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"Hey, Sho, did Hitoshi grab breakfast this morning?"
Shouta blinked past the haze of a nap that threatened to pull him away from the essays he should've graded two days ago. "Uh," he sighed. "I think."
The words tumbled out before he could edit them. He hadn't gotten enough sleep, and he clearly needed another cup of coffee because it was only 10:45 AM, and he was lacking logic.
Sensing this, Hizashi lifted an eyebrow while taking a deep sip from his mug.
His husband's unspoken "You…think?" reached him from sheer vibes alone. Shouta rubbed his eyes and retraced the morning.
To be completely honest, once he came in from a long patrol, he didn't even notice the teen. He'd overdone it with his Quirk while chasing after a duo of lower-level villains who did their damnedest to give him a run for his money. Apprehending them was easy once he figured out their tactics, but getting to that point required more effort and Quirk erasure than he'd initially planned. The aftermath resulted in a slow pounding behind his overly dry eyes. (And, yes, he'd reacted irrationally a few times, but that had little to do with his eye ache or his need for ophthalmic ointment in place of his regular drops once he was in the sanctity of his home.) So, admittedly, he wasn't paying much attention to anyone when he slunk through the door and headed for the bathroom to wash his hands and swipe the medicine in his eyes. But he wasn't going to rationalize his lack of recollection to Hizashi, not that his husband would ever ask that of him.
Instead, Shouta pushed past his suddenly increasing feelings of being a negligent parent and dug through his memories for any sign of their son eating breakfast. He needed to think back and rationally arrange the timeline.
The earliest he remembered seeing Hitoshi was when he'd gotten home from patrol. The teen was in the kitchen with a plastic bottle of something liquid in his hand. He looked exhausted, but then again, when did he not? Hitoshi, after all, was too much like him. Shouta remembered telling the teen goodnight and not questioning why he was awake during an hour when day and night had merged and it was so late it was early. He'd simply chalked it up to Hitoshi's insomnia flaring up again.
Shouta recalled almost literally running into Mic in the hall, offering his husband a quick kiss and wave before his shift at the radio station. He remembered stepping into their room and trudging to the bathroom for his eye ointment and a shower before crashing onto the bed and falling asleep on top of the duvet. That seemed like ages ago. He had slept heavily, waking only once to the movement of the blankets as Hizashi pulled them out from under him. He'd covered them both up before cuddling against him once he'd gotten home from the station.
The next thing Shouta knew, he opened his eyes to an empty bed, the clock reading 9:34 AM, and a steaming cup of coffee on the nightstand in a spot that was only just unreachable, so he had to get out of bed to enjoy it.
Okay, so he'd only seen Hitoshi once and that was well before breakfast. A bottle of what was very likely either coconut water or that branded Present Mic Electrifying electrolyte-infused water they had a pack of didn't constitute breakfast. Shouta rubbed his eyes. He was on autopilot most of the morning. Hizashi was in the kitchen when he got there, gel-less hair hanging past his shoulders as he fixed breakfast in his sweatpants and sweater. They shared a good morning kiss.
He remembered seeing Eri eating fruit happily, and Hitoshi was decidedly not at the table because he would've remembered another zombie-eyed person in the room peering back at him like some distorted mirror. After nearly tripping over Soap, the gray Scottish Fold cat he rescued two years ago, on his way to the living room, he drank his coffee with his feet buried in the kotatsu and his focus intent on grading essays.
Shouta remembered thinking it odd that Hitoshi wasn't already curled up, cat at his side, dozing against the table. But then he also remembered Hitoshi mentioning he had a paper due the previous afternoon and figured the kid pulled an all-nighter.
He shouldn't have assumed.
He shouldn't have assumed, and he was a horrible parent.
"Last I remember, he was in the kitchen," said Shouta. "He was drinking water, but I'll admit I don't remember seeing him since I've been awake."
"Well," Hizashi began, "'Toshi said he ate, but I'm fairly sure he didn't."
"If you're sure he didn't, then why—" he paused. "Do you think he's sick, or do you think he's skipping meals again?"
That was enough to send Hizashi's concerned expression into a full-blown frown. In the first week Hitoshi stayed with them, they discovered the teen would skip either breakfast or dinner, telling his adoptive parents he'd eaten. It took three days before they noticed. Shouta would focus on dinner while Hizashi served breakfast but, given the days when they were passing ships, their newly adopted son's habit slipped by unnoticed. Hitoshi's tendency to get by on just lunch and dinner or some breakfast and lunch despite the large amount of energy he burned through in UA exercises made itself known when he nearly passed out during his training with Shouta.
What started as a coping mechanism to navigate his poor treatment in various homes had grown into a habit. Some of Hitoshi's foster families would refuse to feed him breakfast, while others wouldn't give him dinner if they didn't feel he deserved it or if he spoke too much during the day. Food insecurity became his way of life. Despite knowing Hizashi and Shouta would give him food whenever he needed or even wanted it, Hitoshi still reacted as though eating wasn't a guarantee, and skipped meals in case his new parents suddenly decided he wasn't worthy of food. It paired with his tendency to stare at Shouta or Hizashi with glaring skepticism when they offered him a plate before accepting it, as though he expected they'd yell gotcha! and take it away. On particularly bad days, he'd also eat his food quickly, as if it would disappear, and then refuse seconds despite wanting them.
"I don't think he's skipping meals," said Hizashi, "but he was sick last night, so I do worry that he's still not feeling well. I haven't seen him all morning."
Shouta's eyes widened despite himself. "What? He was sick? When?"
"I…oh dear, I guess I didn't get a chance to tell you. Hitoshi got sick shortly after you left. I helped him to bed after he managed to stop throwing up enough to leave the bathroom. I made him lie down and rest. He fell straight to sleep. I took his temperature, but it was normal."
Well, shit. "Was it a migraine again? During exercises, I told him it was irrational to practice pushing the limits of his Quirk when he's not well."
"No. I mean, at least not what I noticed. I figured maybe dinner didn't sit well with him. He only got out of bed again when I was heading out as you got home."
Ah, so that was why Shinsou was awake when he and Hizashi traded out. Shouta ran a hand through his hair. "He didn't get sick again after you left."
Despite what little he remembered, he was certain Shinsou didn't get up to get sick. He woke up to the sounds of his kids out of bed, and the only kid out of bed was Eri, and she would have mentioned it if Hitoshi had been awake during the night. The teen was likely out cold.
"I was so tired when I got home, I forgot to check him for a fever again." Hizashi flipped his hair over one shoulder as he bent over to pick up Eri. "C'mon, little listener, let's go get you cleaned up."
"Well, whether he's still feeling sick or not, he needs something for breakfast if he emptied his stomach like that," said Shouta.
"I agree," Hizashi adjusted Eri's position on his hip. "He didn't—"
"Papa?" Eri tapped his shoulder. "Papa, 'Toshi told me not to tell but…I promised Daddy I'd say if something was wrong."
"Tell what? What's wrong?"
"...'Toshi said he still didn't feel good—"
That was enough to send Shouta to his feet and down the hall leading toward Hitoshi's room before Eri could explain more to his husband. The shut door did little to deter him. He offered a quiet knock. The silence in return was more than enough to set off the kick drum in his chest.
"Hitoshi." His name wasn't a question or a statement, but an offering with an unspoken I'm here between the letters. "Are you awake?"
His instincts made him open the door. Deep but stuffy breaths made it clear that his son was, in fact, not awake. Shouta noticed the bundle of blankets on the bed shift, a purple tuft of hair sticking out from the cocoon of green sheets. A loud snuffle that bordered on a snort broke the air, causing the hero to wince. He stepped deeper into the room and waited for Shinsou to say anything, to acknowledge his presence in the room, but all he received was another snort and a groan.
Shouta tried again. "Hitoshi."
He crouched beside the bed and pulled the sheets down to get a good look at his son's face. Hitoshi fought his discomfort, eyebrows cinched tight, mouth twisted in a grimace. Shouta winced when Hitoshi cracked open eyes so bloodshot they rivaled his own. The teen groaned and curled in on himself, arms wrapping around his middle.
"Need the trash?" asked Shouta, already reaching for the bin from under Hitoshi's desk. He knew the answer—particularly given Hizashi's recap of the night's events—but his son's ability to answer, and, possibly, his response itself, would help Shouta determine just how sick Hitoshi was still.
Hitoshi managed a small nod before jerking forward and spewing what little contents his stomach held the moment Shouta placed the bin on the floor.
Wow, okay, Hizashi said he was sick but this? How had he not noticed the pallor of the kid's cheeks? The pro hero crouched beside his son, the dad-mode he'd previously used on his students activated in the face of a purple-haired teen groaning and coughing through bile. Shouta stiffened, realizing the coughing wasn't a cough at all. It was a sob.
Shinsou sniffed and sat back. He hid his exhausted eyes behind the sleeves of his jacket. The kid slept with a jacket on? Was it that cold in the room? Shouta shot his hand out to the teen's forehead before he even had a chance to think any further about whether Hitoshi was actually sick. The room felt comfortable—at least by his standards as a man who curled into a sleeping bag at any available chance. Shinsou's skin, however, made Shouta more than uncomfortable. It wasn't just the clamminess, it was the warmth radiating from it. He flipped his hand over, the back feeling the same heat. Rationally, he knew his son had a fever, but he couldn't stop himself from returning his palm to the teen's forehead for a moment then shifting the inside of his wrist to Shinsou's skin.
Yeah, definitely a fever.
Shouta couldn't even begin to think about where the thermometer was, let alone if they even had one. No, they had one. Hizashi mentioned it earlier. Besides, Hizashi was always a bit more on top of it when it came to sickness-related medical supplies in the house, particularly with the way his quirk led to laryngitis, strep, and other throat-related infections. It was Shouta who, while prepared for post-hero work patch-ups and ensuring the injury-related med kit remained well-stocked, left a lot to be desired in the prepared column when it came to sickness. Despite how irrational it was, he was known to neglect his own health. Hizashi was the one to tell him to see Recovery Girl or go home when they were teens and, in adulthood, was the one who played the role of a mother hen. Shouta couldn't count the number of times he'd been on the receiving end of Hizashi's quiet care. He benefited from his husband's tendency to sneak orange jelly pouches in his sleeping bag, slip him lozenges during faculty meetings, and serve him cups of syrupy medicine with breakfast and dinner.
But now they officially had a son—Shinsou was theirs, and his health was their responsibility. Hizashi could easily meet this task, but Shouta knew this would be a learning experience.
Hitoshi sat back against his headboard, then pitched forward from the force of what was very much a cough this time. Shouta brushed Hitoshi's hair out of his eyes and offered him a tissue to spit out what he'd coughed up. He'd really have to ask his husband where he stored that non-emergency med kit because fuck if he knew where it was and, fuck, this kid—their son—needed medicine.
"I'm sorry."
Hitoshi's mumble barely caught Shouta's ear, but when it did, it twisted something in his gut. He frowned. He was doing it again—limiting his words and apologizing for things he didn't need to, things he would've been reprimanded for in his previous homes.
Shouta rubbed Shinsou's back again when he started retching once more and sighed through his nose. "It'd be irrational of me to think you did this on purpose. There's been a lot of stuff going around campus. If one student has a cold then two have strep, one has flu, and another has allergies. It's that time of year, Hitoshi."
He bit his tongue before he could add that he'd actually wondered when Shinsou would come down with something, given the way he and 1-A had frequently been paired for exercises this week. At least three 1-A students were out with various illnesses, and one (not to name names— Midoriya) Shouta sent back to the dorms mid-lesson because his repeated sneezing, sniffling, and miserable-looking pink-nosed expression were beyond distracting. Not necessarily because he was distracting sound-wise, although he admittedly was grating, but because Bakugo couldn't control his reactions to each of those little sounds Midoriya made every single time he made one. It ultimately was easier, and more rational, to tell The Problem Child to take his infection back to his dorm room where he wouldn't cause risk to other classes or worse, All Might.
"Not your fault, kid. It happens." Shouta said with a shrug. "Are you cold?" When Hitoshi nodded, he gave a small sigh. "You're not going to like this, but you need to take the jacket off. It's not doing your fever any favors." A dull moan resounded from the trash bin. "It's not good for you either, but I can get you another blanket instead. How does that sound?"
"Okay," said Hitoshi.
The teen slowly removed the jacket just as Shouta draped a throw blanket on top of his duvet and sat near the edge of the bed.
"Thanks. I'm really cold."
"That's the fever, kid."
"I'll try to get better quickly." Hitoshi plopped himself back against his pillows, attempting to hide a groan as he pulled the second blanket around his shoulders. "I… I already feel better and less nauseous. I'll drink tea—"
"Hitoshi, you can't rush healing."
"But—"
"You'll just make yourself sick again. It's a weekend, but if your fever is still present tomorrow, you're not going to class Monday."
"I agree!" Hizashi gave a half-smile from the doorway. He held up two fingers on one hand and four on the other, his voice quieter as he said, "Twenty-four hours with zero fever before you can go back to class, listener."
The teen made a face. "I'm already behind—"
"You can't rush healing."
"Dad already said that."
Hizashi looked at his husband, curling his lips into a wider grin. It was the third time since his adoption that Hitoshi called either of them by parental name. This was the second time the teen had called Aizawa 'dad' and Hizashi knew Shouta was ecstatic inside despite the lack of expression on his face. "Well, he's right, 'Toshi." He brought a hand to his son's forehead and tutted. "That's a bit of a fever you've got there. I'm gonna go get the thermometer so we can compare it to yesterday."
"Okay," muttered Hitoshi. "But I feel better than last night."
"You were sick to your stomach last night too," said Shouta.
"I mean I feel better since I got sick just now. Honestly, I-I'm fine. Just cold."
"Hitoshi, you don't need to downplay your illness. We don't think you're weak, and we're not upset. We just want you to feel better, however long that takes. Okay?"
The reassurance seemed to register with Hitoshi. After a pause, he nodded and looked up at his parents, all attempts to hide his sickness slipping away. "Well, in that case, I feel like shit. Like I sparred one round with Todoroki and got frozen over after Kirishima did his worst."
"Not Bakugo?" asked Hizashi. "That's an improvement from last night. Still, all signs point to you being sick enough to be home for a few days."
"I can't fall further behind."
"Hitoshi," Shouta sighed. "Listen, kid, you'll only fall behind if you refuse to remain home and take care of your body. You need to rest."
"We care about you," said Hizashi. "Please let us take care of you."
"I'll get better by the morning. I prefer not to be an inconvenience to you."
Another wave of realization hit Shouta. "It is okay for you to be sick, Hitoshi. You're allowed to be unwell, you're allowed to heal at your own pace. 'Zashi and I want you to feel better. We're prepared to wait as long as it takes for your symptoms to improve, and we're going to take care of you through whatever this is and after."
As tears began to well, Hitoshi raked the heel of his palm over his eyes. Hizashi offered him a tissue, which he accepted with a small, "Thanks."
"We're your parents, Hitoshi."
"I know," the teen hiccuped. "I don't mean to cry."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not. I'll stop. I'm sorry—"
"There's nothin' to be sorry for. We've got ya', kid," added Hizashi with a smile. "Things are different now because we've got you, and we love you as you are—and that includes whether you're sick, or humming and healthy. Since you're not feeling great at the moment, and you need to eat, I think I'll make you okayu. Think you can stomach it?"
"I think so." Hitoshi wiped the last of his tears with a sniff. "I-I'll try."
Shouta stood and lifted the waste bin. "Good. While he's doing that, I'll clean this and get you some medicine. Try to get some rest today, and we'll keep an eye on your symptoms. If they don't improve, we'll notify Recovery Girl later today."
"And don't worry about Eri," said Hizashi. "We'll do what we can to make sure she doesn't get sick, too. You just worry about getting better. Okay?"
Shinsou nodded gratefully. "Okay."
"Just sit tight, Toshi, and we'll be right back."
As Shouta followed Hizashi toward the door, Hitoshi called out. "Wait!"
"What's wrong?" asked Hizashi, whirling around. Concern cinched his eyebrows. "Are you feeling sick to your stomach again?"
"No, I just…" the teen paused. He shook his head. "Never mind. It's silly."
Shouta frowned. His son's habit of dismissing his emotions as meaningless always weighed in his gut like lead. "It's not. What is it, Hitoshi?"
"Thanks…dads."
Hizashi smiled, his eyes watering. "Of course, 'Toshi."
Shouta nodded. "Any time…son."