Archive of Our Own

Muses were, more often than not, untouchable. 

Hitoshi knew this. It was a tenant for any good artist: keep your muse as only your muse. To do anything more, to want for anything more, was foolish. If an artist found their muse, they were lucky; sometimes it took years for an artist’s muse to appear before them, and to risk it all because they wanted something more was pointless. It would only lead to ruin and heartbreak. 

When Hitoshi had first entered Musutafu University of Arts, he and his classmates had been pulled aside by some of their Senpai. What Hitoshi first thought was a kind welcome from his senpai had turned into a well-meaning but stark warning. “Don’t become involved with your muse,” they had warned, faces drawn back with expressions Hitoshi, at that time, hadn’t understood. For Hitoshi, who had gone his entire life without feeling attachment to people, this warning from his Senpais, while generous, was kind of pointless. He wasn’t the kind of person to form attachments easily. They’d never done him any good as he was thrust from foster home to foster home. 

Hitoshi was content to learn more about his passion under the watchful eyes of Japan’s Master Artists. To Hitoshi, who had only had dreams to cushion the harsher blows of his reality, coming to MUA was almost unbelievable. Getting to learn the advanced color theories he’d only been able to scratch at before, asking questions about what paints were good for different styles and getting actual answers instead of sneers, and being able to show off his work and not be taunted for it, but rather praised …it was all a dream for Hitoshi. Truthfully, he couldn’t imagine his life getting better than this. Hitoshi wasn’t greedy; greed had never done anything for him in his life, and Hitoshi was loath to lose what he had now. The only thing greed had gotten Hitoshi were beatings and harsh, biting words. So no, Hitoshi wasn’t greedy. 

Hitoshi had never been greedy. 

He’d never been greedy until the day he had met Midoriya Izuku. 

0o0-0o0-0o0

It was Hitoshi’s second year at University. 

They’d just returned from the summer break, and Hitoshi was itching to get back to the studio. Most of his projects were kept at the studio because Hitoshi’s shitty apartment was in one of the sketchier neighborhoods of Musutafu, and Hitoshi wasn’t willing to keep very expensive art materials available for some druggie to break in and steal. His landlord, Usagiyama-san, didn’t stand for that kind of behavior in her building, and as much as he admired the strong-willed (and just plain stacked ) woman, years of having his most prized possessions taken from him had left Hitoshi more than a little paranoid. 

And so, after explaining the situation to his Department Head, Kayama-sensei had allowed him to keep his works in one of the older, less often used studios on campus. She had given him the key and a strict, though kind warning to keep this to himself; while she understood his situation and sympathized with him, it wouldn’t do for others to believe that she was favoring one student above others. Hitoshi had readily agreed, of course. Hitoshi was reaping all the benefits here, especially since his studio could double as a place to sleep. It was a bad habit, but when Hitoshi became too absorbed in a project, he often lost track of time. Inevitably, that had led to nights where Hitoshi had to stay at his studio. He had only attempted going back to his apartment in the late hours of the night once. After nearly being mugged right outside his apartment building, Hitoshi had never made the attempt to return to his place late at night again. 

Due to that, his borrowed studio had become something like a home away from home. Hitoshi couldn’t afford to stay there every night though; while he’d gotten in on a scholarship, he still needed to pay for his art supplies and apartment, so he worked part-time at a coffee shop a few blocks away from his building. Still, Hitoshi had become attached to the little studio, and it was the place he felt the safest. To Hitoshi, the familiar smell of acrylics, of charcoal and old paper, scents he associated with solace and sanctuary, were truly unlike anything else in Hitoshi’s world. 

So really, Hitoshi could be forgiven for being in a rush to return to his studio. Of course, as he collided with a small, compact body and felt the air leave his lungs, he thought that, maybe, his studio could have waited a little bit longer. 

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?”

Lying on his back, Hitoshi took a moment to breathe, blinking away his blurry vision. After a few moments, he realized that the blob in front of his face was, in fact, a hand. Looking up, Hitoshi felt his breath being taken away once more, but for a completely different reason. 

The hand was attached to the body of one of the most beautiful people Hitoshi had ever seen. Vibrant emerald locks adorned a soft, chiseled face that was painted with a constellation of star-marked freckles. Looking at Hitoshi were a pair of furrowed eyes, eyes so green that Hitoshi was sure that they outshone the aurora borealis. Never had Hitoshi been so stunned by the presence of someone before than he was by the person he had just run into. 

“Oh god, I really messed up this time, didn’t I?” The stranger said, and Hitoshi blinked again before realizing that the hand was still in front of his face. 

“Ah, sorry,” Hitoshi said, grabbing the surprisingly calloused hand. Hitoshi was easily pulled up, and he was surprised to see that he was a little taller than the guy he had run into. 

“I’m so sorry!” The guy apologized again, pinched eyebrows wrinkling the rest of his face. “I really should have been watching where I was going, but I was in a hurry and—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hitoshi replied, holding up a hand to make the greenette pause. “I was in a hurry too, so I’m at fault too. Sorry about that.”

“Ah, well, still, I should’ve been more aware of my surroundings,” The greenette muttered, and Hitoshi sighed.

“Look—ah, what’s your name?” Hitoshi asked, and the greenette blinked in surprise. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, have I? My name is Midoriya Izuku, it’s nice to meet you!” The greenette, Midoriya, bowed, and Hitoshi huffed out a laugh. 

“Shinsou Hitoshi,” Hitoshi introduced himself. “But look, Midoriya, it’s not just your fault. Both of us were in a hurry to go somewhere, so it’s not that big of a deal.” 

Midoriya bit his lip, and Hitoshi nearly let out a sharp breath. What right did some stranger have to look so good biting their lip?

“If you’re sure…” Midoriya mumbled, and Hitoshi sighed. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Hitoshi replied, and his efforts were rewarded as Midoriya gave him a small, stunning smile that made Hitoshi’s heart skip a beat. 

“Okay then, Shinsou-kun,” Midoriya said. He looked down at his watch, and his eyes widened. 

“Oh no, I’m going to be late, Kacchan’s going to kill me!” Midoriya wailed. He looked back to Hitoshi, his green eyes wide and pleading. 

“I’m so sorry to just up and run like this, Shinsou-kun!” Midoriya said, bowing again. When his glance met Hitoshi’s once more, Midoriya had a tentative smile on his face. 

“I’ll see you around?” Midoriya said, and Hitoshi nodded, desperately trying to keep the blush he felt coating the tips of his ears from being so easily seen. Fortunately for Hitoshi, Midoriya was in too much of a hurry to take much notice of Hitoshi’s rapidly growing embarrassment. 

“Sure,” Hitoshi replied, thanking whatever gods were out there that his voice didn’t crack from how dry his mouth had become. 

“That’s awesome! See you around, Shinsou-kun!” Midoriya said with a beaming grin as he took off at a run, his hands gripping his yellow backpack as he made his way to the easternmost path on the right where the Writing Department students often had classes. 

For a moment, Hitoshi stood there, staring off after the anxious green-haired student, his palm tingling from the warmth of Midoriya’s hand. Was this normal, to be completely and utterly overwhelmed by the presence of a stranger. Hitoshi was no stranger to being in the presence of beautiful people; of his classmates, Hitoshi was one of the plainer people there, and Hitoshi knew he wasn’t particularly bad-looking. And yet, Midoriya…Midoriya had a presence about him, a presence that exuded a warm, inviting light that was sure to make anyone smile.  

Hitoshi shook his head, trying to dispel thoughts. What good would that do him, to think about someone he probably wouldn’t be seeing again for a while? After all, MUA was a large university with thousands of students. It was unlikely that Hitoshi would be seeing Midoriya again any time soon. 

Ignoring the pang in his chest, Hitoshi made his way back to his studio, traveling the western path of the university. The shimmering rays of the early afternoon sun over his head as he walked the well-traveled path to his studio gave Hitoshi a comforting sense of familiarity, and he smiled as the row of studios appeared. It was good to be home. 

Waving at the familiar faces of his Senpais and year-mates, Hitoshi made his way to his assigned studio. Sliding the key into the lock, the door opened easily, and with it came the scent of acrylic paints, old paper, and charcoal nubs. Hitoshi smiled, his shoulders loosening from the subconscious tension they’d held all summer. While he did like his apartment, it just didn’t compare to the solace his studio brought him. 

The door made a soft click as it closed behind him, but it was such a familiar sound that Hitoshi had paid little mind to it as he slipped his shoes off. His ratty socks thumped quietly against the tiled floor as he made his way to the windows at the back of the room. As loathe as he was to get rid of the comforting scents held in the studio, his studio also smelled stale, and Hitoshi knew it wouldn’t be good to inhale any of the toxins his supplies could produce. So, with a mildly forlorn sigh, Hitoshi cracked the windows open. He closed his eyes as the breeze blew around him, smelling of untamed grassy fields in the heart of summer. Unbidden, vibrant, green curls flashed through his mind, and Hitoshi was struck with the need to draw. 

A quick glance around his studio, and Hitoshi saw his sets of charcoal and grabbed them and one of his sketch pads. Plopping down by the window, Hitoshi let his hands take control, the gentle summer breeze nudging him every so often as his mind wandered. 

Hours later, Hitoshi was surrounded by papers, his fingers drawing and shading until they had begun to grow numb. When he finally put down his set of charcoals, he could only stare at the papers that surrounded him. On each and every sheet was the smiling visage of Midoriya, set in hues of greens and golds. 

Staring down at the most recent one, Hitoshi found himself looking down at a beaming face, framed by a constellation of freckles and hair the color of emeralds. Midoriya stared back at him, and even in a two-dimensional form, the greenette fascinated Hitoshi. The way Midoriya had gone from anxious to bubbling within the course of a few minutes was intriguing. It made Hitoshi wonder just how many expressions he could capture on paper; he was sure that Midoriya, as expressive as he was in those few minutes, could provide Hitoshi a plethora of faces to draw. He couldn’t wait.

Hitoshi paused at that thought.

Hitoshi wasn’t stupid. He remembered how his Senpais had pulled them to the side, at the beginning of Hitoshi’s first year. He remembered how they had taught them to know what ( or who ) a Muse was, how to spot the signs, how to tell the difference between a passing fancy and the breath of inspiration Muses brought. The way Midoriya had captured Hitoshi’s attention, had invaded the crevices of Hitoshi’s mind with that small, tentative grin, the way Midoriya had inspired hours of sketching. Hitoshi was no fool.

Midoriya Izuku had become his Muse.

0o0-0o0-0o0

Time had passed since Hitoshi first met his muse. 

Surprisingly, Hitoshi had ended up running into Midoriya less than a week later. Hitoshi doesn’t know if Midoriya had actually searched for him on campus, or if it was the gods blessing him with good fortune. Whatever it was, Hitoshi was thanking his lucky stars. Never before had Hitoshi been so inspired to create. Hitoshi was naturally creative; he used art as an escape growing up, and his overactive imagination and desire to be anywhere but where he was allowed for him to create far-away lands, places Hitoshi had seen in passing, in books and on TVs he’d pass by as he ran away from bullies. Whatever Hitoshi saw that he liked, he took and made it his own, because anywhere was better than facing the reality of being an unwanted child. 

But having a muse changed things. To Hitoshi, his art had become more , as if there was a missing element to his works that he hadn’t known about before. There was…the only way Hitoshi could really put it was a spark, something that lit the fuse of an untapped source of creativity inside of him. At first, Hitoshi hadn’t paid much attention to just how different his paintings were. Midoriya had been a source of inspiration for his projects, and that in itself could be described as being a muse. But there was a difference between being inspired and having a muse. It wasn’t a difference that Hitoshi had noticed until Monoma-senpai had leaned over his shoulder one day in Advanced Practical Art and had actually praised him. 

“I didn’t know you were so good at portraits, Shinsou-san,” Monoma-senpai had said, and Hitoshi’s jaw dropped with the rest of his class. Monoma-senpai never complimented anyone. He was one of the Art Department’s prized students, someone who had been rumored to be the one to lead a modern-day renaissance for the Classical Arts. Hitoshi had seen Monoma-senpai’s work before, and he fully believed all of the rumors about his skill. If anything, they weren’t praising him enough. So, for Monoma-senpai to say that Hitoshi’s work was good…

“A-ah, thank you Senpai,” Hitoshi said, rubbing his neck as he ducked his head. He still wasn’t used to receiving praise for his art. 

“Tell me,” Monoma-senpai continued. “When did you meet them?”

“Meet who?” Hitoshi asked, frowning slightly. 

“Your muse,” Monoma-senpai replied, looking at Hitoshi with an unimpressed look, as if he didn’t expect Hitoshi to be this stupid. Hitoshi blinked. 

“My muse?” Hitoshi asked. His mind flashed to Midoriya’s beaming face, the way the sun bounced off of emerald curls, how matching green eyes presented an aurora borealis that had taken over the sky of Hitoshi’s imagination. 

“My muse…” Hitoshi murmured, thinking of the dozens of sketches back in his studio. He thought of how the thought of Midoriya and his smile made his fingers twitch with the need to draw, to paint, to create. Hitoshi looked back up at Monoma-senpai, who was staring down at Hitoshi with a knowing look, a slight smirk lining thin lips. 

“Keep them close, Shinsou-san,” Monoma-sensei advised, patting Hitoshi on the shoulder lightly. “Muses are often hard to come by. Don’t let them get away.”

“I will, Senpai,” Hitoshi said, and Monoma-senpai nodded once more before turning around. Hitoshi caught the withering glare he sent towards the rest of the room, who had stopped working to listen in on their conversation. 

“Do you all have nothing better to do than dither around, eavesdropping on your classmate’s conversation?” Monoma-senpai snapped, and Hitoshi sighed as his classmates jumped, scrambling to pretend they were working the whole time. Monoma-senpai had the eyes of a hawk, though, and he tore into the particularly reluctant listeners. 

Hitoshi turned back to his canvas and sighed, ignoring the light elbow-jab Hanta had sent his way. While getting lost in thought, Hitoshi had unknowingly sketched Midoriya again, normally preferring to let his hands wander before he solidified any ideas. Monoma-senpai, having seen this, had made such a comment because of it. Hitoshi had to admit, though, that his current project was actually turning out rather well. Once again, Midoriya was smiling, waving at an unknown figure as he turned around to leave somewhere. Hitoshi almost let himself drift again, imagining this rendition of Midoriya leaving for lands unknown, a notebook in hand to write about his adventures. 

Hitoshi shook his head. If he continued to drift amongst his thoughts, he would never get anything done. Sighing lightly, he picked up his paintbrush before dipping it into his paints. He frowned. He would need to pick up more green paints from the department’s store after classes today. For now, however, he focused on finishing as much of this painting as possible, losing himself in the repetitive comfort of shading and paint strokes and quiet murmurs of his classmates.

A few hours later, Hitoshi wandered out of the Communal Studio, his finished canvas drying in the studio. He would pick it up the next time he had class there. For now, his main goal was to go to the store and pick up a plethora of green paints, and some red ones too—Hitoshi had noticed Midoriya was wearing red shoes, and despite how off of a combination it was, it fit the greenette rather well, in Hitoshi’s mind. Of course, the thought of Midoriya made his heart do a strange th-thump, as it always did whenever the greenette came to mind. As Midoriya had been on his mind almost constantly since the day they had bumped into each other a few weeks ago, Hitoshi was beginning to wonder if something was wrong with his heart. 

‘You would feel better if you saw Midoriya again,’ A small part of his head spoke, and Hitoshi did his best to ignore it. While he did want to see the star-marked boy again, Hitoshi didn’t want to actually bother him. After all, what would someone as kind and so achingly bright want with someone like Hitoshi? After all, Hitoshi was just some orphaned artist kid who had been lucky enough to get into Japan’s top Arts University. He didn’t actually have anything to offer—

“Shinsou-kun!”

Hitoshi’s world came to a shuddering halt as the familiar voice of Midoriya washed over him. Turning to look over his shoulder, Hitoshi watched as Midoriya jogged towards him, a sun-stained smile painting his face. Smudges of black ink connected the dots of his star-marked face, and Hitoshi’s fingers ached with the need to paint this scene, to immortalize the embodied presence of light that Midoriya represented.  

‘Here’s your chance,’ That small voice whispered again, louder than it had been before. 

“Don’t let them get away,” Monoma-senpai’s voice washed over him. Hitoshi bit the inside of his cheek. There wasn’t anything wrong with basking in the sunlight, right?

“Shinsou-kun, I’m so glad to see you again! I realized I never said how we’d meet up again, and I was stressing about it for the past few weeks…”

Hitoshi didn’t bother to stop the small grin that crept onto his face. For now, Hitoshi would bask in Midoriya’s light, in his kindness and star-adorned gaze. 

And that was enough for Hitoshi.

0o0-0o0-0o0 

It had been a year since Hitoshi had met his muse. 

In that time, Hitoshi had created piece after piece, letting his muse lead his imagination. Izuku, as the greenette had shyly asked to be referred to four months into their friendship, was a constant source of inspiration and companionship for Hitoshi. Hitoshi was surprised that Izuku had stayed after seeing Hitoshi’s studio for the first time. Hitoshi hadn’t hid the fact that Izuku had become his muse, as muses were common knowledge, if not rare to stumble upon, in Musutafu University of Arts. Sure, the greenette had blushed prettily at that, but the smile he’d given Hitoshi at that admittance had been nothing short of stunning. Hitoshi had nearly blushed at the sight of that smile, and even more so at Izuku’s gentle acceptance of Hitoshi. Not for the first time, Hitoshi wondered just how he’d been so lucky to have someone like Izuku as his muse. He staunchly ignored the signs of any other feelings, not willing to let himself feel anything other than gratitude and happiness at having Izuku in his life. 

Hitoshi thought he was doing a particularly good job at that, especially since Izuku was a very… tactile person, always giving Hitoshi hugs, pulling Hitoshi’s shirt whenever he wanted his attention, and holding Hitoshi’s hands whenever Izuku was leading Hitoshi somewhere. It was the first time Hitoshi had ever been so close to someone, and it never failed to warm Hitoshi’s heart. 

But…Hitoshi couldn’t want for anything more. In the back of his head, he remembered the warnings of his Senpai, how they said that becoming involved with your muse would only lead to ruin. At that time, Hitoshi hadn’t really given that warning much thought, merely keeping the warning in the back of his head since his Senpais had gone out of their way to warn them. But now, as Hitoshi spent more and more time with Izuku, he was wondering if he should try. It was dangerous, of course, because being so intertwined with one’s muse could really hurt Hitoshi’s future as an artist. But Hitoshi couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop the way his heart stuttered every time Izuku threw his arms around Hitoshi’s neck to hug him. He couldn’t stop the smile that always stole control over his lips whenever Izuku turned to him, face bright, mouth moving a mile a minute. And Hitoshi couldn’t stop the feeling of completeness, of wholeness and solace, whenever Izuku was tucked into his side, the tip of his tongue poking out of chapped, pink lips as he wrote another glimmering idea in one of his many journals. 

Hitoshi could not help the fact that he had fallen for his muse. 

As of now, this was a very closely-guarded secret. Hitoshi, as much as he had appreciated the friends he’d made over the years here in the Art Department, did not trust them enough to keep the secret to themselves. For all that Yaomomo and Hanta were good friends, they had a tendency to get…over excited when there was a new “development” in Hitoshi’s life. And while that was normally fine, Hitoshi didn’t want his Senpais to learn about this. He would surely be told to give up on his feelings for Izuku so that he could “preserve his future as a prominent artist”. He’d heard them say it before, and for Hitoshi, who so rarely held anything of value to himself for fear of it being stolen, was very unwilling to let go of his love for Izuku. 

Of course, as much as Hitoshi cherished Izuku and the star-coated love he felt for him, Hitoshi was also scared. He was scared that he would lose Izuku; to lose one of the few people who knew Hitoshi almost as well as Hitoshi knew himself, who accepted Hitoshi—Hitoshi, who was scarred and dark and lodged in the shadows of his childhood—it would be shattering. Hitoshi wasn’t sure he would survive the loss. Hitoshi couldn’t even imagine how he would feel if he were to lose Izuku. 

And so, when Hitoshi had made plans with Izuku to confess, Hitoshi never imagined that he would find Izuku in the arms of someone else, smiling so bright and so happy. Hitoshi felt the smile slip away from his face, felt the unwanted sting of tears trying to escape his eyes, felt his heart deaden like the dying of a star. 

Turning on his heel, Hitoshi left, not stopping to heed Izuku’s increasingly worried calls. It was too much for him to deal with, to see Izuku happy with someone else, to accept that he, Hitoshi, wouldn’t be able to make Izuku happy in the way Hitoshi desperately wanted to.

Back in his studio, Hitoshi locked the door behind him; he was in no mood to talk to anyone, much less Izuku. He dropped his bag on the small table by the door, not bothering to slip his shoes off as he normally would. Instead, he went to his favorite spot in his studio, the window seat in the back where he could look out over campus. The rolling grounds of campus had often been inspirational to Hitoshi when he was coming up with new project ideas. But now, the rolling green landscape only reminded him of loss. 

Unwelcome, Izuku’s smiling visage invaded his mind, seared in his mind, his shining light burning a hole in Hitoshi’s heart. Hitoshi violently shook his head, trying desperately to get rid of Izuku’s face from his mind, to try and stop tormenting himself. And yet, Hitoshi couldn’t do it. He couldn’t force himself to deny himself the person he so dearly longed for. 

In his mind’s eye, he could see Izuku. Hitoshi could see the way the sun shone down on bouncing locks, the way Izuku’s eyes shone like the aurora borealis of Hitoshi’s dreams, the way he would smile and Hitoshi's worries would float away on the breeze of summer he always smelled like...

Hitoshi had fallen in love with the sun, and he would never be able to touch it. After all, people who lived in the shadows of others didn't deserve to see the light of day. 

0o0-0o0-0o0

Hitoshi spent the following week in a slump. 

Every time he saw the color green, his heart would burn as if a searing hot knife was twisting itself inside of him. Unfortunately, most of Hitoshi’s works contained element of green in them, most of them being inspired by Izuku and the shades of green he held. He could feel the concern of his friends and teachers, but he quietly brushed them off. Hitoshi’s world had been rocked, unpleasantly so, and it would take him time to find his feet again. Fortunately, his senseis seemed to pick up on this, and so they were more lax on him when it came to deadlines. Hitoshi had produced dozens of works at this point, so it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been working hard in his courses. Taking a break wouldn’t derail him too much. 

Two weeks into his slump, Hitoshi was sitting in the window seat that he so loved. Although Hitoshi wasn’t really working on anything these days, his studio was a place of solace. Spending his time there, even with the memories of he and Izuku there to haunt his waking moments, still made Hitoshi happy. Most days, his studio remained silent, reflecting his somber mood. Hitoshi was fine with this. There were too many painful reminders associated with sound, and for Hitoshi, he wasn’t quite ready to deal with those memories. 

A knock on the door resonated throughout the studio, and Hitoshi stilled. A moment later, another knock came, a bit stronger, louder, than before. Hitoshi sighed, but got up, dragging his socked-feet across the cluttered floor of his studio. Resting a hand on the knob of the studio door, Hitoshi opened the door, blinking in surprise.

On the other side of his door stood one of MUA’s most prestigious students, Amajiki Tamaki. Known for his renowned work as a photographer, his works had appeared all over news articles and journals, winning the photographer high accreditation. Hitoshi knew of him because Amajiki-senpai liked to spend time in the Art Labs, hiding away from the world and drawing in his sketchbook. It was a well-kept secret in the Art Department, that Amajii-senpai spent time with them. After all, no one really had the heart to chase away the very reclusive and introverted photographer. Hitoshi had seen the crowds hunting for him before and had immediately pitied the anxious man. 

But, for as much as Hitoshi respected Amajiki-senpai’s talents and overall struggles with human interaction, he wasn’t sure why Amajiki-senpai was visiting him , of all people. 

“Can I help you, Senpai?” Hitoshi asked, keeping his voice low. While he wasn’t particularly up for company at the moment, he wasn’t about to out the man on campus. 

“Shinsou-kun,” Amajiki-senpai greeted in return, bowing his head lightly, the large white hood of his sweatshirt covering most of his Senpai’s face. The photography student held up his hand, showing a rather full bag of snacks. 

“May I come in?” Amajiki-senpai asked, and Hitoshi bit his cheek as he thought about it. He appreciated that his Senpai wasn’t forcing himself into Hitoshi’s space, but was instead waiting for Hitoshi’s confirmation or refusal. Glancing at the bag of snacks, Hitoshi felt his stomach grumble quietly, calling attention to the fact that Hitoshi’s already peckish appetite had deteriorated even further in the past few weeks. 

Sighing, Hitoshi backed away from the door, opening it so that Amajiki-senpai could enter without trouble. Amajiki-senpai nodded his head in thanks, entering quietly. He slipped his shoes off by Hitoshi’s own scuffed converse before turning to Hitoshi. 

“Where would you like these?” Amajiki-senpai asked, and Hitoshi scratched his head, looking around his studio. He hadn’t cleaned his space up in a while, and now that he had a guest, he was beginning to regret it. 

“If you don’t mind, Senpai, we can sit by the window,” Hitoshi suggested, gesturing to the window seat that Hitoshi had been occupying until the photographer’s arrival. Amajiki-senpai nodded, and Hitoshi led the way to the cushioned seating. Hitoshi let Amajiki-senpai sit down first before tucking himself back into his normal corner.  

It was quiet for a moment in the studio. Hitoshi didn’t speak, preferring to let his Senpai open the conversation. It was the older student’s preferred method of conversation, Hitoshi knew; Amajiki-senpai was a person of few words, but when he spoke, people listened. And so, Hitoshi would wait, and when his Senpai spoke, he would listen. 

Hitoshi instead took the time to gaze back out of the window once more, head resting on the crystalline glass. It was another beautiful day on campus, and the gentle rays of the afternoon sun cast a warm glow over Hitoshi. Hitoshi sighed quietly, appreciating the gentle warmth as it painted his body, bringing Hitoshi a small comfort. Hitoshi was always cold, these days, having lost his sun to another, and thus the warmth that he had taken for granted. Hitoshi knew it was only fair, because he was someone who lived in the shadows, and there was no true warmth for those who lived amongst the darker hues of life.  

“Shinsou-kun,” Amajiki-senpai spoke up, and Hitoshi turned his gaze to face the photographer. Amajiki-senpai’s indigo eyes were solemn but warm, and Hitoshi was torn between being on guard and relaxing. 

“I was sent here because Izuku-kun has been very worried about you these past few weeks.” Amajiki-senpai said, and Hitoshi tensed up. Being on guard it was, then. 

“If you’re wondering, I know Izuku-kun through a close friend, Hado Nejire-san, who is also in the Writing Department with Izuku-kun.” Amajiki-senpai said, and Hitoshi nodded. He knew of MUA’s “Big Three”, the top students of the university, and Hitoshi knew that Amajiki-senpai was currently one of the three.   

“Through us, he met Togata Mirio, a popular rising actor in MUA’s Acting Department.” Amajiki-senpai said. 

“Mirio, if you will remember, is the blond you saw Izuku-kun with a few weeks ago.” Hitoshi’s eyes closed, realizing that Izuku had been in the arms of someone amazing, someone Hitoshi could never measure up to. 

“Mirio…” Amajiki-senpai trailed off. Much to Hitoshi’s surprise, his senpai blushed a little, but looked at Hitoshi with a smile full of fond affection.

“Mirio is my boyfriend, Shinsou-kun,” Amajiki-senpai said, and Hitoshi’s eyebrows raised in surprise. 

“...You’re in a relationship with Togata-senpai?” Hitoshi asked quietly. Amajiki-senpai nodded.

“Yes, the two of us have been together since high school,” Amajiki-senpai said, and Hitoshi leaned back, his head reeling. If Amajiki-senpai and Togata-senpai were together, did that mean that Izuku wasn’t taken? Had Hitoshi foolishly ruined his relationship with Izuku because of a misunderstanding? Had Hitoshi thrown away one of the few things in this life that actually made him happy?

“Shinsou-kun,” Amajiki-senpai reached out to place a cool hand on Hitoshi’s hand. Belatedly, Hitoshi realized that his nails had been digging so deeply into his arm that it had drawn blood. Hitoshi sucked in a sharp breath, ducking his head in embarrassment and shame. 

“Sorry Senpai,” Hitoshi muttered, tucking his arms into his side as Amajiki-senpai pulled back. 

“Shinsou-kun…” Amajiki-senpai started, and then paused. Hitoshi looked up, taking in the uncertain expression on the photographer’s face. 

“Shinsou-kun, excuse me for my rudeness, but do you have feelings for Izuku-kun?” Amajiki-senpai asked, and Hitoshi froze, his eyes going wide. 

“How did you…?” Hitoshi asked before he cut himself off, biting his tongue. 

“At one point in time, I was in the same place as you are, Shinsou-kun,” Amajiki-kun said. Hitoshi’s brows furrowed, somewhat disbelieving. Hitoshi highly doubted that his Senpai had been in love with his muse. 

“It is well-known amongst the departments that your muse is Izuku-kun. You haven’t done anything to hide that, nor do you need to.” Amajiki-senpai said, and he raised a hand as Hitoshi made to interrupt. “It’s fine that he is your muse, just as it’s fine that you love him.”

“But you shouldn’t be in a relationship with your muse,” Hitoshi said, and the ever-present knife in his heart twisted once again. Even if it was a misunderstanding on his part, Hitoshi had learned the hard way that you shouldn’t be involved with your muse. Just as his senpais had said years ago, loving your muse only lead to ruin. 

“There isn’t anything wrong with being in a relationship with your muse, Shinsou-kun,” Amajiki-senpai said, and Hitoshi shook his head disbelievingly. Amajiku-senpai sighed, looking conflicted. After a moment, however, he seemed to come to a decision. Gazing at Hitoshi with a searching gaze, Amajiki-senpai nodded to himself. 

“While it’s well-known that Izuku-kun is your muse, Shinsou-kun,” Amajiki-senpai repeated. “What isn’t well-known, however, is that Mirio is my muse.” Amajiki-senpai said, and Hitoshi’s jaw dropped. Togata-senpai was Amajiki-senpai’s muse? But if that was the case, then that would mean that Amajiki-senpai was…

“Yes, I’m in a relationship with Mirio, my muse,” Amajiki-senpai confirmed, nodding his head. 

“But all of our Senpais have said that you shouldn’t get in a relationship with your muse!” Hitoshi argued, his mind once again reeling. Amajiki-senpai sighed, shaking his head. An uncharacteristic frown appeared on his face, indigo eyes narrowed in annoyance. 

“That’s not true,” Amajiki-senpai replied firmly, and Hitoshi frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with being in a relationship with your muse, Shinsou-kun. Disregard the words of those foolish upperclassmen of yours.”

“Foolish?” Hitoshi repeated, taken aback. “But Senpai, I’ve seen it! I’ve seen other senpai who were in a relationship with their muse absolutely fall apart when their relationship fell apart. It’s better to not have feelings for your muse. It’s done nothing but cause me grief.” 

And what grief Hitoshi had suffered these last few weeks. Even though he now knew that it had been a misunderstanding, Hitoshi was convinced that he wouldn’t have been so pained if he hadn’t allowed himself to fall in love with Izuku. 

“Those senpai of yours were foolish because they didn’t understand the difference.” Amajiki-senpai said, and Hitoshi stared at him. 

“What difference?” He asked, and Amajiki-senpai sent him a small smile. 

“Most of your senpai have fallen in love with their muses. However, you, Shinsou-kun, have fallen in love with Izuku-kun.” Amajiki-senpai said, and Hitoshi shook his head. 

“But Izuku is my muse,” Hitoshi countered, and Amajiki-senpai nodded, agreeing. 

“He is,” Amajiki-senpai agreed. “But Shinsou-kun, what you don’t realize is that there is a difference between a person and a muse.”

“‘The difference between a muse and a person’?” Hitoshi asked, confused. 

“The difference is rather simple, but so few truly understand it.” Amajiki-senpai said. 

“You see, when most people enter a relationship with their muse, they are entering a relationship with an ideal , an image of how they believe their muse is. But what they fail to understand is that muses aren’t just muses. Muses are people. There is more to a person than just the image people project onto them. Muses are just like you and I, people with thoughts, feelings, and opinions. When an artist enters a relationship with their muse, they go in with the expectation that their muses will match the projected images the artists have. When a muse fails to be this projected image, the artists get angry and demand answers. From there, the relationships deteriorate until the relationship ends, and both parties are left broken-hearted.”

That…that was a lot. Disregarding the fact that Hitoshi had never heard Amajiki-senpai speak so much, the words that his senpais had said were ringing through his head. Izuku…Hitoshi was in love with Izuku, who was his muse. But was he in love with Izuku as a person? 

Hitoshi didn’t hear the quiet knock on the door to his studio, but Amajiki-senpai had, and Hitoshi only realized someone had come to his studio when he heard the door creak open. 

Hitoshi was only given a moment to process what was happening before a warbled “Hitoshi-kun!” reached his ears. And then, Hitoshi was being crushed in familiar arms, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of green tea and ink. 

Izuku.

Hitoshi shuddered as a familiar hand carded itself into his hair, guiding Hitoshi to rest his head in the nook of an all-too-familiar neck. Hitoshi hesitated, uncertain as to whether he should accept this warmth, this familiar comfort, this affection that he didn’t deserve. A gentle nudge from an equally gentle hand pushed Hitoshi over the edge, and he gave in, resting his forehead against warm skin. When his eyes began to water, that familiar hand gently scratched his scalp, and Hitoshi melted. Quietly, he let out his tears. All of his sorrow and desperation, the pain and loneliness spent these past few weeks without the person he truly longed for.  

And as Hitoshi cried, Izuku was there, carding calloused-hands through Hitoshi’s hair, rubbing gentle patterns into the small of his back, whispering quiet, comforting nothings into Hitoshi’s head. Izuku was there, he was here , holding Hitoshi as if Hitoshi were something precious, something oh so valuable and so very loved. Hitoshi would never admit it, but that had made him cry harder. All Hitoshi had ever wanted was for someone to love him, someone to hold him and cherish him for who he was, not the pathetic little orphan boy most people assumed he was. And here Izuku was, treating Hitoshi as someone precious , not pathetic, not a waste of time or space. It really was too much for Hitoshi. 

When Hitoshi had stopped crying long enough to look up, he saw that Izuku was looking down at him, with eyes of warm emeralds, full of longing and sadness. But that couldn’t be. Why would Izuku love someone like Hitoshi?

“Izuku…” Hitoshi murmured, his throat stinging from the sobs he’d refused to release. Izuku hummed, raising a calloused hand to wipe away Hitoshi’s tears. Hitoshi shook his head, and Izuku’s hand reluctantly dropped from Hitoshi’s face. Izuku shouldn’t be doing this, because treating Hitoshi like this was giving Hitoshi hope , hope that he shouldn’t be trying for. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Hitoshi said, looking back into Izuku’s eyes. 

“Amajiki-senpai explained. I misunderstood the situation and made everything a mess. I’m sorry.” Hitoshi said. He sighed, wiping away the tears that threatened to come down. 

“I’m sorry, too, Hitoshi-kun,” Izuku said softly. “I should have explained earlier that I wanted to introduce you to Mirio-senpai, but I was so excited for you two to meet that I forgot to tell you. Mirio-senpai is very affectionate, and he really likes giving hugs! I like hugs too, so I didn’t find anything wrong with it. But you didn’t know, and I’m sure that it was a really big surprise for you—”

“No, it’s not your fault.” Hitoshi said. “I overreacted and put you in a bad situation.”

“No, Hitoshi-kun, you didn’t overreact at all!” Izuku cried, but Hitoshi shook his head. 

“I did, and we both suffered for it. If I wasn’t in love—” Hitoshi cut himself off, his teeth clicking from the speed he had shut his mouth. 

“Hitoshi-kun…you, do you, to me…?” Izuku stuttered out, his eyes expressing the shock that his words couldn’t properly convey. 

“I do,” Hitoshi admitted quietly, yet his reply rang loudly through the empty studio. “But that doesn’t matter, because I don’t deserve to love you—”

Hitoshi's words were cut off by soft, chapped lips. They slotted against his own so perfectly that Hitoshi couldn’t help but melt at the sensation. Pulling back, Izuku gazed at Hitoshi, and Hitoshi was held captive by the force of his muse’s eyes. 

“Hitoshi-kun deserves the world,” Izuku said softly. “You’re so talented and kind and caring. When the world gave up on you, you could’ve given up on it in return, but instead you kept on going. And I’m so, so thankful, because this means that I was able to meet Hitoshi-kun, who is the one I love, the one who is my muse. ”

Hitoshi gaped. He couldn’t be Izuku’s muse. He was just an artist, a painter, who painted to escape from how awful the world is. Hitoshi couldn’t be Izuku’s muse, he couldn’t be—

Izuku cut him off once again with another kiss. 

“You can’t tell me who my muse is, Hitoshi-kun,” Izuku said. Had Hitoshi said that all aloud?

“Only I get to decide who I want and what I want to do.” And then, Izuku kissed Hitoshi again, as if trying to convey the sincerity of his words through the push and pull of their bodies. Hitoshi gasped at the feeling, and Izuku took that as an opportunity to deepen the kiss, pulling Hitoshi impossibly close to him, fingers curling into Hitoshi’s hair with a strong, possessive hand. Hitoshi couldn’t help but melt into the kiss, whimpering as the normally shy Izuku dominated him. It wasn’t something that Hitoshi expected to happen, but as Izuku swept his tongue across Hitoshi’s mouth, all Hitoshi could do was whimper as the taste of sunlight and green tea overwhelmed his senses. 

When Izuku pulled back, Hitoshi was left dazed. Izuku was looking at him, just as flushed as Hitoshi felt. The soft cherry of Izuku’s blushing cheeks reminded Hitoshi of a multi-colored aurora, and Hitoshi couldn’t help but be enraptured by it. Hitoshi’s fingers twitched in that all-too-familiar sensation, inspiration welling up once more. 

But Izuku had turned around, reaching around for something behind him. When he turned around, he was holding a purple-covered notebook. Izuku looked down at the cover before returning his gaze to Hitoshi’s once more. 

“I was never as courageous as Hitoshi-kun,” Izuku started. “When you first told me that I was your muse, I was shocked. But, I was so, so happy. Because being Hitoshi-kun’s muse was something so amazing. But I also felt guilty, because I couldn’t work up the courage to admit that you were my muse.” Izuku licked his lips, a habit he did when nervous, sneaking another glance at the notebook. 

“When we first bumped into each other, it was all I could do to not start writing then and there.” Izuku admitted, and Hitoshi opened his mouth to protest. Izuku shook his head, and Hitoshi silenced himself. 

“I knew as soon as I held your hand in mine, Hitoshi-kun. The way my fingers tingled at our touch, I knew, the way I had the strongest urge to pick up my pen and write, it was completely unlike anything I’d ever experienced.” Izuku admitted. 

Hitoshi let out a silent, startled breath. Everything Izuku was saying, it was the exact experience that Hitoshi had gone through. From the moment they first touched and Hitoshi had felt the warmth radiating from Izuku, that certain feeling that told Hitoshi that Izuku was special …had Izuku really gone through it too?

“Here,” Izuku said, offering the notebook to Hitoshi. “Even though I had to leave, I couldn’t get you off of my mind, and so, this is what I wrote. It’s the first of many , but the first one is an important one.”

Hitoshi took the purple notebook, holding it gently. He could see from the binding that the notebook was heavily used, but well-loved. Opening the notebook gently, Hitoshi smiled at the familiar scrawl of Izuku’s handwriting, remembering the many times Izuku had asked him to look over something that he’d written and wanted a second opinion on. It was a poem, written in a familiar purple ink that Hitoshi knew came from a pen he had seen Izuku carry frequently, back when they first met. Hitoshi remembered how sad Izuku had been when his purple pen had run out of ink one day, distraught to the point where Hitoshi had offered to buy him a new purple pen to stop Izuku from crying. Had Izuku been so upset because purple reminded him of Hitoshi? He looked up at Izuku, who was trying to avoid looking at Hitoshi, yet failing, as the greenette was looking at him out of the corner of his eyes every couple of seconds. Hitoshi shook his head and looked back down at the notebook. Izuku was waiting for a response.

As Hitoshi read the poem, his eyes grew wide and his heart was thumping incessantly. He read the poem once, twice, three times, his heart grasping on to that small thread of hope more and more each time he read. 

“Do you…” Hitoshi swallowed, and he met Izuku’s gaze, a warm, earnest aurora staring straight back at him. 

“Is…is this true?” Hitoshi held up the notebook, and Izuku nodded, a small, dazzling smile on his face. It was so bright and warm, the color of a clear night under an endless constellation of stars. Hitoshi reached for Izuku, the notebook falling away as Hitoshi and Izuku kissed once more. 

Hitoshi was finally able to hold his sun, and he was never going to let go. 

0o0-0o0-0o0

As the purple notebook fell from Hitoshi’s hold, it landed softly on the floor. A breeze entered through the cracked windows, opening the cover to the first page. A gentle sunbeam lit the page, softly illuminating the lavender-hued words. 

Roses are red,

But Violets aren't always blue.

Instead they're sometimes purple, 

A soft, lavenderish hue.

They're shadowed in the dark, never putting up a fight.

Instead they glow, so somber, longing for the light.

But Violets don't need to change, because they’re something special, too. 

They're tall and proud and just and bright

When under a just-right hue.

So Roses may be red,

And Violets may be blue. 

But purple holds the color of my heart, 

The color of my love unbloomed.

0o0-0o0-0o0