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There are feathers all over the floor and music on quietly when Shouta walks in (it sounds like... maybe some sort of European choir music, maybe? Shouta doesn't know, but it's pretty and matches their kid weirdly well-). Given this, he’s utterly unsurprised to find his husband and their kid sitting on said floor together, each on a pillow, Hizashi delicately running his fingers through one of Izuku’s wings.
"Hello Strator." It's a calm, warm thing, and Shouta can't help but smile at his little family, a tiny twist of the lips though it may be,
"Hey kid, Zashi."
"Shou, welcome home."
The underground hero carefully dodges as many feathers as possible as he steps over to his husband and their kid, pressing a brief kiss to first blond hair and then green curls, getting somehow-matching grins for that affection.
"Did you survive your meetings, love?" The hint of teasing isn't enough for Shouta to roll his eyes. Not quite.
"Just about," he grumbles instead,
"When're you off, again?" He goes on, even as he ambles over to the kitchen, filling up the kettle, very much ready for some much-needed coffee.
"Seven, today! Bit of a change of plans because Naomi-san is going to take over some of the set-up now that she's more confident in it."
"The Scottish apprentice?" Izuku asks, in flawless English.
"Yep, that's the one. She's doing a great job." The pride in the blond's voice is obvious, and it warms something lodged between Shouta's vertebrae.
"Good. Will you still be back by one like usual?"
"Sir yessir," Hizashi grins, winking over at Shouta.
Then he promptly sneezes as Izuku's wings shuffle in his face, several more feathers fluttering to the floor.
"Sorry, Prae," they chirp, craning their head around, wings folding back in again. Hizashi's face is a little too molten, clearly, because Izuku is already smiling again.
"Tis fine, darling," he snickers, rubbing at his nose.
(Shouta loves his idiots. They're sweet and oh-so smart and very genuinely silly. Because, well, they can have entire conversations in English, for all that Izuku's is often rather dated, apparently, and they seem to enjoy picking apart Quirks and body language and doing puzzles. And, sure, Shouta could probably do those puzzles, and could definitely do a good level of analysis of people and their powers, but, still. He isn't fluent in multiple languages, and he can only appreciate how Izuku seems to be giving Hizashi a whole new purpose and direction when it comes to his hobbies, to his passions.
Teaching Izuku about their society, about the odd gaps in his knowledge of the world, and encouraging him to pursue whatever he wants, art or flying or sports... It has given them both a new joy, Shouta thinks.
There wasn't anything missing in their lives, before now. They were happy and content and in love, absolutely so, and that fact hasn't changed, Shouta genuinely can't imagine anything ever changing that, but still, their lives have changed for the better, undeniably.
Izuku really is their guardian angel. Their Star.)
Without letting himself get too sappy, because it's only five o'clock in the evening and that's far too early for such things, Shouta starts making he and Hizashi coffee.
"Want a drink, kid?"
"Mm. Tea?" Well, presumably that means Izuku's favourite, but better to check,
"Rose and orange?"
"Please." No surprise there, then. Good thing they keep a lot of milk in the house, with how the kid likes the drink practically half and half.
"Where's the cinnamon gone?" He calls a few moments later, glancing over to see Hizashi gently preening Izuku's wings once more. Shouta, admittedly, cannot help but stare at the sight for a few half-caught breaths, the sheer domesticity of it awe-striking in its own right.
"Ah, apologies, Strator, I filled it up earlier. It may be in the cupboard instead?"
"No worries, kiddo," he assures, waving a hand over his shoulder even whilst he goes over to open their seasonings cupboard, grabbing out the usual shaker, full once again.
He promptly puts an apparently-questionable amount of cinnamon in both he and Izuku's drinks, but doesn't put anything at all in Zashi's because that heathen likes his coffee black and plain and bitter. Weirdo.
"Don't get feathers in my coffee, you two. Else I'll expect recompense," Shouta threatens, lowering his eyebrows at them both, trying to look suitably grumpy. He's not convinced that it works.
"No promises," Izuku offers, one wing shifting forwards in false threat. The hero can only roll his eyes, heading off to get changed out of his uniform. And, actually, he doesn't have patrol tonight, he should probably shove it in the wash. Ugh.
Still, it doesn't take more than a few minutes for him to be sitting on his sofa, feet up, stretching out, sipping at his coffee. Princess Poop has settled against his ankles, purring slightly. Like this, he gets to watch his two most beloved people just existing together. Hizashi is humming, shifting his shoulders with it occasionally, and Izuku has their eyes closed, Shouta can see, clearly content.
(The trust that the kid has shown them both is... astronomical, frankly. To be so blatantly relaxed, wings slumped, half asleep yet sipping at his tea, letting Hizashi comb through their feathers, straightening them, weeding out those that are genuinely loose, spotting any that look damaged, is a remarkable thing, one that both Shouta and Hizashi very, very much treasure.
To have them, now, in their home like this, is a blessing, neither of them doubt.)
"Got any plans for the evening, Izuku?"
"Perhaps I will do some analysis." There is that tilting edge to their words, then, the lyrical energy that so often seems to inject Izuku's words with sheer light, something ineffable (it swells a warmth in Shouta's chest, sunshine pooling directly against his breastbone as though exposed to a summer's day, yet he's in his home in the late evenings of autumn, a thing more of moonshine than sunlight-).
"Sounds good, kid. Feel free to grab me if you want. I'm lesson-planning, nothing urgent." He gets a hum in response, far from unusually so, and simply pulls his laptop off of the coffee table. Time to reply to emails.
Half-hour later Izuku and Hizashi are done, judging by the murmurs of gratitude and the final shake-out the kid gives their wings, flexing them around to the front so that he can admire them.
"They look good," Shouta comments. Because, well, it's true, and obviously it's only logical to say so. Doubly so when it has Izuku visibly preening a little, wings fluttering and something between glee and pride slipping over his expression,
"Why thank you. Prae has gotten rather good at it."
"Aww, you flatter me, baby. But I'm glad you think so!" Hizashi brushes a hand through Izuku's mostly-loose curls, an utter affection. They lean into the touch more than easily.
Still, when Hizashi goes to get the dustpan and brush, Izuku slips ahead of him, a series of hurried steps and just-flared wings, a hand raised to rest upon the blond's shoulder,
"Please, Prae, allow me to tidy. You need to get ready." Hizashi pouts for a moment, and yet Izuku does not falter, several of his freckles starting to shift, twist, a tiny glint of too-bright bronze to them. It has, after a few breaths, Hizashi's shoulders slumping. Shouta doesn't need to see his face to imagine the ridiculously sweet smile to match,
"Okay, okay, I'm going. Thank you," he adds on, leaning over just enough to press a kiss to the crown of Izuku's curls before wiggling his fingers at Shouta and ambling off.
True to his word, the kid makes short of work of clearing up the feathers, a now long-familiar routine, in all fairness. (Shouta can't help how something utterly warm-fond-molten seeps through his chest at the sound of them humming beneath their breath, because maybe the habit is picked up from Hizashi, or maybe Izuku had it from before he fell into their lives, but either way it's a lovely thing, low and melodic and so much a thing of their home that Shouta thinks it may be embedded in the very walls.)
With a bag full of feathers, Izuku heads into the kitchen then, dumping them in the bin. Yet he stays in there afterwards, going into the fridge to pull out ingredients, taking a chopping board out of the cupboard besides it.
"I can do it, kiddo," Shouta calls, saving his email as a draft, already reaching to push his laptop screen down, yet Izuku is already responding, dismissing him,
"Thank you, but I want to help." The man peers over the back of the sofa, taking in the absolute lack of tension in their shoulders, the easy movements of washing off the vegetables, and decides that it's fine. Izuku genuinely seems to thrive off of helping out, and he hasn't cooked for them in a week or so,
"Fair, as long as your homework is done."
"It is."
"Good enough. Tell me if you want me to take over." Izuku flashes him a smile over their shoulder then, before returning to the vegetables, wings all carefully tucked up against his back, surely to keep them clean. It's not like there's any loose feathers to fall in the feather now.
Dinner is simple, but that's fine with Shouta and Hizashi. Izuku hasn't disliked many of the foods they've tried with him, but his palette seems more adjusted to European or Middle Eastern food, from what they can tell. It has led to a few... interesting experiments, particularly when using substitutes from more commonly-available Japanese ingredients.
But, hey, the kid has cooked a good dinner, and the three of them all get to sit down together, tonight, gathered around their little table. Shouta can hook one of his ankles around his husband's, and he gets to listen to Hizashi rambling about the subject experts that he has lined up for this coming week, either him or Izuku interjecting occasionally to ask questions or add extra comments in. It's easy, and comfortable, and warm. It's perfect, quite simply.
And, all of an hour later, he's sitting on his sofa once again, a pile of marking in his lap, green pen to match. At his feet, curled into the arm of the sofa, feet pulled up beside him, and with his calves pressed atop Shouta's toes, an idle sort of companionship. It's often the way they are, when it's just the two of them. (Shouta had, for a time, worried about that somewhat, because Izuku is very talkative with Hizashi and with the class, and he wasn't sure if the kid was uncomfortable with him for some reason, but one evening Izuku had come up to him, asking if Shouta would mind just sitting together for a while because he needed some quiet but did not want to be alone. And, all at once, Shouta had known that Izuku valued the time in the same way that Shouta does. He was glad for it.)
For tonight, however, they have their favourite background noise to fill the silence. Hizashi's voice rings out, bright and a bit bolder than they're used to at home, but almost as much Hizashi as it is Present Mic, the middle ground that he tends to use for his night-time radio shows. They're admittedly Shouta's favourite time slot. He suspects that they might be both Hizashi's and Izuku's too.
It's a familiar way to wile away the evening hours, or the night, really, judging by the darkness outside, surely a pitch-black if not for the faint, omnipresent glow of the city, a grey-tinged haze.
(Sometimes Shouta thinks that he can see the stars more than ever before. That very same dirt-crusted, city-swollen light should mask them, a veil for all but Quirk-enhanced gazes, and yet, in the last few months, Shouta has caught glimpses, during miserable patrols or calm evenings like this, of specks of brightness, of a silver-tinged version of his own kid's freckles, bright and distant in the sky.
It's a trick of the light, or a fanciful thing, surely, and yet every time a peace seeps into his being all the same.)
Working away at his marking takes hours, admittedly. He tends to allot certain nights to it, and the ones with Hizashi's night show are his preference. At some point, Izuku briefly gets up, leaving Shouta's feet cold, only to return with his latest novel and two mugs of hot chocolate. Shouta can't even begrudge the lack of coffee.
Until a time later again, rubbing at his gritty eyes, rolling out his gone-stiff shoulders, when he thinks to actually check the time. Well, fuck, it's almost midnight. They've both got school tomorrow.
"Shit. Kid, it's late, you need to wrap up."
"Oh?" Izuku turns their head, looking over to the clock on the wall. He hasn't really gelled with using a phone yet, even months after joining them.
His sigh is faint, but Shouta is expecting it just as much as the gracious nod in his own direction,
"Thank you, Strator." Their kid is too good, honestly, always the first to be polite, or to put others at ease. (There's just something about them, not quite right yet full of light all the same-)
"No worries, kiddo, didn't mean for you to stay up this late anyway."
"I am- I'm not upset. Thank you." The adjustment is a familiar one, not a lie but rather Izuku slowly shifting his language into something slightly less familiar. Shouta would be lying to say that he minds either way.
All the same, Shouta leans forwards to ruffle Izuku's hair slightly in tacit apology, happy as always when the kid leans into the curl-shifting affection.
"Go on, then. I'll make sure you're up in the morning." That earns him raised eyebrows (and Shouta will never cease to be amused by the teen's apparent inability to raise only one at a time-) which the hero doesn't deign to indulge with a defence. It's no secret that he's a poor sleeper, and by default a late-riser. But he's never missed a homeroom through anything other than villain attack, so his pride is intact still.
Beyond his family and the other faculty, anyway.
Regardless, Izuku is getting to his feet, book and stationery piled up in his arms, brushing just a wingtip against Shouta's raised knees.
"I love you, Strator," Izuku calls over their shoulder, low and sweet, as they head to their room, and there's no hesitation or pause before Shouta returns the assurance,
"Love you too, kid."
"Our Star," he adds in the seconds-later silence, something so deeply content it could be his own heartbeat echoing in his chest. He really does adore his little family.