nuisance? Introducing them to a pretty face he met only hours prior, wouldn’t that be bothersome? He doesn't want to risk it. There’s something about Izuku that he likes. Whatever it is, he can’t quell it. He doesn’t want some shitty woman in outdated clothes to take away the only Hitoshi finds mildly interesting in this good-for-fuck neighbourhood.
He glances at his phone (fuck off he wasn’t doing it obsessively) and the numbers 8:07 flashback at him ruthlessly. Hitoshi thinks that maybe he should walk out, on the lawn, to see if Izuku would show. But a part of him, the annoying, godforsaken part of him that hopes, is scared. Because if he doesn’t go, if he doesn’t see Izuku, if he doesn’t show, Hitoshi can blame the circumstance. Can say that it was because he couldn’t reach Hitoshi.
And then it’s 8:08 and an especially loud knock startles him out of his thoughts of ‘what if’. He glances up from his position right outside the window, and staring back at him are pools of green.
Hitoshi scrambles for the latch, pushing the window up and staring a little incredulously at where Izuku is hanging just barely on the extended window ledge.
“What the fuck?” Hitoshi breathes, but Izuku only smiles. His arms shake from the exertion of propping himself up, and he lets himself fall so he’s dangling, a few feet off the ground.
Hitoshi makes a noise of shock, and peers over the ledge only to find Izuku staring at him cheekily.
“Get down, already,” he says, before kicking himself off the house and landing skillfully on the grass. Hitoshi stares at Izuku, and then at the ledge, and then at Izuku again, sceptical and nervous.
“Come on, it’s not that bad. Besides you're way taller than me.”
Hitoshi makes a noise of disbelief.
But...
“One second,” he says quietly, before marching off to his door, clicking the lock—they hadn’t taken it out, miraculously—and grabbing his near-empty wallet. After a second's deliberation, he grabs a roll of bandages from his backpack and walks back to the window. Izuku waits patiently, wide eyes encouraging.
With the grace of a newborn elephant, Hitoshi dangles himself off the ledge, long fingers slipping and kicking fruitlessly in the air.
“Just jump!” Izuku giggles, and Hitoshi, in a moment of stupid impulse, squeezes his eyes shut and swings off. He lands unsteadily on his feet, swaying in a poor attempt to right himself. An arm snakes around his waist, steadying him.
“You good?” Izuku asks, voice right by his ear.
Hitoshi gently pushes himself off, ignoring the way his breathing picks up in tandem with his heartbeat.
“Yeah,” he chokes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Great!” Izuku moves to grab his wrist. If he notices Hitoshi flinch, he doesn't show it.
“I have you until sunrise.”
Sunrise.
Hitoshi stays silent, ignoring the cold seeping into his bones where Izuku’s fingers are still wrapped around his wrist.
“Enjoy the night with me, Hitoshi.”
x x x
Izuku is really pretty, Hitoshi thinks.
He thought so earlier, thought of this beautiful boy and beautiful smile. But he didn’t see, not really. Now he can. Izuku sways in front of him, halfway dragging Hitoshi, not once letting go of his wrist.
He’s dressed differently from when he greeted Hitoshi earlier. The street lights are artificial, but Hitoshi thinks Izuku still glows. His shirt is cropped, stomach slim, if not a little caved in—not —low rise shorts stopping mid-thigh, jagged at the edges as if they were cut using a pair of worn-out scissors. A torn flannel hangs off his shoulders, black and long, down to his knees. His shoes are as scuffed as Hitoshi’s, red instead of white, laces tied loosely and grey socks stopping at his ankle.
His long hair hangs in limp, loose curls, halfway tied up haphazardly. The roots of his hair are green, dark and deliberate, fading into the colour of onyx.
“So,” Izuku slows down when they turn the corner, matching Hitoshi’s step.
“So?” Hitoshi repeats, dumbly.
“Did you finish the story?”
“Story?” Hitoshi repeats, dumbly—again.
Izuku giggles. “The Perks of Being a Wallflower? Or were you not reading it when I met you earlier?”
Oh.
Hitoshi fights off a blush, embarrassment flooding him. “Yeah, it was sad.”
“Sad?”
“Something about the ending felt weirdly melancholic,” Hitoshi explains. “Despite being ‘free’,” he finger quotes the words with his free hand, “Charlie wasn’t okay. He was still relying on others, on feelings that weren’t independent of himself, to keep going.”
“Huh.” Izuku tilts his head. “I never really thought of it like that.”
“What did you think of it, then?”
Izuku grins, complacent and almost nostalgic. “That he finally found people who he felt were worth it.”
“Worth it?”
“Life,” Izuku squeezes Hitoshi's wrist as if reassuring himself. “If you do nothing but hurt—if there is nothing left for you but loneliness and hurt—what’s the point?”
Hitoshi dry swallows.
“Oh look!” Izuku cheers, effectively cutting off what Hitoshi was going to say (what would he say?),“it’s a park!”
A park?
“Let’s go!” And with that, he’s dragging Hitoshi again.
It isn't empty, Hitoshi notices a few stragglers here and there. Izuku doesn’t hesitate to drag him to the swings, finally letting go of his wrist in favour of jumping onto the rickety set. It creaks under him, metal chains rusty and bronze.
“Push me, Toshi!” Izuku demands, ignoring the bewildered, flustered look Hitoshi wears.
Toshi. He called him Toshi.
Toshi. Toshi. Toshi.
“Toshi?” Izuku says again.
Toshi.
Toshi.
Toshi.
Hitoshi shakes his head, ignoring the weird flutter of his heart.
“You sure?” He moves behind Izuku. “The swing looks like it’s three seconds from snapping in half.”
Izuku’s response is to blindly reach for Hitoshi’s arms and hold them to his waist.
“Push me!”
Ignoring the feeling of bare skin under his fingertips (cold and smooth) Hitoshi leans so he’s inches from Izuku’s ear. “Ready?”
It’s a whisper, a response to Izuku’s beauty. He feels the boy shiver, before nodding his head.
Hitoshi uses what little strength he has to pull Izuku back, further and further, high enough that the swing is by his neck. The bare skin of Izuku’s lower back is all Hitoshi sees, freckled like his cheeks, scarred and bruised. He digs his fingers into Izuku’s waist a little stronger.
“3…,” Hitoshi starts, making a show of counting down.
“2…”
He lets go. Izuku squeals, carefree and high-pitched, lurching forward faster and higher than Hitoshi anticipated. He jogs to the side, and tilts his head as he watches Izuku kick his feet.
He looks happy in a way Hitoshi doesn’t recognise. He’s giggling, eyes shut and hair billowing with the wind. He doesn’t look...joyous or elated. Hitoshi recognises those feelings of happiness. Those expressions can be crude and mocking. Izuku looks... content.
He lets his head fall back, looking so goddamn content Hitoshi’s blood sings. He’s cold to the touch, Hitoshi knows, but the way he looks is nothing but warm.
Like the stars.
He cracks open a single eye,.“I’m gonna jump.”
“Jump?” Hitoshi repeats incredulously. “You’re gonna jump?”
He picks up momentum, “I’m gonna jump!”
Hitoshi wants to argue, he’s going too high, too fast. The grass isn’t soft and rubble hurts. But Izuku won’t listen. He knows he won’t.
He slips his phone out of his pocket and hits record.
“Smile for the camera, Zuku!” Hitoshi says instead.
Zuku. Zuku. Zuku.
Izuku turns to the camera, kicking hard off the ground before beaming, crooked teeth and all.
He laughs when he lets go of the swing, making a show of lifting his arms high, like he's reaching for the clouds, before falling knees first onto the ground. He doesn’t groan in pain; doesn’t flinch as he moves to stand up.
“That was awesome!” He cheers, before flashing the camera a quick peace sign. Hitoshi puts an end to the video before jogging his way over to Izuku.
“It looked like fun,” Hitoshi admits.
Izuku nods, taking a step forward only to wince violently.
Alarmed, Hitoshi’s gaze moves to his legs.
“Shit,” he curses, staring at the small rocks that have found a home in Izuku’s knees.
“It’s not that bad.” Izuku follows his line of vision, bending to brush away the rocks like nothing. “See, all better.”
Except there’s one larger gash on his right knee that’s bleeding. It’s not serious, Hitoshi knows that—he knows what serious is—but it’s a little worrying.
Hitoshi glances around, finding a stray water bottle by an elder couple who are talking quietly on a bench across from them.
“Hold up.” He gestures for Izuku to wait, not waiting for a response before jogging over.
“Hello.” He bows his head politely. “Do you mind if I borrow the water bottle? My friend hurt himself and I need something to clean out the wound.” He points to Izuku with a free finger, who stares at him and the couple in confusion.
“Of course, young man.” The woman offers the bottle and Hitoshi accepts it with shaky fingers.
“Thank you so much, Ma'am." He smiles politely. “Sir,” he turns to the husband.
“It’s not a problem,” the man replies this time.
Hitoshi bows once again before making his way back to Izuku.
“What was that for?” Izuku raises an eyebrow. He has slits in both of them, Hitoshi notices. They're scars.
“Sit on the grass,” Hitoshi orders, ignoring Izuku’s question. Izuku’s eyebrows twist further, but he does as told. Hitoshi leans over him, uncapping the bottle and dousing his knee thoroughly.
“The fuck?” Izuku hisses, the dirt and blood washing away.
Hitoshi pulls out the bandages he brought—looks like he was right in thinking they'd need it—and with practised finesse wraps them around the shallow wound.
“You didn’t need to,” Izuku mumbles softly when he tucks in the loose end securely.
Hitoshi shrugs, standing up and offering Izuku a hand.
“I’ve only known you for a few hours and I can already tell you would’ve left it to infect and grow if I didn’t.”
Izuku huffs, but doesn’t protest, grabbing Hitoshi’s hand and hauling himself up.
“Rude.”
x x x
“Hey, Toshi?”
“Yeah?”
They’ve been wandering around aimlessly, Izuku guiding them wherever. People pass by, looking at them, judgemental gazes narrowed. For once, Hitoshi doesn’t mind. Izuku doesn’t spare them a single glance, continues to skip and hum and dance along the pavements. The sky is dark, the moon a brilliant crescent, it’s light cool. People stare, but Hitoshi’s too enamoured by the moon, by the boy in front of him, to care.
It’s blissful, being in your own world of ignorance and enamoration.
“You see those boys?” He points a finger at a group of teens. Three boys, kicking around the dirt. The one who stands in the middle, blonde with a mean face, talks animatedly, and the other two listen, looking like complacent little puppies.
“Yeah?”
“Can you run fast?”
Hitoshi furrows his eyebrows.
“I guess?”
Izuku doesn’t falter. He tucks his hair into his shirt, wrapping his flannel around his waist, gesturing for Hitoshi to wait before silently creeping towards the boys. They don’t notice him, his footsteps light and his movements small. He moves, saddles up until he is back to back with the angry blonde, phone in his hand. Hitoshi catches a quick flick of his fingers, a bright light falling into the open backpack by the floor.
Purposefully, he nudges the blonde, muttering something before taking off at breakneck speed.
Hitoshi just catches the inside of the backpack lighting on fire (what the fuck?) before Izuku is screaming at him to ‘run!’. Hitoshi doesn’t hesitate, taking after Izuku. They match each other’s pace, Izuku just a little bit ahead of him despite Hitoshi being significantly taller. He hears the angry footsteps behind them, the shouts of ‘Deku’ and ‘worthless’.
“I’m going to fucking kill you!”
Izuku, in all his impulsivity, turns around and blows a raspberry before picking up speed. Hitoshi ignores the burn in his calves as he tries to keep up. He turns the corner, faltering when he sees Izuku perfectly still, leaning against the concrete wall.
He flips his hair out of his shirt, messing with the curls so they curtain the outline of his face, his hair tie on his wrist.
Very pretty.
“Take off your hoodie,” Izuku orders. Hitoshi, too anxious to question exactly what was happening, listens. Izuku takes the hoodie with frantic fingers, wrapping it around his waist. He shrugs his flannel over Hitoshi’s shoulders and wraps his arms around Hitoshi’s neck. They’re horribly scarred, Hitoshi can feel it, but his brain is in overdrive. His heart is thumping too loud, Izuku is too close, and his legs still hurt.
“I’m sorry,” Izuku whispers, the sound of angry shouting and loud footsteps approaching, “but can I kiss you?”
Hitoshi makes a noise, neither confirmation nor denial, but the shouts are too close and Izuku doesn't wait.
He pulls Hitoshi down, slotting their lips together. It isn’t a light, chaste kiss. It’s heavy and open, and Izuku’s already sliding his tongue into Hitoshi's mouth. The sensation is overwhelming; incredible. Hitoshi keens, shifting to wrap his arms around Izuku’s waist, parting his lips obediently. Izuku licks his teeth and groans when Hitoshi sucks his bottom lip. He cards his fingers through Hitoshi’s hair, tugs the strands, and tilts his neck.
Hitoshi pulls away to drag his lips across Izuku’s jaw, down his neck, and Izuku gasps, breathless and hot. For a second, Hitoshi forgets they’re in public. Forgets Izuku is a beautiful boy who he doesn’t know. Forgets that life is shit and people are shitter.
For a second.
And then a dog barks and they both snap out of it.
Hitoshi pulls away, pale cheeks dusted pink. Izuku blinks his eyes open, arms sliding down Hitoshi’s neck. He looks away shyly.
“L-looks like they l-left,” he says, throat hoarse.
They?
“Sorry about that,” he continues when Hitoshi doesn’t respond. “It was the only way I thought we could lose them.” Oh...they. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. And it’s not like I didn’t enjoy it. Why am I even saying that? Oh my shit, Izuku shut the fuck up what in the good hell is—”
“It’s fine,” Hitoshi cuts off his adorable muttering, “I-I didn’t not enjoy it either, so it’s fine.”
“Oh.” Izuku’s blush darkens, green eyes looking toxic under the fluorescent street light. “Okay.”
He hands Hitoshi his hoodie, pulling the flannel off his back. Hitoshi feels too hot to wear it and opts to wrap it around his waist instead. Izuku does the same, and Hitoshi catches the scars he felt pressed against his neck. He recognizes them, raised and bumpy lines running along his forearms, disappearing into the short sleeves of his shirt. Some are red, new and fresh.
“Shit,” Izuku stutters when he catches Hitoshi staring, already making a move to redress his flannel. “Sorry about that, I know it can make people uncomfortable and—”
Hitoshi cuts him off by gently touching his wrist. Izuku flinches hard but doesn’t pull away.
Like I did earlier, he thinks, bittersweet.
“It’s fine.” Hitoshi pulls back the long sleeve shirt, where matching scars littered his arms. Some are red, new, and fresh.
“Oh,” Izuku breathes, less panicked. He stares up at Hitoshi, holding his gaze. He says nothing, and Hitoshi says nothing in return.
Then he steps away and starts walking across the street.
“Come on, Toshi,” Izuku calls over his shoulder. Hitoshi startles, pulls down his sleeve, and follows.
“How did they not find us?” Hitoshi asks as they turn an unfamiliar corner.
Izuku giggles. “They’re absolute prudes. Just change up our outfits a little bit and they wouldn’t spare a second glance at a couple making out on the side of the road.”
Couple?
“Thank you, for that, by the way,” he adds as an afterthought. “You didn’t run away from me. I kinda thought you would.”
Hitoshi agrees, “Most people would. Lucky for you, I was too shocked to question it.”
Which is the truth, somewhat. Another part of Hitoshi thinks he would’ve run with him if he committed first-degree murder.
“Why’d you do that, anyway?”
Izuku unconsciously brings a hand to his shoulder, rubbing it like it stung. “They’re fucking assholes. What's more to it?”
Hitoshi knows he's right.
x x x
“We’re going to the aquarium.” Izuku glances at Hitoshi from his peripheral; it’s a statement, not a question.
“Is it even open?”
Izuku nods. “Usually for date nights and stuff, it’s open until 2.”
Hitoshi glances at his phone. It’s only a little past 11. They have time.
He agrees, doesn’t question Izuku, doesn’t need to. There’s something about Izuku that he trusts.
Stupid.
“It’s a five-minute ride.” Izuku stops walking. “The bus should be here in a bit.”
Hitoshi hadn’t even realised they were at a bus stop. Izuku kicks the pavement and leans against the pillar, staring at Hitoshi inquisitively. Hitoshi shifts under the intense gaze, silence lulling. No one is at the bus stop, and there aren’t many people left wandering the roads. No one their age.
What is Izuku’s age?
Hitoshi assumed around his age, maybe a little younger.
What if Izuku was only 13? Hitoshi didn’t care much about age—people are shitty at all ages—but the thought of making out with someone much younger made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.
“What’s up?” Izuku asks, taking notice of the way Hitoshi’s face twists into a grimace as his thoughts spiral.
“How old are you?” He asks, bland tone masking his nerves.
“16.” Izuku grins, pushing himself off the pillar to stand in front of Hitoshi. “How old are you?”
“Same,” Hitoshi responds easily, muscles sagging.
“Were you worried I was an adult or something?” He quips, tone teasing.
Hitoshi looks away. “Actually was worried you were an overdeveloped kid or something.”
Izuku laughs, short but loud, leaning forward.
“Really Toshi? An overdeveloped kid?”
“Better to be safe than sorry.”
“I guess. Though I thought you already knew my age when I picked you up.”
Hitoshi finally looks at him, doing nothing to mask his confusion.
“Why would I have?”
“I don’t know.”
What?
The sound of engines running signals the arrival of the bus.
“Come on!” Izuku skips over.
Hitoshi is grateful he has a little more than enough to pay for his fare ticket, and even more grateful to find only a few lonely stragglers left. Izuku takes the window seat way at the back, gesturing for Hitoshi to take a seat next to him. They don’t talk, but Izuku pulls out a knotted wire of earbuds, undoing the monstrous tangle with nimble fingers before handing Hitoshi the other end.
Hitoshi pretends that his stomach doesn’t flip like he’s in some cheesy romance novel when Izuku leans against his shoulder and clicks shuffle on his phone. It’s an old model, glass shattered, ratted and worn out. Izuku hums along with the tune of a familiar song Hitoshi remembers listening to a few weeks ago.
“You like rock?” Hitoshi asks quietly.
Izuku nods against his shoulder. “I don’t really have a music preference. I just kind of like what I like.”
“Cool.”
x x x
Unlike at the start of their outing, the aquarium has a significant number of people.
The line by the ticket booth isn’t painstakingly long—with it being a week-day—but it is long enough that Hitoshi groans into the palms of his hands. Izuku gives an amused snort at Hitoshi’s obvious disarray,
“It’s not that bad,” Izuku tells him, “you’re being dramatic.”
Hitoshi grumbles but doesn’t refute. He does, however, fold his arms across his chest and pouts, like the pathetic thing he is.
“Toshi, you absolute princess,” Izuku teases fondly.
“Shut up,” Hitoshi retorts weakly.
Izuku raises his hands in mock surrender, but his smile stretches, eyes twinkling.
“Next,” the woman at the ticket counter calls.
“Hello ma’am, I and my boyfriend would like a couples ticket, please.” Izuku smiles innocently.
It takes Hitoshi a couple of seconds to process what he said, heat rushing to his face so quickly he was positive he could be mistaken for a tomato.
“Of course, sirs,” the lady shuffles, her nose wrinkled in disgust.
Hitoshi’s internal panic at being referred to as ‘boyfriend’ keeps him from noticing.
Shit, Izuku was doing stupid, stupid things to his weak heart.
He only snaps out of it when Izuku nudges him into the building, handing him his ticket, fingers brushing the skin of his palm.
“What?” He finally splutters.
“Did I make you uncomfortable? It’s just couples' tickets are cheaper so...” He blushes, eyes darting around, palms clenched into tight fists.
Hitoshi shakes his head. “No, no. It just surprised me.”
“Oh. Okay!” Izuku relaxes. “Well, are you ready to go?”
“Yeah sure…” Hitoshi trails off as realisation dawns on him. "You paid!?”
Izuku nods. “Yes. Is that a problem?”
“I could’ve paid,” is Hitoshi’s immediate response, defensive and... hurt. Because he could’ve. Does Izuku think he’s not well off enough? Sure, the ticket would’ve put a dent in the little money he has saved, but he wasn’t helpless.
“I’m sure,” Izuku responds breezily, “but I’m the one who dragged you out on this date tonight, and I’m the one who took you here. So it’s me who’s going to pay.”
Oh.
Izuku didn’t pity him, he just wanted to pay for the sake of paying. His argument is valid. If Hitoshi took a stranger out of their shitty foster home for a night, he would feel inclined to pay too.
“That’s fine,” he says quietly, feeling a little stupid.
“Raise your palm,” Izuku orders, taking notice of Hitoshi’s moment of embarrassment. Hitoshi doesn’t argue, because something about Izuku is demanding, and Hitoshi for the life of him doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to refuse a request, no matter how absurd.
It’s scary. Because Izuku is a stranger. A pretty face.
And yet…
Izuku touches his palm to Hitoshi’s, fingers thick, sturdy, coarse and littered with even more scars, different from the ones on his wrist. Hitoshi’s hand is dainty in comparison, with long, slim fingers, smooth and pale.
“You have pretty hands,” Izuku says absentmindedly, threading their fingers without missing a beat. Hitoshi’s breath catches.
He swings their hands. “Perfect fit.”
“Perfect fit,” Hitoshi repeats.
“Now come on, there’s so much shit we have to see.”
Wait—
Did he say date?
x x x
“They’re so pretty!” Izuku stands behind the glass, tracing random shapes with his free hand. Hitoshi is by his side, hand still clasped in his, preferring Izuku to the multicoloured fish. The blue light reflects against his skin, making his freckles look even starker. Hitoshi caresses his hand with his thumbs, drawing small circles.
“Check it out.” Izuku points to the left. “This one looks like you.”
There’s an edge to his voice, and when Hitoshi finds the fish he was pointing at, he can’t help the offended gasp. That was perhaps the ugliest fish he’s ever seen—only second to those weird blobfish he remembers gagging at on TV once—It looks like it’s growing mushrooms out of its fungal-like skin, beady black eyes too small and teeth too jagged.
“Well, that one looks like you.” Hitoshi points at another ugly fish in the tank, a large, grey thing with an elongated, droopy nose and small mouth, pointy teeth sticking out, eyes white and protruding out of its head. He feels a little childish. It's fun.
“That’s offensive.” Izuku places a hand over his heart. “I am hurt.”
“You compared me to the son of the grinch and a gargoyle.” Hitoshi frowns.
Izuku looks at him, dead in the eye, and says in the most serious tone Hitoshi has ever heard, “The grinch is hot.”
“Zuku I swear to god—”
“Not but for real—”
“Zuku.”
“I’m just saying I’d hit that." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“You’d hit that?” Hitoshi can’t help but repeat. Because what the fuck was this conversation and why was he enjoying it?
“I’d hit that.”
x x x
“Are you a criminal?”
The question is so out of the blue that Hitoshi is sure he misheard. They just left the aquarium, Izuku stating that he’d seen enough fish to last him a lifetime, and Hitoshi growing sick of the smell. And people.
“What?”
They’re walking aimlessly again, Izuku favouring leaning against his arm to intertwining their fingers. Not that Hitoshi was complaining.
“Have you ever committed a crime?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Hitoshi can’t refute that. Not really. Besides, he saw Izuku commit arson. He highly doubts Izuku would rat him out to the police. He could also lie, but he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t think he has to.
“I stole a few things,” he admits, “everything else is basic teenager shit. Illegal drinking and all that jazz.”
Izuku hums. “Same. I’ve also lit a few things on fire, that was fun.”
“A few things?”
“Kacchan’s bag, you saw that.” Kacchan must be one of the three boys they ran into earlier. “My old teacher’s desk, my father’s shed. Random alley-way dumpsters. That’s about it.”
“Will there be an elaboration or is it just pyromania?” It’s a rhetorical question, but Izuku answers nonetheless.
“People are monsters.”
His tone is bitter, and Hitoshi thinks of the scars on his fingers, the bruises on his back.
“People are.”
x x x
“Catch,” Izuku calls from the end of the aisle. Hitoshi scrambles to grab it, furrowing his eyebrows when he sees it’s a bottle of honey.
“What do we need honey for?”
“It’s the only thing as sweet as you, honey,” Izuku sings, winking flirtatiously. Hitoshi huffs in amusement, discreetly snagging something from the aisle across from him before sauntering back to Izuku, honey in hand.
“Come on, you didn’t like it?” Izuku croons, “I thought it was funny.”
Hitoshi makes a show of pressing Izuku’s back to his chest as he leans over to return the honey. He moves to snake Izuku’s waist with his now free hand, smirking when Izuku’s breath hitches.
“T-Toshi?”
Hitoshi leans into his ear and whispers, “Now, don’t get all flustered on me, sugar.” He punctuates the sentence by waving a packet of white sugar at Izuku's face. He doesn’t need to see Izuku’s reaction to know he’s unimpressed.
“You’re an idiot.” Izuku turns around, flicking Hitoshi’s forehead with his finger, “an absolute fucking dork.”
“You started it.”
“I threw a jar of honey at you,” Izuku deadpans.
“And?”
“Fine then.”
Izuku tilts his head upwards and pulls Hitoshi down by his hoodie—he had put it on after the aquarium, feeling cold. Hitoshi freezes, but Izuku dismisses it, instead tightening his grip so his lips ghosted Hitoshi’s jaw.
“So sweet to me.” Izuku’s lips skim Hitoshi’s jaw in feather-light kisses before hovering by his ear. “Honey .”
He pulls away right after, the distance suddenly too large despite Izuku being close enough that Hitoshi could trail his pinkie over the faint scar on his upper lip.
“You vixen,” Hitoshi accuses, narrowing his eyes at the smug smile pulling on full lips.
“You started it.” Izuku blinks innocently, lashes fluttering.
And?
Hitoshi is as smooth as poorly mixed cement. Izuku doing that was not good for his health. Or heartbeat.
“Anyways.” Izuku pries off his arm and starts marching to their empty shopping cart. He hops in, kicking himself in Hitoshi’s direction with just a little too much force.
“Idiot!” Hitoshi yelps as the cart comes barreling towards him. He sidesteps and sticks his arm out just in time to latch his fingers by the front, hissing as the metal digs into his skin, Izuku’s laughter ringing loud as he pulls the cart to his side.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“That was fun!” Izuku shuffles to the end of the cart, arms crossed.
“Are you insane?” Hitoshi can’t mask the incredulity in his voice. “You would’ve run into the aisle.”
Izuku leans forward, gently grabbing Hitoshi’s chin and tilting his head down. “But you caught me.”
“What if I didn’t?” Hitoshi’s voice wavers. Izuku is close.
“But you did, so it doesn’t matter,” Izuku replies, matter-of-a-fact.
He doesn’t give Hitoshi a second to rebuttal before shifting so his back against the metal, legs hanging over the end, and pointing his finger forward.
“Now onwards, oh mighty stallion.”
“And why the hell would I do that?”
Izuku turns to stare at him, eyes glittering. “Please, Toshi? It’ll be fun.”
“Zuku,” he stresses.
Izuku’s eyes only get bigger.
“Fuck me gently with a goddamn chainsaw, ” he mutters harshly.
"I love Heathers!"
Hitoshi sighs, and like a goddamn fucking idiot, grips the handle and runs.
x x x
“We’re going to be in so much shit,” Hitoshi warns Izuku, who returns his concern with a shrug and a mischievous smile. Surprisingly, the supermarket did not kick them out despite their less than stellar antics. They nearly crashed into aisles one too many times to count, and Izuku is hell at controlling the cart.
Still, it was fun. Izuku is fun.
But he’s also really stupid.
“I swear to god if I’m arrested,” Hitoshi grumbles. Nonetheless, he walks up to the cashier, a small bag of groceries in hand, Izuku’s wallet in the other. He had demanded he pay, admitting the money was stolen anyhow.
“Hello.” The cashier greets him. It’s a middle-aged man, pale face littered with greying dots, eyes wide and beady. Hitoshi thinks he looks a little sick, gaunt with skinny features. For a second, his stomach twists with guilt.
He catches Izuku out of the corner of his eye, silent footsteps painstakingly slow. He winks at Hitoshi and brings a hand to his lips in an exaggerated motion. Pathetically, the guilt leaves him for something warm—a feeling Hitoshi finds himself gripping with iron claws. It’s unfamiliar, new and he loves it.
Only with Izuku.
Though, he wonders, as Izuku forgets about stealth and bolts the rest of the way to the exit, door chiming loudly behind him, how sane he must be wanting to keep Izuku at his side.
“What—” the man whips his head, just to see the flash of black. His eyes widen comically, forgetting about the groceries Hitoshi bought in favour of chasing Izuku. He steps away from the counter, rapid footsteps clicking against the tile as he runs out the door. Hitoshi catches an innocent box of cigarettes and a metal lighter across from him.
He spares a single glance at the door, where the guy is fruitlessly trying to catch up with a much faster Izuku, and reaches over, thanking God for his lanky, long build. He shoves them into the pocket of his hoodie.
The door chimes not a minute later, the guy walking through, stance defeated and frowning.
“Damn kids.”
Hitoshi offers more than needed when he pays for his items, fighting back apologies when the guy insists he keeps it. The groceries are light—a too-large bag of chips, boxed sandwiches and a few energy drinks—and as promised, Izuku waits behind the store.
“Told you we’d be fine.” Izuku sings, swinging the stolen beer cans with one hand.
“Felt bad for the guy. He looked like a kicked puppy when he came back.”
“Life gets you nowhere feeling bad for others.” Izuku shuffles closer to Hitoshi’s side, his free hand dragging along the front of his hoodie. He slips it into the pocket of Hitoshi’s hoodie and fishes out the cigarette box and lighter.
Hitoshi gawks at him. He’d forgotten he stole those.
“Looks to ne like you weren’t feeling too bad.”
Hitoshi’s expression doesn’t change. What?
“There was a little box shape pressed into the hoodie that wasn’t there before,” Izuku responds to Hitoshi’s silent question.
What?
x x x
“You smoke?” Hitoshi asks, as Izuku gingerly picks the cigarette from between his fingers and lights the end. Izuku nods, breathing through his nose. The smoke billows into the air in the most delicate swirls. They’re on their way to the beach—their last destination—to watch the sunrise. Hitoshi tries not to think about the end of this day.
“When did you start?”
Izuku cocks an eyebrow. “2 years ago. What about you?”
“Who’s to say I smoke?”
His ridiculous question is followed by an obnoxious snort.
“Who’s the one who stole the cigarettes?”
Hitoshi’s cheeks burn. He hasn’t lit one yet, opting to watch Izuku. Because he makes smoking, makes an act disgusting and harmful, look something inviting. Pretty.
“When I was 11,” he answers honestly, “Foster parents left so much shit around. I was a curious 11-year-old fuck for brains with addictive habits, something was bound to happen.”
Izuku hums. “Met a shitty guy who taught me some shitty habits, and here we are.”
“Shitty guy, huh? Danger must find you awfully enticing.”
Izuku’s lips quirk. “Makes life more interesting.”
The silence lulls, Hitoshi breaking it by fishing out a beer and pulling the tap. It hisses, and he takes a large swig, the low burn of alcohol like a pretty hum in his throat.
“Want me to teach you something he taught me?” Izuku asks after a moment.
Hitoshi cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna shank me or anything, right?”
Izuku shakes his head, and Hitoshi, in all his brilliance, agrees.
“Stay still,” Izuku orders. He places the beer back by his feet and fists Hitoshi’s shirt with a free hand, bringing them nose to nose. He smells of smoke.
“Part your lips.”
Hitoshi obliges. Izuku turns his head and breathes the cigarette, the end close enough for Hitoshi to see the embers as they flicker with the wind. He unwinds Hitoshi’s shirt to cup his cheek and gently presses their lips together. Hitoshi feels the exhale, the smoke climbing down his throat, bones heavy. His eyes slide shut, and Izuku gently coaxes their heads to the side, before pulling away.
The smoke curls by his lips, his eyes cracking open to meet viridian. Izuku’s cheeks are pink; soft.
“Damn.”
x x x
“We’re here!” Izuku cheers, voice a little slurred, feet shifting. It’s still dark out, the stars are still shining. The night sky reflected in the calm ocean waves makes the water look black, glistening.
Izuku marches forward, plopping himself comfortably on the sand, right where the waves reach. Hitoshi’s slower in joining him. It was a long walk, an hour of leisure pacing, everything feeling a tad lighter with the weight of beer and the lull of smoke. Izuku cuddled into his side at one point, talking about nothing and everything.
“The moon is fading,” Hitoshi notices, the light less poignant, “the sun is coming up soon.”
“A little less than an hour,” Izuku tells him. It’s too soon. No one says anything, but Hitoshi doesn’t mind. It’s quiet. Izuku finishes the last beer and Hitoshi smokes the end of his cigarette. He likes that Izuku can say nothing and Hitoshi will feel heard.
Izuku shifts, and pulls away from him, his empty beer can tossed to the side.
“What are you doing?”
Izuku turns to him, eyes alight, smile wide.
“Wanna go skinny dipping with me?”
x x x
Izuku’s not as thin as Hitoshi. Where Hitoshi is more bone and skin, Izuku is lean, with thick thighs and strong biceps. They're both in nothing but their underwear. Hitoshi insisted they keep it on to keep fish away from castrating them at night. Izuku didn’t fight his request, and Hitoshi forced himself not to heave with relief. He didn’t think his poor heart could handle a naked to-the-bone Izuku before him.
He’s scarred, with gashes on his back, and cigarette burns on his skin. Like Hitoshi, he’s blemished.
But he looks flawless, and for a second, Hitoshi thinks he could look flawless too.
“Let’s go!” Izuku squeals, grabbing Hitoshi by the wrist and pulling him. Hitoshi stumbles; nearly trips, but Izuku’s hold on him keeps him upright. He isn’t careful, all force and excitement, hauling Hitoshi into the water with strength, before diving after him. It’s shallow, and they stop when the water brushes a little below Izuku’s shoulders.
The water is cold but comforting. It stings like being forced awake, but it doesn’t chill his bones or leave his teeth clattering helplessly. Izuku doesn’t mind, plunging and swimming and smiling.
“Dive in.” Izuku nudges him gently with his foot. Hitoshi shakes his head. He doesn’t want his hair to get wet. Call him shallow, but he looks like a drowned cat when his hair is soaked, and Izuku looks beautiful as always.
“Come on,” Izuku stresses the vowels. “It’s fun.”
It's all been fun.
“No, thank you.”
“Toshi.”
“Nope.”
“Fine then."
Hitoshi thinks that's that. Except, of course, it isn't.
This is Izuku.
He grins, and Hitoshi only has three seconds to react before seawater slaps him in the face. Izuku splashes like a madman, drowning a blubbering Hitoshi, whose words are lost to the sound of giggling and slapping water. Giving up on keeping his hair dry, he holds his breath and dives in. Izuku only notices he’s gone when Hitoshi's already swam to his side.
“You cretin,” Hitoshi says, clamping his arms around Izuku’s middle. Izuku twists in his arms so they’re chest to chest, looking up at him playfully. Hitoshi is sure he looks a mess, but the notion leaves him the second lavender meets viridian. Izuku’s... he’s so beautiful.
Water drips down his hair, slicked back and away from his face. He has a scar on his forehead, one Hitoshi hadn’t seen because of his hair. He absentmindedly trails it with his finger, from Izuku’s temple to the end of his eyebrow.
Izuku breath stutters.
“Toshi?” His voice is quiet. Hitoshi’s thumb stills, but he doesn’t pull away.
“You’re really pretty, ” he admits, quietly. Like a secret. “You’re really fucking pretty. ”
“I think you’re pretty too,” Izuku says just as quietly. His eyes crinkle. “Like really fucking pretty. ”
Hitoshi nods. He believes Izuku, for no reason other than he does. And Izuku thinks he’s pretty, so he is.
He doesn’t notice he’s leaning forward, his grip on Izuku's waist a little tight. A hand moves to cup his face, to guide him closer and closer. He doesn’t notice until soft lips press against his.
It’s gentle and slow, and Izuku cradles him like he’s precious and loved and Hitoshi hopes Izuku feels the same. (Precious and loved.)
“Shit,” Hitoshi breathes against Izuku’s lips, “shit you’re everything .”
“You are,” Izuku says in between soft kisses, “fucking perfect. ”
When the sun rises, it’s to the melody of two boys who love. It bleeds the prettiest shade of reds and yellows for them, paints streaks of pink and purple and shifts so the clouds are cyan and soft and pastel and pretty.
And it’s perfect.
x x x
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” is what Hitoshi says when they’ve pulled out of the water. The sun now hangs in the sky, and Hitoshi sees Izuku bathed in the orange lights. He’s stunning. They sit on the sand, shoulder to shoulder, not wanting to leave despite the day coming to an end. He really is something stunning. Something enamouring, ethereal and warm.
Izuku stiffens; turns to face Hitoshi in disbelief. “W-what?”
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” he repeats, “I want to talk to you again. See you again.”
For the first time since Hitoshi has met him, Izuku looks floored.
“You do?” His voice is fragile, like glass. “You promise?”
Hitoshi nods.
Izuku breaks down in sobs. It’s unexpected, but Hitoshi is by his side, cradling his back, worried that he’d said the wrong thing, that he hurt Izuku.
But then Izuku stares at him like he’s his everything. His stars, his moon, his sun.
“Be mine,” Izuku whispers, “please.”
And it’s stupid. And this isn’t romantic, and they’ve known each other for less than 24 hours and it’s stupid. But Izuku looks at him, and he thinks he looks at Izuku the same.
And it’s so fucking stupid.
“I’m yours.”