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Growing up, Shouto always thought his house was always either too quiet or too loud. He didn’t like the sounds, the screaming, the crying (his crying, or hers), and even worse, the silence.
No more. Not lately (the last ten years).
His husband’s voice is just loud enough, and its familiar gravel carves through the fog of Shouto’s meandering thoughts, making a beeline straight for his heart.
His son isn’t as loud as his husband is, he has a contemplative side to him, but like any three year-old, he’s active, and Shouto loves the sound of his footsteps, the way they get faster when he sees Shouto. The drumming of his little feet against wooden floorboards, his sprinting to the door with Katsuki a step behind, whenever Shouto comes home.
He loves his son’s bright, happy voice. Hearing his thoughts (about colors, about heroes, about toys, about animals—he recently discovered zebras and horses aren’t the same kind of animal in a different color, he has to remind everyone).
Shouto loves hearing him talk about his day (even if Shouto was with him for hours), watching him laugh at TV shows (even when Shouto doesn’t understand why it’s funny), and watching him play with the cat (he’s very patient, letting her come to him, careful, gentle).
Shouto loves the sound of him dragging around his red stuffed fox, thump thump thump, when he takes it down the stairs, when they leave for Katsuki or Shouto’s parents’ house.
Normally, Shouto or Katsuki cuts up fruit for him, usually apples, sometimes orange slices, but Shouto loves the sound of him pushing up the step ladder to the counter, to get up to the fruit bowl and grab a red apple for himself (because he’s a very big boy now).
He loves the sound of oil crackling and vegetable chopping coming from the kitchen, because it means that Katsuki’s cooking. If he hears the occasional instruction, and his son’s trademark “okay Papa” then it means they’re cooking together. Sometimes, Shouto will try and sneak in, in order to get a picture of the two chefs, Katsuki and mini Katsuki, but Akira gets shy cooking with an audience, and he hates having pictures taken, so Shouto likes to give them privacy (some time of their own).
Akira’s toys make a lot of noise too.
All of his hero action figures have buttons that make the different heroes run through their catchphrases. Occasionally, Shouto will hear a loud “I am Here!” or a “SMASH!” (in All Might’s voice, and also in Izuku’s).
They don’t have much Dynamight or Shouto stuff, other than the Dynamy plush Akira likes to cuddle with when he sleeps, but when Akira was two, they had a Dynamight figure that would say “Die!” and “I’ll beat you into a pulp!” It ran out of battery within a week because of how many times Akira would press the button while Katsuki was out on patrol, or bring it over to Shouto so Shouto could press it.
Shouto loves how much Akira loves his papa.
He falls in love with Katsuki all over again, every time he comes home, dead tired, and looking like it, but waits an hour or two extra before going to bed, because he doesn’t wanna disappoint their son, who wants nothing more than to be with him. He remembers the first time he saw Akira’s little fist, curled tightly around Katsuki’s finger. He remembers the way Katsuki beamed with pride, gently touching his hand to Akira’s cheek, while Shouto held him.
He couldn’t believe this was the same boy who got blushy and mad the first time the two of them held hands. The same one who seemed almost allergic about affection.
Katsuki’s still loud. Still brash. He’s just—he’s theirs now.
He’s been Shouto’s for years, a partner in every intimacy Shouto had ever craved, making a home out of Shouto’s cracked edges, making him special in a way he thought he’d never, ever know.
Now he’s Aki’s too. The number one bestest papa, in Akira’s words. Shouto even bought him a mug that says so.
Their latest favorite game is hide-and-seek. It’s surprising, since Shouto didn’t think there were that many places a grown man could hide in their apartment, but as it turns out, Katsuki’s flexibility has remarkable applications, and he doesn’t like losing so much. Shouto plays too, sometimes, and it means that much more because it’s the kind of thing he never got to do as a child. Games with his family.
Shouto’s working from home today, sorting papers in the living room, when Akira comes and grabs him.
He can hear Katsuki counting down from twenty, since it’s his turn to seek and Aki’s to hide.
“Come,” Akira grabs his hand, and tugs on it, then when Shouto gets up and follows he leads them to Shouto’s and Katsuki’s bedroom, right to the back of their clothes closet.
“What are we doing in here?” Shouto asks.
There isn’t room for him to stand inside, so he sits down, knees brought up to his chest, and Akira, though much shorter, adopts a similar position scooched up next to him.
“Hiding,” Akira says, pulling the closet door shut with a creak. “From Papa.”
“I see,” Shouto says. “This is a clever hiding spot.”
“I know,” Akira whispers back. “I’m super good.”
Shouto smiles to himself, reminded of how much Akira can sound like his papa, then puts his arm around him. “You didn’t want to hide by yourself?”
“No,” Akira shakes his head, cuddling closer to him. “I don’t…like the dark. But I’m not scared.”
“It’s okay if you are. Everyone gets scared sometimes,” Shouto promises.
“Were you busy?” Akira asks.
“Not right now. My work was really boring. I’d much rather play hide and seek with you and papa.”
(His two favorite people.)
“Good,” Akira says.
Shouto hears Katsuki’s footsteps approaching. His voice.
Loud for Akira’s benefit as he announces the parts of the apartment he’s searching. “Not in the kitchen cabinet. Where’d you get off to, huh? Damn brat.”
Akira giggles.
Shouto on the other hand, is almost sure that Katsuki already knows which room they’re hiding. He’s seen the living room, and seen that Shouto isn’t there anymore. So he has to know that he and Akira are hiding together. There’s only so many places the two of them can fit. He’s making the round last longer so that Shouto and Akira get the chance to hide for a few minutes, because his win isn’t in winning, it’s in making sure Akira has the most fun.
After a minute, the footsteps get louder. Katsuki’s definitely in the bedroom now. Shouto sees his feet through the slit under the closet door.
“I see him,” Shouto notes.
“SSSSHHHHHH. Don’t say anything, Tou-chan!” Akira whispers, standing up in the small space, and putting a hand on Shouto’s mouth.
It’s the most like Katsuki he’s ever been—which is saying a lot, since he looks just like him, telling Shouto, essentially, to shut the fuck up.
Shouto listens to their kid more often than he listens to Katsuki though. (Katsuki even says Shouto dotes on him too much, though Shouto argues that’s not true at all, they simply happen to have the most lovable kid in the world.)
Case in point, he listens now and he stays quiet.
Katsuki makes a big show of peeking under the door, Shouto sees one red eye, Akira does too, because he jumps under some of the blankets in the closet.
Just as the door opens.
Katsuki sees Shouto immediately. “There you are.”
They exchange a knowing look. Both glancing over at the spiky blonde hair peeking out from under the blanket heap.
Katsuki shakes his head, making the face Shouto knows to mean I can’t believe our kid is this goddamn cute.
He comes and kneels next to Shouto, patting the blanket heap, where Akira’s head must be, while Akira squirms, struggling to stay silent. “You see Aki anywhere, Shou?”
“Oh no,” Shouto says. “I haven’t.”
“That’s a shame, I was gonna make some apple tarts. Now I’m gonna have to find someone else to eat em.”
Akira immediately pokes his head out from under the blankets, red and gray eyes full of indignation. “I’m right here. I’ll eat em!”
He realizes what he’s done, then tries to bolt away, but Katsuki catches him. “Got ya. Told you I would win.”
Akira laughs and struggles in his grip, a shard of ice coming out of his hand, and then exploding against Katsuki’s chest. (He doesn’t typically do this with Shouto, but Katsuki encourages quirk practice when Akira’s willing, the two of them exchange a lot of friendly fire, explosive quirk to explosive quirk, and it might even be Akira’s favorite part of the game).
“That was a good one,” Katsuki says. “Well timed, controlled, in a confined space.”
Akira beams with pride. Katsuki doesn’t give out praise easily. Especially not when it comes to training quirks.
Before Akira, Shouto always thought he’d find it hard, emotionally, to help his kid with a quirk. Training of any kind always had a painful connotation. It’s actually quite healing, getting to help Aki. They don’t have to think about it as training in a bad sense. It’s just training for control, for his own safety, first and foremost, and at his pace.
Like everything, it’s something he and Katsuki do together. Which makes sense, since Akira’s quirk, Freeze Bomb, is a combination of their own.
“Apple tarts now?” Akira asks, looking toward Katsuki hopefully.
“You gonna help me make em?”
Akira nods excitedly, their game forgotten.
“Okay, let’s go. Shou, you wanna come watch?” Katsuki gets to his feet, and they both step out of the cramped space, and out of the closet.
“If it’s okay with you, Aki,” Shouto says.
“Tou-chan too,” Akira confirms quietly.
“Good choice, kid,” Katsuki ruffles Akira’s hair. “We’re gonna need him. Who else is gonna check if the apples are any good?”
“Me! My job!” Akira insists. “For me!”
Shouto laughs. Akira is Katsuki’s child, through and through. He has the best parts of him, and Shouto hopes some good genetic trait from himself plays a small part in how wonderful Akira is too. Then of course, there’s the unique spark, the brightness that’s entirely Akira’s own. Like the crisp, auspicious autumn season for which he was named.
Shouto thinks of his son whenever he sees falling leaves, every single year. When he thinks of renewal. Akira taught him to love change in a way he never had, the way he changed his and Katsuki’s lives, they were young parents then—twenty-five and twenty-four.
They head to the kitchen, past the fridge, with Akira’s taped up drawings. Mostly scribbles, and some shapes. A portrait, mostly pink scribbles, with some red, and white. Itʼs the most precious gift Shouto’s ever gotten, other than Akira himself, and the wedding ring on his finger. Katsuki was helpful and offered his services to write the message on the back.
Tou-chan. From Aki.
Short and sweet. He said more when he gave the gift, after hugging Shouto tightly.
“Pretty,” he’d pointed to his own drawing. “Like you.”
Shouto had cried (a little) that night in bed with Katsuki, he couldnʼt help it. Heʼd turned to him. “You know, he learned that from you.”
“Please. I don’t call you pretty boy when the kid can hear you. He thinks you’re beautiful because you are and because he loves you. Like you and your mom, from what youʼve told me.”
Shouto remembers being a child and thinking his own mother was the prettiest person in the world. He might have thought something similar about his father, if he’d loved him the same way, but he hadn’t. He couldn't. It hurt.
It’s the kind of pain that he was afraid might be generational, which is why he never talks to Akira too much about his own childhood. It’s not Akira’s hurt to hold onto, not his burden.
Aki doesn’t ask yet why there aren’t that many baby photos of Shouto, compared to so many of Katsuki. He hasn’t been told what Shouto’s scar comes from, just that it’s a burn. He’s touched it, with curious little fingers, since he was a baby, all he knows is that there was an accident. He doesn’t know about the training sessions, about Shouto’s designer quirk. He doesn’t know about Touya, his death, and his return.
He’ll know, one day, but he gets to be a kid. He gets to play games and bake tarts with his father.
“You okay?” Katsuki asks, and Shouto realizes he was staring off into space, lost in thought.
“Fine,” Shouto confirms.
Akira’s already rummaging in the cabinets, getting out mixing bowls. He’s wearing his little child-sized apron, a red and white checkerboard one that matches Katsuki’s (on purpose, Shouto’s an excellent shopper, buys things for his kid and his husband in pairs, as Katsuki says, “a fucking menace down to the bone”).
Katsuki reaches out and ruffles Shouto’s hair. “Okay then, space case. Let’s chop some apples. Aki, roll up those sleeves, gotta have good chef form. Shou, lift him to the sink so he can wash his hands.”
Shouto picks up Akira and holds him up to the kitchen sink. Katsuki keeps giving orders. Some to Shouto, some to Akira. (Katsuki’s always the head chef in their kitchen.) The familiar notes of his teaching, Akira’s eager responses of “okay Papa” and the sound of chopping, mixing, and sampling fills up the room.
It sounds like home.