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“Aaand there I go,” Izuku says wistfully as his character flies off the edge of the screen. “What is that now? My sixth loss in a row?”
“Seventh,” Hitoshi smirks, dropping his controller in his lap as the TV changes to show Kirby dancing as triumphant music blares. “You suck at this. You underestimating Kirby just ‘cause he’s small and floaty and pink?”
“Oh, shut up,” Izuku laughs. He turns and gives Hitoshi a light shove. Hitoshi shoots him a wounded look, all puppy-dog eyes and a wobbly lip, and is promptly ignored. “You know you basically just described Ochako, right? And she’s quite possibly the most intimidating person I know.”
“Yeah, okay, fair," Hitoshi snorts. "More importantly, though…” He cocks his head and waggles an eyebrow, expression shifting comfortably into a smirk as he leans in. “I’d like to collect my reward.”
Izuku rolls his eyes and heaves a dramatic sigh, his shoulders sagging with the effort. He moves the controllers to the coffee table. “Ugh. Do I have to?”
“Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”
“I’m pretty sure you did.”
“Did I? I forget.” Hitoshi shrugs, smirk still fixed in place. “Oh well. Pay up.”
“Fiiine,” Izuku says, drawling out the word, but the teasing in his voice and the fond uptick of his lips is unmistakable as Izuku leans in close. The way their mouths slot together is familiar: the kiss slow and easy and no less sweet than the previous six. Hitoshi savors it as if it were his first.
“Get a room,” says a voice.
“First of all,” Hitoshi says as he pulls away from Izuku, a matching dusting of pink on both their cheeks, “rude.” He pivots to point an accusatory finger over the top of the couch. “Second of all, the fuck you mean ‘get a room.’ This is literally my house.”
“I said what I said,” Shouto replies coolly, even as the corner of his mouth twitches. Izuku tries and fails to hide his giggles behind a freckled hand.
“Well, I think you’re just jealous,” Hitoshi says haughtily, tugging his boyfriend closer by the waist. “Isn’t that right, Izuku?”
“Hey, don’t look at me!” Izuku says, hands waving in the air. “I was just trying to fulfill my end of the bargain. Toshi’s a very shrewd negotiator.”
“Why thank you,” Hitoshi says. “At least one of you has some decent manners.”
“Keep up this slander and there’ll be no fruit for you,” Shouto says. He steps farther into the living room, shutting off the kitchen light behind him as he does so. It’s only then that Hitoshi catches sight of the plate of perfectly cut and peeled oranges delicately balanced on one hand.
Hitoshi gasps, drawing one hand to his chest, his eyes as wide as he can make them. “You would deny me Vitamin C just like that, Shouto? You would be so cruel? So heartless? When I collapse from nutrient deficiency one day we’ll all know whose fault it — mmf.”
“There’s your Vitamin C,” Shouto says with a satisfied nod while Hitoshi splutters around the orange slice in his mouth. “Happy now?”
“Mmf—!”
Click.
Hitoshi freezes. Slowly, he drags his eyes over from where he had been trying to glare daggers into Shouto to the other end of the couch, where Izuku has at some point wriggled away from him and now leans back, phone balanced between his fingers and cheshire grin stretched across his face.
“You little—” Hitoshi tries to say, but the words are barely comprehensible around the orange slice. He opens his mouth wider to bring the fruit into his mouth and chomps down, the citrus exploding sweetly across his tongue. He holds out an arm. “Delete that—”
“But you look so cute!” Izuku singsongs, holding his phone away with one hand and batting Hitoshi’s arm with the other.
Hitoshi’s ready to lunge, hands curled into claws, but then the cushions dip down abruptly as a human wall drops down between them.
“I want to see the photo,” Shouto says.
Izuku is all too eager to comply, grin still fixed in place, and Hitoshi resigns himself to collapsing bonelessly against Shouto’s side. At least it’s warm. He swipes another orange from the plate before glancing at the screen.
The photo is a little blurry, but oh, wow, Hitoshi still looks dumb as fuck in it, eyes comically wide with the orange slice wedged squarely in his mouth. His hair fans out every which way and he looks like he’s never heard of a comb in his life, though he supposes that part’s not new. Izuku’s going to change his contact photo to this, he can already feel it.
Hitoshi groans as the other two continue to coo over the photo. “I hate you both.”
“Liar,” Izuku says at the same time that Shouto drones out a, “fake news.”
Hitoshi groans again, louder.
“The worst part,” he says as he reaches over to pan the photo over to Shouto in the background, “is that while I look like grade-A gremlin, we got Mr. Pretty Boy over here looking like he’s fresh out of a model shoot! Look at that! Tell me you don’t see that hair swoosh! I call favoritism, Izuku.”
“Not my fault,” Izuku says, waving his phone. “Shouto’s just too photogenic for us mere mortals.”
“That’s not true,” Shouto says.
“Yes it is,” Hitoshi says, flicking Shouto’s ear. It’s red. “It’s a core, undeniable truth. A pillar holding society upright. A paradigm of — is that my cardigan?”
“Huh?” Shouto looks down. He picks at the navy blue fabric with a hand. “Oh, yeah.”
“Unbelievable,” Hitoshi says, even as warmth floods his heart. “I’m going to lose my entire closet to the two of you.”
Shouto shrugs, unperturbed. “You have comfortable clothes. And I couldn’t find my other sweater.”
“Which one?”
“The super soft purple one. With the garden of flowers on the back?” He feeds Izuku an orange slice.
Hitoshi spends a few moments mentally sorting through Shouto’s wardrobe — hoodies, button-downs, a lot of turtlenecks — then it clicks. “Your sweater? Asshole, that’s my sweater!”
“Our sweater,” Shouto says easily, like he’s offering a compromise. There’s laughter in his eyes, dancing like fireflies. Hitoshi could see it from a mile away.
“That’s not how that works,” Hitoshi says, though something in him curls like a cat in the sun at the thought. “Just ‘cause you two steal it every other week — yes, Izuku, that includes you too — doesn’t mean jack shit.” He extends his legs into a stretch, toes pointed, careful not to hit the coffee table. “And it’s hanging outside to dry right now anyway. I did laundry right before you guys came over.”
“Oh, you washed it for me? How kind. You really are a romantic.”
“Hold on, give me a second.” Hitoshi leans forward, scanning his surroundings as he does so. “I need to find something to hit you with. Izuku, see anything I can use?”
“Violence isn’t the answer, Toshi,” Izuku says, waving an orange slice admonishingly.
“Yeah, sure, Mr. I Broke All My Fingers On Live TV And Would Have Kept Going, I’ll be sure to take that advice from you.”
“Shut up,” Izuku says, face reddening. He jabs a crooked finger towards Hitoshi, who leans in to pretend to bite it. Izuku pulls it back just in time. “I’ve gotten better! And it was a very important bonding moment.”
Shouto snorts.
“Eat your oranges,” he says.
Hitoshi sticks out his tongue.
Izuku laughs. “Speaking of which,” he says, a feather-soft smile finding its way onto his face, “thank you for cutting and peeling them for us, Shouto.” He leans in to drop a kiss on Shouto’s cheek, and Shouto turns to catch him on the mouth instead. Izuku’s surprised squeak quickly morphs into a soft moan.
“Hey,” Hitoshi says. “How come Shouto gets a kiss just like that? I had to fight tooth and nail for mine!” He gestures with one arm at the TV, where the game has idled back to the title screen. His voice drips with a perfect parrot of indignation. “The battles I’ve fought! The deaths I’ve suffered!”
“Was he always this dramatic?” Shouto mumbles, lips still pressed against Izuku’s.
“Mm..? Ah...yeah, probably.”
“No respect,” Hitoshi says.
He sits up straight, locking his fingers together and stretching his arms high above his head. A light breeze drifts in through the windows, the late afternoon sun dipping away in favor of grey clouds. He holds the position for one second, two. In the next breath he’s dived down and wriggling himself across Shouto’s lap — there’s a Hitoshi, please as the lovebirds break apart and the fruit plate gets lifted into the air to avoid being jostled — and then he flips himself over so that his head is in Izuku’s lap and his feet dangle over the arm of the couch.
“Hello,” he says, grinning directly up at Izuku’s exasperated smile. He bats his eyelashes. “Miss me?”
“Every second,” Izuku says, barely biting back a smile. Hitoshi doesn’t know why he even tries; it’s like summer sunbeams through a lace curtain.
Shouto sighs as he shuffles into a more comfortable position, his thighs shifting under Hitoshi’s back. His lips are a bright cherry-kissed red. Or, as Hitoshi would call it, A Very Good Look. “Who was calling who jealous, earlier?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Remember when he first joined the class?” Shouto says, turning to Izuku with a raised brow and another offered orange slice to the other’s open mouth. He eats one himself before placing the plate down on Hitoshi’s chest. “He made a whole big speech about not making friends and us all being obstacles. Now look at him.”
“That was his first mistake.” Izuku shakes his head solemnly. “Nothing Class A loves better than a challenge.”
“I’m right the fuck here.”
Izuku clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “He stood no chance, the poor thing.”
“Especially against you,” Shouto says, huffing a quiet, fond laugh and giving Izuku another slice and a kiss on the cheek.
“You would know, you hypocrite,” Hitoshi pouts. “Sero still calls me Early-roki sometimes.”
“Oops,” Shouto says, not sounding the least bit apologetic.
Hitoshi sticks out his tongue again.
“Orange,” he says.
“The plate is on you.”
Hitoshi bats his eyes.
Shouto sighs. “What’s the magic word?”
Hitoshi scrunches his nose and pretends to think. He taps his fingers slowly, methodically, on the plate. His painted nails ring out neatly against the porcelain. Then, in the most saccharine voice he can muster: “Shouto, my dear, my beloved, my peppermint sweet, love of my life, can you feed me an orange, please?”
Shouto puts a slice between Hitoshi’s lips. “Was that so hard?” he says, voice deadpan but ears freshly re-pinked.
Hitoshi chews and swallows the slice, the flavor bright and refreshing against his taste buds, before cupping a hand around his mouth in an exaggerated stage whisper. “Psst, Izuku.”
“Yes, Toshi?” There’s already a wobble in Izuku’s lips.
“Which one of those do you think was the magic word?”
“Oh, ‘my peppermint sweet’ for sure.”
“Yeah, you think so?” Hitoshi says, grin widening as Shouto drags a hand down his face.
“Eat your oranges,” he repeats. His voice is ever so slightly strained.
“Yes sir,” Hitoshi says as he chews the newest slice he’s been given. He catches Shouto’s wrist before he can draw it back and pulls the hand closer to his face, before ghosting a kiss over each knuckle, eyes closed.
He opens half an eye to catch the edge of a smile that flits across his boyfriend’s features. There's some exasperation in it, Hitoshi is sure, but it's overwhelmed by something much softer. Shouto’s thumb caresses the side of his face.
Hitoshi hides his own smile beneath Shouto’s hand. But it’s short-lived, because then he hears, “We should show Aizawa-sensei the photo.”
His eyes shoot open. “I will kill you,” he says. “Mark my words.”
“I simply think he’d like to see it,” Shouto says mildly. He leans away as Hitoshi tries to bat at his face, the plate wobbling unsteadily on his chest as he does so.
“Izuku,” Hitoshi says as he relocates the oranges onto the coffee table and turns back with big, pleading eyes. “You can’t let him do this.”
Izuku looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s a commendable effort. He pats Hitoshi’s head. “Sorry, Toshi, but that sounds like a you problem.”
“Wha — how dare — it’s gonna be a you problem,” Hitoshi says, before grabbing Izuku’s hand and raising it in the air. He holds it for one considering moment, before he throws it against Shouto’s shoulder with a thwack. “There,” he says, as he raises Izuku’s arm again. Thwack. “Take that, Shouto. Try and test me now.”
“Izuku.” Thwack. Shouto turns, a plaintive look in his eye. “How could you?”
“Oh no!” Izuku says, unable to hold back his laughter any longer. “I’m, uh, really sorry, but as you can see” — he nods towards his arm as giggles spill out of him — “it’s really not under my control!”
Shouto shakes his head, lips pursed against a smile. “He’s not even using his quirk.”
“Maybe this is a new application of it,” Izuku says. Thwack thwack. “Physical activation rather than vocal.”
“Nerds,” Hitoshi says, accenting the syllable with another flop of Izuku’s hand. “Both of you.”
“Your nerds,” Shouto says, patting Hitoshi’s thigh. “You signed up for this.”
Izuku snorts. “Yeah, and now you’re stuck. It’s too late to get rid of us now.”
As if I’d ever want to, he thinks.
“What a nightmare,” he says. “Get me out of here.”
“It’s gonna be years, Toshi,” Izuku says cheekily. “You’re gonna have to listen to so much of my ramblings.”
“That’s cute, though,” Hitoshi says. “But on the other hand, you guys are gonna have to deal with me being an overdramatic little shit every hour of the day. So who’s the real loser here?”
“We already deal with that,” Izuku says. He pulls his hand back and reaches over to grab an orange slice, ignoring Hitoshi’s protests at being rocked.
“I’ll hog all the blankets,” Shouto says, absently toying with Hitoshi’s hoodie strings.
“What!” Izuku knocks him with a shoulder. “You can regulate your own temperature! Why are you the blanket-stealer?”
Shouto nudges him back. “Try and stop me.”
“Well, then, I’ll be the obnoxious early riser,” Izuku counters, and Hitoshi groans. “Hope you’re ready for a face full of sunlight when I throw open the curtains.” He tosses his arms out wide to mimic the motion.
“I’ll sing terribly off-key in the shower.”
“Shut up,” Izuku says, tapping Hitoshi’s forehead. “You’re a good singer.”
“An excellent singer, but a terrible whistler,” Shouto says as he leans his head on Izuku’s shoulder. Izuku curls his left arm so that he can play with the red strands that fall near Shouto’s ear.
“Noted, I’ll be whistling non-stop then.”
“I will ice you in your sleep,” Shouto says, pulling the hoodie strings tight so that the hood cinches and plunges him into the dark abyss of fleece. Hitoshi splutters, legs kicking. “And you guys will be legally required to have weekly cold soba nights.”
“And I’ll dedicate a whole room to pro hero merch.”
“A whole room?” Hitoshi says, wrenching open his hood with both hands and peering up at Izuku. “That’s so much — wait. Wait, hold on. Room? What room?”
Izuku cocks his head. “Huh? I don’t know. Any room, I guess.” He smiles, devious. “You think my dorm room is bad right now, but just you wait.”
“At least there’ll be some variety besides All Might once our classmates get all their own merch,” Shouto says.
“Ooh yeah!” Izuku clasps his hands together, eyes shining. “Yaoyorozu said she’s been talking to some business students and she showed me some of the designs they’ve mocked up and they look so cool and—”
“Wait. No no no. That’s not what I meant,” Hitoshi says. He starts to push himself up on his elbows, squirming his way up. “What room? Like, where is it?”
Izuku blinks. “In our future house?”
Hitoshi chokes on his own saliva.
“That’s...that’s what we were talking about, right? Living together? In the future?” Izuku says, voice getting higher with every sentence and blush creeping up his neck. His hands start waving, fidgeting. “I mean — I mean I know we haven’t really talked about it before, but, uh, from what were saying I thought...”
“I was...also under that assumption,” Shouto says, lips pursed. He grabs one of Izuku’s hands and gives a reassuring squeeze, before turning to look at Hitoshi. “Was that not what you were thinking too?”
“N-no?” Hitoshi says. He hates how confused he sounds. Then he sees the way their faces fall, the way Izuku’s smile dips and Shouto’s eyes shutter and he hates it even more. “Wait, no, that came out wrong, that’s not not what I meant, I didn’t mean no, I meant — I was trying to say —”
He drops back down, buries his head in his hands, and growls into them.
Words are supposed to be his weapons. It shouldn’t be this hard to wrangle them into coherency.
It’s quiet. It should be scary, that they’re not saying anything. And maybe it would be, if it was anyone but these two. But even if this silence isn’t comfortable, it’s not stressful either. Hitoshi knows that they’re just giving him time. They’re good like that. His heart swells.
He curls his knees closer to himself and drapes a hand over his stomach.
Izuku’s hand starts combing carefully through his hair. Shouto picks up the hand on his stomach and starts tracing circles into his palm. It’s grounding. His heart swells more.
Another breeze billows through the windows, a faint brush of air that almost reaches his lungs. He can just barely catch the promised whisper of rain, the lightest drips of water starting to hit the earth.
“I think,” Hitoshi starts, putting his other hand down but keeping his eyes squeezed tight, “that I was also envisioning us in the future, but. Different. Like, it was my house, just mine, but you guys were just...also there?”
“Like we were visiting?” Izuku asks.
“Kind of? But also not really? ‘Cause I’ve always assumed that I’d, uh, live by myself in the future? I never really imagined...this,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the three of them. “I figured I’d just have some shitty studio somewhere. It didn’t really occur to me that I could get to...share a space? With someone other than my mom? It just, uh, caught me off guard when it clicked, is all.” He opens his eyes but keeps his stare determinedly fixed on the ceiling, already feeling his face heat up. “That sounded stupid.”
“No it didn’t,” Izuku says, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. “I get it. I can’t say I was always able to assume that future either. I used to just...avoid thinking about it, I guess.”
“I’ve always wanted my own space,” Shouto says, quiet. “Home never really felt like home for me. But that was before you two. I...still want some place to call my own, but...I think that our space would still feel like mine, because I chose it, you know?”
Hitoshi hums, low in his throat.
“I — we? — didn’t mean to spring it on you,” Izuku says, hand tightening minutely around a clump of hair. “Like, it’s totally fine if this isn’t a comfortable topic yet! We’re still months from graduation, we can wait on this—”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Hitoshi says, finally locking eyes with Izuku, then Shouto. He gives a smile, something small. “Like I said, I was caught a little off guard, that’s all. I just need to take some time to think.”
“Yeah, okay,” Izuku says, and he looks impossibly soft and sharp all at once, like he sees straight through Hitoshi and loves him for it. Shouto gives a murmur of agreement.
The casual conversation picks up again from there, Izuku continuing from his earlier thought about Yaoyorozu and hero merch after gentle prompting. Hitoshi closes his eyes and listens to his boyfriends talk softly to each other, to the sound of bodies shifting and porcelain being picked back up.
And Hitoshi does think about it. He opens up that perfect cube in his mind, that tiny little one-person studio he’d assumed for so long, and lets the outer walls unfold like an origami box. He expands it, keeps unfurling the panes like ribbons into flooring and furniture and rooms, lets it all come alive. He imagines a master bedroom with a bed big enough for the three of them. He imagines working in his own small study room, leaning against the doorway of Shouto’s, sitting in the aesthetic nightmare of Izuku’s merch room. He decorates the entire space in his mind, top to bottom, with photographs and thrift store art and plant life.
He imagines walking in through the front door and shuffling off his shoes and calling out an I’m home! and being greeted with a freckled smile and a pair of mismatched eyes. He licks his lips and tastes the remnants of bright citrus juice, sticky and sweet.
Outside, the rain has started to build, the slow pat-pat-pattering rhythm struggling to build up to a crescendo. Hitoshi loves the smell of rain, the way the earthy musk rises from the ground. It’s calming in a way that other things just can’t compare to.
Izuku looks up, one cheek puffed up from the orange slice there. “We should probably close the windows,” he says. His lips twitch as he adds, “unless that’s how you water your windowsill plants?”
Hitoshi scoffs. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, smartass.” Nevertheless, he stretches and gently rolls himself off their laps and onto the floor, catching himself with an arm.
There are two windows in the living room; he closes one and walks over to the other. He reaches up to take hold of the bottom edge of the window rail, but doesn’t pull down just yet. Instead, he leans forward, sticking his head out the window by a fraction. The air is cool and damp on his face, the softest spritz of autumn wind. He stays there for a few seconds, breathing it in, before he closes and locks the window, idly brushing away the few drops of water that cling to his hands.
He turns back to the couch and takes a few steps, then stops.
He looks back at the window.
“Wait,” he says. “It’s raining.”
Shouto tilts his head. “Yes?”
“Shit,” he says. “It’s raining.” Then he starts at a run, beelining down the hallway towards the backyard door, not sparing a glance at either of his confused boyfriends. “My fucking laundry!”
The rain has deepened by the time he gets outside, caught halfway between a drizzle and a real downpour as it soaks into the stone ground. It feels good on his skin, and Hitoshi allows himself a single split second to enjoy it before he’s running towards the clothes.
Fuck, why didn’t he check the weather forecast first.
He unhooks hanger after hanger of shirts and pants and dresses from the rusted steel grating that he and his mom use as a makeshift clothing line. Judging by the clink ing behind him, it sounds like the other two have followed him out and are doing the same. He grabs a bundle of bedding stretched between two, three hangers, and curses that he decided to wash all the bedsheets too.
Arms full, he sprints back into the house. “Just drop the laundry on the table on the right when you come in!” he yells over his shoulder. “I’ll deal with it.”
With an easy, practiced kick, he opens the door to the sunroom. Sunroom is a bit of a generous name for the space; it’s narrow and cramped and holds nothing but one extra-long clothing rack, various hooks, some plants, and his mom’s art supplies. He re-hangs all the clothes on the rack as fast as he can. Normally, he’d fold them, but they’re slightly damp now — it’d be good to let them hang for a while. If he’d known it was going to rain, he would have put them here to dry to start.
When he walks back down the hallway he can see the rest of the laundry on the table as requested. He makes quick work of it, hanging those up too and shifting them so that there’s some space between each item of clothing. He exhales in relief as he puts up the last one; they aren’t soaked, at least. If they dry in time, then maybe his mom won’t even have to know he left them out in the rain.
He steps back out and closes the door of the sunroom behind him. “That should be it,” he says with a sigh, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for the help.”
No response.
He pads back to the living room and peers in. They’re not there either. Then he hears a trickle of laughter, and he lets a private smile settle itself on his face at the deep familiarity of it. He follows its trail back to the backyard, keeping one hand hovering above his eyes to block the rain as he steps out.
They’re dancing.
The rain falls steadily now, but Shouto has an arm around Izuku’s waist and they’re doing a poor imitation of a waltz, all left feet and absolutely no rhythm. But Izuku’s head is thrown back in laughter and crow’s feet pull at the edges of Shouto’s closed eyes and Hitoshi thinks that he could never love anyone else the way he loves them.
He leans against the wall for a moment, just watching, soaking it in. But it’s not long before they notice him and stop their lopsided movements, heads both turned to face him like there’s no other choice. Izuku untangles his hand from Shouto’s and waves enthusiastically, while Shouto holds his newly-released hand out in invitation.
And it’s easy, just then, to imagine that this is what it could be like all the time. To come home, to his home, their home, and be greeted with these same smiles and same outstretched hands.
“Well?” Izuku calls. “Get your butt over here and dance with us already!”
“It’s not getting any drier,” Shouto says, raising a brow.
Hitoshi huffs. It takes a few beats before his body remembers how to move, but his footsteps are light as he walks over, something humming underneath his skin. He puts his hand in Shouto’s and brushes a wet curl of hair back from Izuku’s forehead. “You guys can’t even do a two person waltz and you think you can do three?”
“Hey!” Izuku pouts. “We’re not that bad!”
“Well, we’re not good,” Shouto says easily, intertwining their fingers together “But still, shall we?”
Hitoshi's smile grows sharp. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
This is the worst dancing Hitoshi has ever done in his life.
Okay, fair, not that he’s exactly done that much, just a few lessons via Youtube tutorials with his mom in their living room when he was ten because she’d thought it’d be fun (and it was). So, he’s far from an expert. But still.
Every few seconds someone comes close to stepping on his toes, and every other second between that involves his shoulder knocking against someone’s arm or hand or head. The cheery bubblegum pop coming from Izuku’s phone is decidedly not fit for a waltz or whatever the fuck it is they’re doing and he’s getting dizzy with the amount of times they’ve tried to spin and dip him and he’s not sure whether he’s supposed to be leading or if they’re taking turns or if it’s just a free-for-all, but Hitoshi is nothing if not completely and utterly heads over heels for this moment anyway.
The rain beats a steady rhythm against the skin of his arms where he’s rolled up his sleeves, pinprick-cool. He tips his head towards the sky to catch droplets on his tongue; they’re cold and sharp and biting but the air is warm and curls around the three of them like a cocoon, and he knows that if he looks to his side Shouto’s left eye will be glowing, just the tiniest bit, electric blue sparks shooting beneath his fringe.
Their private stage is small, just several lengths of stone with ivy climbing the fences that separate Hitoshi’s yard from his neighbors and soil peeking beneath the cracks. But Hitoshi still feels on top of the world, the humming under his skin blending with the laughter that comes second nature as they twist and turn under the dusky grey-purple skies and crooning wind.
“You guys suck,” he says eventually, unable to keep the fondness from his voice and too tired to care. “I have no idea what the fuck dance formation this is supposed to be now.”
“An Izuku sandwich,” Shouto says, matter-of-factly.
“I think we’re doing pretty good,” Izuku declares from his spot in the middle, back pressed against Shouto’s chest and hands resting loosely on Hitoshi’s shoulders. “I haven’t stepped on anyone’s toes in a minute.”
“Yeah, cause we’re barely moving,” Hitoshi says, smirking when Izuku pretend-scowls. “We’re just swaying in circles at this point.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Of course not,” Hitoshi says. He shakes his head and releases a spray of droplets. “God, I hope you guys don’t subject anyone else to your dancing.”
“Wow, are you embarrassed of us?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Oh, undoubtedly.”
“How mean,” Shouto comments. He pulls the hand that’s interlocked with Hitoshi’s up towards Hitoshi’s face, then extends a single finger to poke his cheek. His left hand, ever warm, remains on Hitoshi’s hip.
Hitoshi pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek where he’s being poked, and Shouto retracts his finger with a scrunched-up nose. It’s cute. “Yeah, sorry, but if I ever throw a party where dancing is involved, I’m not inviting you two.”
It’s Izuku’s turn to raise a brow. “You’re gonna throw a party?”
“Okay, well, I wasn’t gonna, but just because of the disbelief in your voice maybe I will.” Hitoshi plops his head on top of Izuku’s. His hair, damp and clumped, is still stubbornly curly. It tickles the bottom of his chin.
“Are you gonna do it in the dorms?” Shouto asks. “Aizawa-sensei will catch you, even if you are his favorite.”
“I am not his favorite—”
“Please, we all saw him try to not look proud of you when you aced the training exercise last week—”
“That’s not — what — anyway,” Hitoshi says, glaring at Shouto’s simultaneously unimpressed and amused expression. “I’ll do it, just for that insufferable look on your face.”
“Okay, sure. What’s the occasion?”
“Hmm?” Hitoshi blinks. He brings up his right hand to slick back his hair from where it’s fallen into his eyes, water running in rivulets down his face, before returning it to rest on Shouto’s side, under the cardigan. He drums his fingers against Shouto's hip. The energy in his body seems restless. “Dunno. Maybe I’ll just spring it one day with no announcement. Just drop a text into the class group chat. Or…” He worries his bottom lip, and blows out softly at a strand of green hair in his vision as he thinks.
The thought shoots through him suddenly, crystal clear, that entire humming sensation he's felt since he stepped outside bundling into a single idea, a single feeling. It’s both blooming and gripping in its intensity, and he rolls it on his tongue, over and over, testing it like he would when mimicking someone else’s voice for hero work.
He lifts his head from Izuku’s and pulls back, just a little. Enough so that he can see both their faces.
“It’ll be a housewarming party,” he says, slowly. “For our house.”
They’ve stopped moving. Izuku starts blinking rapidly, mouth forming into a perfectly shaped o. Shouto is more subtle, but Hitoshi’s well-versed enough to catch the shine in his eyes.
“Yeah?” Izuku says, smile already fighting to take over his face. “You sure?”
“You don’t have to,” Shouto says quietly, voice serious. “It hasn’t been that long. You don’t have to decide now.”
“I know,” Hitoshi says, and it’s true. The words flow like water, easy. This is why he loves them. “We’ll still have to talk about it more. But I think I’d like to.”
At that, Izuku gives a wordless, excited whoop, bouncing up and down in the middle, and both Hitoshi and Shouto have to step back to avoid getting a mouthful of hair. But neither lets go; Shouto’s arm tightens around them and he squeezes Hitoshi’s hand.
“So you would dis-invite us from our own housewarming party?” Shouto says, smile curling at the edges.
“I would,” Hitoshi says solemnly. “But I might be convinced to change my mind.”
“Yeah? How so?”
Hitoshi hums. Then he winks. “I think a kiss might do the trick.”
"I...don't know what I expected," Shouto says, shaking his head.
Izuku snickers. “His favorite form of currency.”
“Pay up,” Hitoshi says, as Izuku rises on his toes and leans in.
Izuku’s lips are slicked with rain and still shaped into a smile. Hitoshi traces the curve with his tongue and gets a breathy laugh in response, a sound that shoots electricity straight down his spine. Fingers curl into his hair and he follows their gentle tug closer to their source, chasing the bubbles of laughter that threaten to escape out of Izuku’s mouth and claiming them for his own. He could get drunk on this, he thinks.
He only gets a second to breathe when they break apart before Shouto has a finger under his chin and says, “My turn.”
Izuku laughs and ducks down and to the side, nestling against Hitoshi’s shoulder. Shouto closes the distance in one languid motion and Hitoshi’s eyes shutter involuntarily closed again the moment their lips touch. Shouto still takes like oranges, tangy and sweet, and Hitoshi presses harder, searching deeper for another taste. The rain is still chilly against his skin but he feels only warm, warm, warm as Shouto tightens his grip on his waist, and Hitoshi can’t help but smirk when Shouto finally pulls away with a heated bite at his lower lip.
“Are we invited now?” Izuku says, lips still red and shaped into a grin. Shouto kisses him on the temple.
“Maybe,” Hitoshi says, just a little breathless. “Might need a few more to make sure, though.”
“The nerve,” Shouto says.
“Truly,” Izuku agrees.
Hitoshi pouts. “So you’re not gonna do it?”
“Of course we will,” Izuku says, affronted. His eyes are sparkling. “Can’t miss my own housewarming party, after all.”
Hitoshi laughs, low and loud, drops his arms and takes a step back. He feels lighter than air. “Okay. Okay, yeah, of course.” He looks back up at the two of them, brushes his wet bangs back out of his face. The rain is lightening back into a drizzle, the purple of the sky winning out over the grey. “Let’s go back inside though, yeah? I think we could use a change of clothes.”
Shouto and Izuku exchange a look.
“First one inside gets the purple sweater,” Shouto says.
“Oh, you’re on,” Izuku says. “It’s mine.”
“Hey!” Hitoshi shouts, indignant, as they race past him. “That’s my swea—” He cuts himself off.
His boyfriends are fighting each other at the door, dripping wet, expressions fierce, both trying to step through the entryway while blocking the other. Hitoshi can't make out what they're saying, if they're even saying words at all, or just wordless grunts mixed with rough laughter. He can barely even tell whose limb is whose — the whole thing is a mess and they look a mess; their hair plastered to their heads, their clothes darkened with storm.
They look like idiots.
My idiots, he thinks.
I fucking love them, he thinks.
He wants to share a house with them. He wants to share a future. He wants to share lazy mornings and inside jokes and coffee-stained placemats.
He wants to share his entire stupid, stupid heart and every stupid, stupid piece of himself that he has to offer and ask for theirs in return. He knows that they would give it.
He straightens up and cups his hands around his mouth. “First one to grab it off the hanger gets to keep it for a month!” he shouts.
Izuku and Shouto pause, glancing back at him. They must hear something in his voice, or see something on his face, because for a brief moment he swears they have the same expression: something soft, unguarded, understood. Then it's gone and they look at each other and nod and the doorway becomes a battleground once more, their voices rising into the clearing sky.
Hitoshi shakes his head, clicks his tongue. And then he’s running to join them, his heart steady in his chest.
They’re infectious and magnetic and he knows he is so, so irrevocably weak to the both of them. And maybe he really is a romantic, because it’s cheesy, god it’s so fucking cheesy, but it’s true and it’s the only thing on his mind right now:
That this feeling, this love—
He can’t call it anything but theirs.