Work Text:
"-And then i took the kitten to a cat café, you know? Just to be safe! Then i-"
Oboro rambled on to his best friends about yesterday, when he rescued a kitten, no bigger than the palm of his hand.
The blond teenager was listening with keen attention, eager to know more, and asked random questions to his rambling friend from time to time.
Shouta, on the other hand, wasn't listening, because all he could really focus on was Oboro.
Oboro- who was, funnily enough, like the clouds on the sky. He was a free spirit, a care-free teenager who always smiled brightly. Shouta always admired that from him, how he could smile and keep calm even in stressful situations.
Shouta loved clouds. He loved to look at them and rate them by how fluffy they looked and by how they were shaped (he granted himself bonus points if the cloud was shaped like a cat).
But above all of that, he loved them not for their fluffy aspect or their shape, but because of the feelings they brought to him.
When Shouta looked at the sky and to the cloud on it, he felt calm. A calm that was not blank nor thoughtful, but serene. Everything was right in the world when he looked at them. There were no villains, no possible wars, no anything.
(When Shouta was stressed, when the words' of his classmates saying his quirk was one of a villain, he found comfort on the sky and the clouds. Always there for him, always awaitening for his black eyes to look for them)
A feeling that was not frequent on the black haired boy's chest. But he yearned for the feeling every day, for that sensation of calmness that flowed trough his veins and relaxed his muscles every time he looked up.
That wonderfull feeling only the clouds and the sky could grant him, only when he looked up. Only when he searched for them.
That is, until Oboro came along.
Now those feelings of tranquility weren't brought to him by those shapes in the sky. Now they bloomed in his chest whenever he looked at the blue-haired boy.
And it was so overwhelming, even more than before. It flooded trough his veins like waves did where the sand touched the ocean, it clouded his senses with a thick fog of adoration and made him feel like he was traveling trough the sky. The oxygen felt richer in his lungs and the colours surrounding him were vibrant and lively and so beatiful.
And it was ironic, how Oboro was the personification of everything Shouta loved and adored. Of everything he yearned and waited for.
On normal days, Shouta rated Oboro's hair a 10 out of 10. On rainy ones, it was a 100 out of 10. And on the days Oboro couldn't tame his hair, because the brush broke when trying to comb trough it, or because he woke up late again, it was rated a 200 out of 10.
Oh, how many times has Shouta wanted to comb trough Oboro's hair with his fingers, to finally comfirm if it was as soft as it looked.
To put the strands of soft blue hair behind his ears, so that he could see those beatifull eyes, that shone brighter than the shiniest piece of jewelry, to appreciate them. To love them. To adore them.
Shouta doesn't love Oboro because of his connection with the clouds, of course not. He loved him because he was him. Because he was Oboro. Because he was bright and vibrant and alive. Because Oboro was happiness and warm colours and fuzzy feelings. Oboro was the sun on a cloudy day.
When he was in Oboro's presence, it was like nothing was out of place.
Alongside of Oboro, that was Shouta's place in the World.
"-Shouta? You okay?" A warm arm was hugging his shoulders closely snapped him out of his thoughts.
Shouta never understood completely what was behind those magnificents shaphires, there was always something new. Something else to look for. A worried, soft and gentle gaze looked at Shouta for comfirmation to his question.
Shouta thought, for just a moment, that all it took for him to kiss those rosy lips was just lean forward, just a few inches.
But he didn't. Instead, Shouta smiled, those kind of smile that gives away your tiredness.
"Im as good as i can be, Shirakumo"
"Good, good! I thought we lost you there for a few minutes, buddy. Anyways, as i was saying-" And he continued to ramble on and on, and Shouta smiled and nodded silently.
Nobody noticed the bittersweet smile that graced the features of a blond teenager, who watched his friends walk ahead of him. Those tired black eyes will never look at him like that, with such a tenderness in them, full of love and adoration and devotion. Full of all of those emotions that were not his.
But Hizashi could wait. He would wait for the moment when Shouta looked at him the same way he looked at Oboro.
That was all he could do for now.
Just wait.
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
It's been 14 years since Shouta Aizawa died.
None of his family members were called to retrieve his body from the hospital, nor was there a funeral and a body to mourn for.
The Shouta Aizawa of now was just a pathetic and lame shadow of what he used to be before.
(A despicable, empty shell of a body)
His muscles got bigger, his stamina got higher, his hair grew longer, and his eyebags got darker. His dark eyes lost that light that used to be on them, for little that it was.
Shouta rarely smiles. His eyes were cold and calculative, and every move he made was well-thought and rationalized.
Ever since Oboro's death, he turned into a whole different person. Maybe others couldn't tell these two different people apart, but Hizashi could.
Hizashi could point out every difference. Years of watching him from a close distance, tattoing every breath and all every movement in his mind with black ink.
Every year that passed by was painfully slow. Oboro was the one that glued them together, and with him gone, there was nothing to stop them from drifting apart.
And drift apart they did.
And one cold, depressing night, Hizashi Yamada got tired of waiting.
The streets were silent and unerving at three am, and his fluorescent pink car looked so out of place passing by them that it almost made Hizashi laugh. But he didn't. The bitter taste of guilt and grief bubbling inside of him were enough to silence the always-loud blonde.
Hizashi pulled over when the apartment building could be seen.
He felt so tiny in comparasion to the towering building in front of him, like an ant besides a human.
God, he was such a terrible person. A disgusting, pathetic, revolting being.
The little bit of self-love he had managed to gather these past few years were being destroyed right before his eyes by the toxic thoughts against his own self. And as he took the elevator and finally stood in-front of the door of his best friend (-and long time crush, mind you), he felt like dying.
His arm felt heavy as he raised it to knock, just three times was enough. He flinched slightly when the noise of his knuckles against the wood door echoed trough the long hall of doors.
A feeling that made him shiver ran up his spine. Suddendly, he was hyper aware of everything around him. The silent yet unerving corridor, the cold sweat in the bridge of his nose that made his glasses slide down, and the erratic breaths his body was taking.
Everything stopped when the door-knobe started moving, and not even a second later the door was being opened.
The exhausted expression in his best friend's eyes was heart-breaking to Hizashi. Black eyes looked at vibrant green ones with confussion well-hidden by irritation, but Hizashi knew better.
Hizashi looked at Aizawa, a sea of emotions swarming trough his green eyes.
"We need to talk"
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
Hizashi never liked the silence.
Back in his teenage years, he liked to put on some music, for everything. When he was doing homework, he played classical music. When he was training, he listened to loud, heavy metal to fill the void his mind created.
There was not a single minute where Hizashi Yamada wasn't listening to music, or have ever been seen without his headphones around his neck. Hell, even while sleeping he was listening to soft songs about loving feelings.
And now, sitting on the rotting couch of Aizawa's living room, there was nothing else Hizashi wanted more in the world than to fill the silence with a soft melody played by a piano. Maybe the song will have violings in the background. Hizashi would like that.
A shaky breath escaped him "We don't-...i don't want an answer right now, Shota, i- just...", Hizashi finally spoke, desesperate to fill the unerving silence.
Aizawa, ever the quiet person, looked at him with hate in his eyes. A burning, raw hatred.
He stood from the couch, and Hizashi flinched at the fast movement.
"Are you even listening to what you're saying, Yamada? Because it sure as hell sounds like you're not!" He all but screamed at the blonde man in front of him.
Hizashi's hands shook, and for a moment, he thought there was an earthquake going on. A sinking feeling in his stomach made him realize he was the one causing the temblor. Because he was shaking, badly.
"I... i know it sounds insane, but-"
"Insane? Insane?! It sounds beyond stupid!" Hizadhi shook pathetically at the loud tone his best friend was speaking on, and he tried (and failed) to sink himself deeper into the couch.
Aizawa paced, and the loud stomps his feet made rang trough the whole apartment loudly. This was not the way Hizashi wanted to fill the silence.
"You're asking me out on a- on a-" He pulled at his black hair, with desesperation "on a date!" He spat the words, like they disgusted him. Like the mere idea of seeing Hizashi romantically was stupid and gross and wrong.
Hizashi took a deep breath "Shota, don't you think its time we... move on? I just-"
"Move on? Move on?! How could i move on?! How could you ask me that-!"
"It's been fourteen years since he died, Shota! Don't you think it was enough time?!" Hizashi snapped, standing from the couch to face Aizawa. His vision was blurred from the tears, now falling down from his eyes, down to the floor.
Aizawa paused. "The wound's too fresh, Yamada... It still hurts, so much..." A hand squeezing his heart was what this feeling felt like. Seeing his best friend (strong, stoic, cold and quiet) break down in front of him was heart breaking to Hizashi. But a small, small part of his mind couldn't help but be relieved, for finally seeing Aizawa break down, finally watching all of those bottled up emotions bubble to the surface.
Hizashi felt ashamed.
The blonde took small steps towards the sobbing man in the room. Cautiously, he raised his arms and embraced the shaking shoulders of Aizawa.
Aizawa's strong arms hugged him back, with the force only someone who has been training for years could.
Despite the warm their bodies produced, Hizashi felt cold. It ran trough his veins like winter, freezing them and making the tip of his fingers go cold. It pierced trough his bones like a knife, making him ache all over his body.
A single tear ran down his cold cheek against Aizawa's black hair. It tickled him.
This hug was something Hizashi has always yearned for.
But not like this, a shaky voice whispered from the back of his mind.
No, not like this. Not in this situation. Not with these emotions between them.
Not with Oboro gone.
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
Five years passed by with the speed of light.
They got married (a small gathering, with just Hizashi's mothers as witnesses). They bought a house (a big, spacious brick house full of rooms that will never be filled) They had sex and they kissed (none of these actions ever felt magical to neither of them, it never felt right)
Still, it was never enough.
But life waited for no one, and so, they moved on.
(as best as they could)
Aizawa became a teacher at the prestigious U.A.He was feared by students and respected by co-workers. Hizashi finally achived his dream of becoming the host of his own radio-show, and climbed trough thw rankings at an incredible speed with the help of his natural charisma.
Days were tiring at his agency. Staying in his enthusiastic and loud character for so long was exhausting for Hizashi, but it was rewarding. And he loved what he did for a living regardless.
Hizashi took out his boots and leather jacket, before dropping his keys in the ceramic plate they kept besides the door to leave small things like that in there.
The blonde took a deep breath, and the smell of freshly made coffe. He was finally home, and he couldn't wait to kiss his dear husband hello.
(he ignored the fact that when they kissed, it was like small knifes stabbing his lungs and throat until he couldn't breath nor speak)
Making his way towards the kitchen, he took out his favorite mug and poured himself some coffe, before adding almond milk. He stirred woth the metal spoon, and took a sip.
'Now, where was Shouta?', he asked himself.
Another smell Hizashi recognized too well was present. He followed it towards the living room, where he saw his husband sitting on the floor, hair up in a messy bun and his reading glasses on. The sunlight entered trough the open window, and the light breeze moved the small strands of black hair, and it looked like it danced.
He was beatiful.
Hizashi smiled when their eyes met each other, and stepped closer.
Looking from Aizawa's shoulder to what he was doing, Hizashi could see his husband was grading papers. The source of the smell from before was coming from Aizawa's red marker.
Hizashi smiled, and tilted his head towards his husband, kissing his cheek affectionaly. He ignored the small pang of guilt that pierced trough his heart.
Shota smiles. It was bittersweet, and full of melancholy. It was never enough.
And so they continued with their respective chores of the day. Grading, cleaning, folding laundry. All in a silence that was quiet yet loud, sad and angry.
Full of grief and bottled feelings.
Hizashi Yamada never liked the silence. But in that house where playing pretend was something familiar, where most words and actions were not meant for each other, Hizadhi supposed silence was better than anything.
Hizashi, for once in his life, prefered the silence over hollow words without meaning.