Archive of Our Own ^beta

He was having a nice night, all things considered. They’re in the middle of final exams and the weeks leading up are soul-sucking, even for teachers. It’s rare when Shōta has the energy to go out on a school night, but he somehow found a second wind at half past eight and decided to go out for a drink. 

He was only supposed to have one beer, maybe two, but it turned into five when a patron with a nice smile and tight jeans slid into the seat next to him. Before he knew it, they were in front of his apartment door, lip-locked and tangled in each other’s arms. Neither of them realized they were standing in an inch of water until Shōta heard something collapse on the other side. 

A pipe had burst. When Shōta managed to get the door open, the entire apartment was already flooded and part of the ceiling was on the floor. Shōta’s hookup bolted before he could get the landlord on the phone.

If he had played his cards right, Shōta would be in bed with his one-night stand instead of dealing with the hurricane in his own apartment.

After two grueling hours, Shōta finds himself back on campus. He tosses his backpack across the classroom and staggers toward his desk, immediately dropping into his chair. He’s drenched, not from the flood in his apartment oddly enough, but from the torrential downpour that surprised him as he wandered around the city, looking for a place to stay. 

Unfortunately, hotel prices were through the roof and all the people in his tiny little friend group were currently unavailable. Which meant Shōta was shit out of luck.

Shinsou [00:58]: sensei! you called? 

He did, in a brief alcohol-induced moment of panic. Of all the students he’s taught over the years, Hitoshi managed to stick around while others drifted away to follow their own path. His protege has made every effort to integrate Shōta into his life, spending time with him like it’s a basic necessity. Like Shōta’s someone important to him. Like he’s a friend. It only felt natural to give Hitoshi a ring.

But, he’s not just a friend. He’s his mentee and he shouldn’t be asking for things from him. He doesn’t want Hitoshi to feel like he owes him anything.

Aizawa [01:01]: Sorry about that

Aizawa [01:01]: I didn’t mean to call

Didn’t mean to rely on him. Didn’t mean to impose. Hitoshi’s a young bachelor and he doesn’t need an old teacher ruining his game.

Shinsou [01:02]: ah np

Shinsou [01:02]: hope you’re having a good night!

Shōta makes a pained noise at that and faceplants on his desk. Right on top of a stack of homework. Wet hair and all. 

So fucking over it, Shōta sinks onto the ground and crawls into his sleeping bag, conveniently shoved under his desk for times like this. Once he’s cocooned in, he reaches for his phone, staring at Hitoshi’s text… and wavering. 

It wouldn’t hurt to ask. Hitoshi would give him a hard time but eventually he’d say yes. And it’d only be for a few nights, until he could figure things out.

 He gets as far as typing ‘i have a favor to ask’ before smashing the delete button and burying his face  into his sleeping bag. 

He can’t. His pride won’t let him.

He types ‘good night’ instead but pauses before hitting send. Smirking, he deletes and sends a brand new response.

Aizawa [01:05]: there you go jinxing it

It doesn’t take long for Hitoshi to reply with a meme that reads “I regret nothing. The end.” And for the first time that night Shōta laughs, genuinely and softly against the back of his hand. He doesn’t respond to Hitoshi’s text and ‘likes’ it before closing his eyes, the exhaustion suddenly catching up to him.

—

On the last day of final exams, Shōta forgoes a night of drinking with the other faculty members to finish grading. 

“But, grades aren’t due til Monday,” Mina complains, sagging against the doorway. When Shōta ignores her, she marches over to snatch a pile of essays off his desk and he almost reaches for his capture weapon to restrain her.

He refrains on the sheer fact that she’d probably enjoy it.

“C’mon, Aizawa-sensei, these papers can wait,” Mina says, waving the stack of paper in the air threateningly. 

“I’m not your sensei anymore.”

“Yes, but you’re obviously overworked and it looks like you haven’t gotten a wink of sleep all week.” 

She’s not wrong.

For the last four nights, he’s camped out at school, stealing food from Lunch Rush after everyone’s left and using the gym’s showers to freshen up. He’s rotated between his hero costume and an extra change of clothes that he happens to keep in his desk, which, miraculously, no one’s called him out on (yet).

He has to admit, it’s kind of a pathetic way to exist. Even for him. 

He’s entertained staying at a hotel, but prices have remained astronomically high and he hasn’t been able to convince himself to book a room and deplete his life’s savings. But, maybe he can splurge for one night. Just to get his shit together.

“You need a night out to relax,” Mina insists.

“What I need is for you to stop hounding me.”

Mina flounders behind him and throws her arms around his neck, nuzzling her nose against his neck. “Come on, Aizawa,” she whispers, “let’s get shitfaced again. You know, we never did get to see the end of that lap dance.”

Shōta winces. He was hoping she was too wasted to remember that, but he did see a phone or two snapping photos, which means there’s probably footage floating around somewhere. 

“Not my finest moment,” Shōta murmurs.

“Hanta begs to differ.”

“Sero. I wish he’d stop telling everyone that we’re related.”

“You mean you’re not?!”

Shōta sighs, spinning in his chair so abruptly that Mina stumbles back. He grabs the papers out of her hands and gives her a bland look. “Look, Pinky, I appreciate the invite, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.” Besides, he has to draw a line at some point. Her and Sero may be full-fledged heroes now, not to mention his colleagues, but they’re also his former students. He has to at least pretend to have some boundaries. “Why don’t you ask me again when I’m less sleep-deprived?”

“Ugh, when are you not sleep-deprived?” Mina groans, but she’s grinning almost immediately, probably well-aware of how much her persistence has worn him down. “Just try to leave by 6 p.m. at least?”

“I promise I’ll leave at a reasonable hour.”

—

Shōta doesn’t leave the school until half past nine and by that point every decent hotel in the city is fully booked. To prevent absolute mayhem and potentially making the late night news, he takes a quick shower and heads straight for his favorite diner where he then occupies one of the counter stools for the next three hours.

At least the coffee is hot and the pies are warm. 

“Why don’t you go to a bar and turn on that Pro Hero charm?” the server suggests, topping Shōta’s coffee off. “Find someone to take you home for the night?”

“I don’t think anyone will find me particularly charming in this state,” Shōta says, taking a forkful of pie before reaching for his phone. “Although that did give me an idea.”

The server giggles. “I’ll leave you to it then. Would you like me to leave the decanter?”

“I’d be eternally grateful. Thank you.”

Not even two minutes into his internet search, a duffel bag lands with a thump near his feet and a familiar body drops onto the counter stool next to him. 

 “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Sensei?”

Shōta doesn’t even need to look out of the corner of his eye to confirm it, he knows Hitoshi’s presence anywhere. Knows the security and warmth that comes once Hitoshi has entered his space, a feeling of home that he hasn’t felt in days.

He slides his mug and plate toward Hitoshi. “When are you going to retire that joke?” he asks with a smirk, turning his phone over to give Hitoshi his undivided attention. “I’ve been hearing the same material since you were 15.”

Hitoshi grins and immediately helps himself to the food. From the way he’s dressed, he’s just gotten off a shift. Shōta can see Hitoshi’s capture weapon sticking out of the pocket of his oversized hoodie and parts of his hero costume underneath his collar. 

Not much blood or scuffs. Must have been a quiet night.

“I dunno, it’s kinda nostalgic now,” Hitoshi chatters away between bites. “Reminds me of the good old days.” He licks the remnants of caramel off his fork, carefully scanning Shōta from head to toe as he does. “Sbewriously bo, wub are you doing out?” He pauses to take a swig of the coffee. “I didn’t think you did night shift anymore.”

Shōta leans an elbow on the counter, mindlessly taking pieces of the crust off to nibble on. “I’m not working.”

Hitoshi nods, murmuring, “Cool cool” and he pretends to casually look around, but Shōta knows he’s not going to let that kind of brevity slide. He endures a few excruciating long seconds, watching Hitoshi take sips of coffee, and waits for the kid to break the silence first.

“You do know that the vaguer you are the more I have a burning need to pry it out of you, right?“

Shōta forces a neutral expression and takes Hitoshi’s coffee, sipping loudly before handing the mug back to him. “Yeah well. Control yourself.”

Hitoshi presses a palm to his chest, feigning hurt. “It’s like you don’t even know me.” 

“I’ll have you know, I’m rolling both eyes,” Shōta says, tugging lightly at his eyepatch. He reaches for the decanter and refills their mug as Hitoshi continues to give him a thorough once-over. 

“It’s past midnight and you look like you just showered.” Hitoshi suddenly freezes, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh shit, are you on a date? Did I interrupt a date?” 

Shōta snorts. At least the kid believes he isn't too old to date, he thinks to himself in amusement. “It’s like you don’t even know me,” he decides to parrot, which earns him a hearty laugh from Hitoshi. “If you must know, a pipe burst.” Shōta flips his phone over, revealing his Google search. “I was hunting down a place to stay just before you dropped in.” 

“Oh shit, that sucks.” Hitoshi glances at the screen and smirks. “You’re looking for a love hotel? Talk about a low bar.”

“Hey, it's cheap. And they have WiFi. And there are rooms available.” 

“And it’s also wildly unsanitary.”

Shōta shrugs. “I’ve slept in worse.”

“Yeah I know,” Hitoshi says, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I’ve made the mistake of sniffing that sleeping bag of yours.” 

“The smell is a deterrent; don’t touch my sleeping bag.”

Hitoshi gives him an eyeroll of his own and props his head on his hand. “At least it’s only for a night.”

A night. Shōta wishes it was only for a night but in reality it'll likely be weeks, maybe even months, until his apartment is in any livable state.

 “We’ll see,” Shōta says, scowling. “Landlord says I’m not allowed back in for a few weeks. We’re on summer break soon so there might be available rooms in the dorms I can stay in. I’ll talk to Nezu in the morning.”

An option he’s been trying to avoid because it’s embarrassing and he knows Nezu won’t let him stay without agreeing to take some form of responsibility. And the last thing Shōta wants to do is supervise a bunch of teenagers on summer break.

“That’s even sadder than a love hotel,” Hitoshi points out, rubbing his chin and looking thoughtful. “You can crash at my place if you want.”

There’s a long pause as Shōta stares at the now-empty plate between them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he expected the offer. Hitoshi is unbelievably kind where it counts and Shōta knows firsthand that he wouldn’t leave a stray unsheltered or unfed if he can help it. Feline or human.

“Thanks but you shouldn’t be putting up your old teacher,” Shōta says, his insides twisting in knots at turning down a nice home. “Besides, the  landlord says it’s only for a few weeks, but I think it’ll be a lot longer than that.”

“Even more reason you should crash at my place,” Hitoshi says. “Summer break will fly by and I don’t want to bail my old teacher out of jail when you yeet someone out a window at the hotel.” He kicks Shota’s prosthetic playfully and Shōta squints at him, but this time he’s unable to hide his smile. “Come on, Sensei, I bet my couch is more comfortable than either of your other options.”

He doubts that, he saw Hitoshi dragging a decrepit looking sofa from the curb to his apartment last year and decided it was in his best interest to keep walking. 

But, he would feel safer and probably get more rest at Hitoshi’s than anywhere else. The company would certainly be better. He glances at Hitoshi and sets his ego aside. “Fine. But I insist on paying rent.”

Hitoshi straightens his spine and sticks out a hand, looking delighted. “Deal.”

—

Hitoshi’s apartment is a slightly run-down building in a questionable area of town. There’s a large crack on the window to the entrance doors and zero security cameras. The elevators haven’t worked in months, so they have to climb four dangerously steep flights of stairs, which Shōta only manages with Hitoshi’s help. 

It does take them twice as long, but Hitoshi is patient and attentive, holding firmly onto Shōta’s hand as he lifts his prosthetic over every step. Shōta pretends to slip once in a while, just to get a startled reaction, and Hitoshi almost shoves him down the stairs. Twice.

“Stop scaring me like that!”

“It’s training, I need to keep you on your toes.”

Hitoshi squints at him threateningly. “Gimme a break, I haven’t slept in three days.”

Oh, Shōta can tell. The bags under Hitoshi’s eyes. The way his shoulders sag as they walk. The way Hitoshi’s hand trembles in his, there’s no doubt that the boy is exhausted.

When they’re finally inside, Hitoshi scurries across the room and immediately starts cleaning.

“Sorry, it’s not usually this bad,” Hitoshi says, gathering mounds of trash in his arms. “I’ve been on back to back missions.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shōta says, wandering in and picking things up around the room to help him along.

Looking around, it's honestly not that bad. It’s a studio apartment, so the place is small but Shōta likes how everything is laid out. There’s a full sized bed wedged in the far corner and right beside it a moving box serving as a makeshift nightstand. Five or six duffel bags are scattered around filled with clothing. And a couple feet away is that godawful sofa, even more hideous up close, and a coffee table covered in coffee shop cups and takeout containers.

There’s only one window in the whole place and on its sill is a single potted staghorn fern looking surprisingly vibrant and healthy.

“Believe it or not, I used to be young,” Shōta says, swiping a pile of takeout containers into a half-filled trash bag. “I know how it is.”

“And here I thought you just manifested at the top of a building somewhere fully formed.” Hitoshi snatches the bag out of Shota’s hand and shoves him toward the sofa. “Stop cleaning and sit down.”

Shōta glances down at the sofa. Like everywhere else, it’s overflowing with clothes, crumpled bags of chips, and other random shit. And did something just move?

“Actually, do you happen to have a change of clothes?” Shōta asks tentatively. “I wasn’t willing to swim across my living room to grab anything and I’ve been wearing the same two outfits all week.”

Hitoshi pauses on his way to the kitchen with an arm full of mugs from the coffee table. “Oh, yeah, totally.” He wiggles a foot in the direction of his bed, leading Shōta to two very full laundry baskets. “The blue basket over there is clean. Wait…white…no, no blue is definitely clean.” He clears his throat and nods more confidently. “Blue is clean.” 

Shōta says a silent prayer before shoving a hand down the blue laundry basket, hoping nothing tries to bite him. Thankfully they are indeed clean, if not a bit wrinkled, and after trying to excavate a pair of gym shorts that aren’t every shade of purple, he finally finds a nice black pair that fits the bill.

“Wait”—Shōta finds and holds up the matching shirt with ‘Eraserhead’ printed across the sleeves—“you have my merch?” 

Hitoshi’s head pops out from around a corner. “‘Course I do. I have the hoodie too. Had to bribe Denks into standing in line at the crack of dawn for me until I got off shift just to get it.”

Shōta’s cheeks heat up at that, chest tightening uncomfortably, and for a moment he thinks he might be having a panic attack, but then realizes —oh. He’s just…embarrassed. Surprised and a little bit… flattered? Maybe. 

Before he can second guess himself, he spots the Eraserhead hoodie and snatches it, breathing into it to hide his blush.

 Damn. He can’t even find the composure to tease Hitoshi about it. 

Until he discovers the undies. 

“You have him stand in line for this too?” Shota asks, holding up a pair of boxers. 

“Mina bulk shipped those to me. You’d be surprised at how much your merch goes for on the collectibles black market.” 

Oh, god, too much information. Why is Hitoshi so casual about it? Is this normal behavior?

“Is it clean?”

“Hmm.” Hitoshi kicks a couple of empty beer cans towards the kitchen before joining Aizawa to dig through the blue basket. “They’re probably clean.”

‘Probably’ is not a level of cleanliness Shōta is too keen on so he shoves all the merch he has into Hitoshi’s arms, minus the shirt and shorts. 

“I’ll just take these,” Shōta says. He looks around. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Hitoshi jerks his head toward the front door. “Down the hall on the left.” When he starts to undress, Shōta immediately leaves, the flush on his cheeks returning.

The washroom is thankfully empty, giving Shōta the privacy he needs to change in peace. By the number of stalls and sinks, there seems to be a washroom on each floor. No showers which means he’d have to find a public bath house or sneak his way back onto campus to shower.

Twenty minutes later, Shōta’s in a fresh pair of shorts. It’s a little snug but he could care less because it just feels so goddamn nice to be in something clean. He loses his shirt because it’s too much work and probably too warm anyway. Shōta didn’t see a single fan or air conditioner in his quick scan of the unit.

Back at the apartment, Hitoshi is already in bed. The sofa’s been cleared, and there’s a pillow and blanket on one end. The same blanket that Shōta noticed was on Hitoshi’s bed when they first arrived.

“Okay, maybe it’s not better than the dorms,” Hitoshi says sheepishly, gesturing to the sofa, “but at least you don’t have to listen to teenagers fuck?”

Shōta snorts, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He drops onto the sofa. “You sure about that? The walls here look real thin.”

“Yeah, but it’s not teenagers,” Hitoshi points out, reaching to plug his charger in behind his mattress. “And it isn’t your job to go yell at them and ruin their fun.”

“But ruining teenage fun is my favorite pastime.”

“Yes, I am aware.” 

Shōta chuckles silently and they fall into a silence as he starts to take his prosthetic off. While Hitoshi looks in his direction, he doesn’t stare, absently scratching part of the tape off the moving box.

“You’ve been wearing the same clothes all week,” Hitoshi says as soon as Shōta crawls under the blanket.

“Mmhmm.” Shōta doesn’t bother looking up. His eyelids are heavy and the week’s exhaustion is suddenly catching up to him as he sinks further into the sofa. “Been waiting until the weekend to go shopping.”

“The pipe burst five days ago.”

Shōta sighs, too tired to follow the conversation. “What’s your point, Hitoshi?”

There’s another bout of silence, which Shōta doesn’t question, only takes the opportunity to start drifting to sleep.

After a moment, Hitoshi asks in a quiet and somewhat pained whisper, “Why didn’t you call me?”

The hurt in his voice is enough to startle Shōta out of his sleepiness and he forces himself up on his elbows to look Hitoshi in the eye. “Like I said earlier, you shouldn’t have to put your old teacher up. That’s not your job.”

Hitoshi wrinkles his nose but his expression is otherwise neutral. “I didn’t think I was ‘putting up’ my old teacher. I thought I was helping a friend.” He reaches for his lamp and the room plunges into darkness, cutting Shōta off from any response or attempt at reassurance that they are friends. 

They are.

“Night, Sensei.”

—

It should help that Hitoshi knows he’s dreaming. That walls in reality can’t bend and curve like this. Reform into clawing hands that reach and pull.

Except they can. He knows they can. 

He’s fled as far as he can, backed up against stony hands that twist in the straps of his gear, trapping him in place as other hands reach for his throat, squeezing as he gasps for air–

Hitoshi sits bolt upright in bed, heart pounding as he frantically kicks away the blankets wrapped around his legs. 

“Coffee in the kitchen. Still warm.”

Hitoshi blinks, the sound of Aizawa’s voice chasing the remaining dredges of his terror away as he flops back in his bed, head rolling toward the sofa. Aizawa is still staring at his laptop, tapping away on the keys, fully dressed in what looks like a brand new black long sleeve shirt and sweats, one pant leg unzipped, revealing the shine of his prosthetic leg. 

Hitoshi scrubs his face with a hand, idly pawing around in search of his lost hairtie when what Aizawa said actually registers.

“Wait, like real coffee?”

“Like perfectly brewed drip coffee. Not the instant stuff you had in your cabinet.”

Hitoshi honestly didn’t even know he had instant coffee, but the promise of real brewed coffee has him scrambling out of bed, nearly tripping over the blanket that Aizawa apparently tossed back over him when he woke up earlier. In the kitchen the blessed cup is sitting there like a gift from Heaven and Hitoshi is happily inhaling the delicious aroma when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Green eyes big D (club X) [12:32pm] : looking forward to tonight 😉🍆

Oh shit, Hitoshi completely forgot. Whelp, so much for that potential fling. Considering he doesn’t even remember the dude’s name it’s not a real loss but he was hot. Hitoshi remembers that much at least. 

Hitoshi : sry, can’t make it tonight
Green eyes big dick (club X) : your loss
Hitoshi : rain check?
–message cannot be delivered–

“Oh my god,” Hitoshi mutters in annoyance. 

Not even thirty seconds and he’s officially blocked. Asshole. Hitoshi adds the guy to his own Cock Blocked list out of spite and then he spots the breakfast sandwich sitting on the counter. “Oh my god.”

Real, actual food. Not a granola bar or a protein shake or days old stolen lunch. If Aizawa keeps this up he can stay here as long as he wants, forget the flings and one night stands. Hell, Hitoshi will get him his own mattress. He shoves half the sandwich in his mouth as he rejoins Aizawa, dropping onto the floor next to him. He takes another sip of the coffee, sighing happily. “Oh my god.”

“I feel like I should be giving you a moment alone with your coffee,” Aizawa comments, glancing at Hitoshi out of the corner of his good eye.

“Would you mind?” Hitoshi asks, expression neutral as he turns to Aizawa. “I’ll be quick.”

“I’ll turn away,” Aizawa snorts, shifting only a few centimeters in the opposite direction with a smirk.

Hitoshi grins. He’s missed this. The banter. The sass. They’ve always had a good back and forth, even back when Aizawa was still his mentor. But once Hitoshi graduated it settled into something real in a way Hitoshi truly values. Even if Aizawa doesn’t see it the same way.

“Don’t bother,” Hitoshi teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “You know you wanna watch.”

Aizawa arches his eyebrows at that, looking unimpressed. “Watch you lewdly lick the rim of your coffee cup?”

Hitoshi can’t resist, he locks eyes with Aizawa and drags his tongue along the edge of the cup before taking an exaggerated sip and moaning.

“You need practice,” Aizawa drones.

“Oh yeah?” Hitoshi rolls his head back to smirk up at him. “You offering, Sensei?”

“Depends, is this some sort of ploy to help you live out your high school fantasy? Because there’s no way I’m falling for that.” Hitoshi flushes at being called out on his high school crush and almost misses when Aizawa adds a muttered, “...again.” 

Hitoshi twists around abruptly, staring at Aizawa. “Um, sorry, hold up. What do you mean again? Whose high school wet dreams have you been making come true??”

Three years , Hitoshi survived three years of pining after an unattainable man, and then another year fucking it out of his system with other people and someone else managed to get in Aizawa’s pants. Bullshit. He has to be messing with Hitoshi.

“In my defense,” Aizawa says, staring unblinking at Hitoshi. “I don’t remember much of anything. Only gin.” He closes his eyes, rubbing his temples and looking pained. “God, so much gin.”

Holy fucking shit balls on a stick. He isn’t messing with him. How has the gossip mill of his friends not spread this over half the city already? He clambers up onto the sofa, coffee forgotten as he squints critically at Aizawa.

“Which year? My year?” Had to be. No one pined for that man like Hitoshi’s year.

“You don’t wanna know,” Aizawa drones, still rubbing his temples like he’s trying to scrub the memory from his own mind.

Bull fucking shit he doesn’t. Hitoshi isn’t letting Aizawa leave this apartment until he has a name. This is premium solid gold gossip. He could buy his way into half the parties and pants in the city with this information.

“Yes, yes I do. I very much want to know. Denki? No, he hates gin. Unless that’s why he hates gin. Is that why he hates gin?” Hitoshi demands, leaning eagerly forward.

Aizawa flattens a hand on Hitoshi’s chest, lightly pushing him away from him. “Stop guessing.”

“Bakugou?” Hitoshi asks, watching Aizawa’s face as he rapid-fires off names. “Neito? Mina? Jirou? Izuku?”

Aizawa pauses, frowning at Hitoshi. “You weren’t supposed to figure it out that quickly.”

Figure what out? Hitoshi grabs Aizawa’s arm, giving him a hard shake, his tone turning distressed. “Which one?!?!”  

Is he going to make him beg? Because Hitoshi will.

Aizawa pulls himself free of Hitoshi’s grip, arms crossing stubbornly. “I refuse to exchange stories of regretful one-night stands and walks of shame, we do not have that kind of relationship.”

Hitoshi recoils like he’s been slapped, all the good humor evaporating. Right. It’s so easy to forget that their friendship is one-sided. No matter what Hitoshi has tried, how hard he’s worked to keep Aizawa in his life, to open up to him, Aizawa has kept Hitoshi firmly in his place.

‘Student’. 

‘Mentee’. 

Beneath him.

“Right, god forbid I actually get to know you.” He scoots to the other side of the couch, scooping up his coffee to give his hands something to cling to as he avoids Aizawa’s gaze. “How inappropriate of me.”

The awkward silence stretches on for ages, Aizawa staring at his lap as Hitoshi shoots furtive glances his way, mentally scolding himself for forgetting his place yet again.

“I was being honest when I said that I don’t remember much,” Aizawa says after a long time. “I only remember Mic dragging me to a party and waking up in Monoma’s bed.” 

He slumps forward, groaning softly and rubbing a hand down his face as Hitoshi stares at him in shock. Neito?! Hitoshi had been kidding when he’d guessed that.

“We ironed things out in the end,” Aizawa continues after a moment, “but I asked him to keep what happened between us. I didn’t want anything to get around…and I didn’t want you to find out.”

Aizawa wanted to keep it a secret from Hitoshi specifically? Why in the world would he care if Hitoshi knew? Besides the absolute mountains of shit he would give both Aizawa and Neito about it. Which is probably reason enough to keep him out of the know.

“What? Me? Why?”

“Because Monoma’s your best friend. And I didn’t want to cause any kind of riff between the two of you because of your big fat crush on me.”

Ah right. Hitoshi winces. Aizawa’s never going to let him live that down. He’s still embarrassed Aizawa knows at all. He thought he had been pining quietly and in secret, but there’s only so many times you can doodle your horny teenage fantasies before one accidentally ends up on a piece of homework.

“I was fifteen, I practically had a crush on my dakimakura.” Which was an Eraserhead one, but he’s not bringing that up if Aizawa doesn’t already know. He cocks his head, thinking back through all his interactions with Neito, trying to pinpoint the change post Sensei fuck. “Is that why he always looks like a smug asshole whenever I see him?”

“Knowing Monoma,” Aizawa says with a snort. “I’m pretty sure that’s just his default.” He shifts, finally looking at Hitoshi. “I’m relieved that it doesn’t bother you. I should have realized that you wouldn’t still be harboring some school boy crush on your old teacher.”

Hitoshi slides down on the sofa, jabbing Aizawa’s thigh with a foot and smirking at him. “Fifteen year old me is devastated. Luckily I’ve gotten laid a few more times than he has.”

“Good for you,” Aizawa chuckles. “I’m glad that’s all it took.”

If Aizawa stopped treating him like he’s still a child maybe he’d realize that Hitoshi has actually managed some emotional maturity. Knowing his best friend got something he didn’t isn’t going to send him into a tailspin of jealousy. He’s got plenty of other options. Ones that actually want to sleep with him and treat him like their equal and not someone still chasing after them like a lost puppy. He’s more than fine.

“You can relax, old man,” Hitoshi drones, “Crypt keeper isn’t my type anymore.”

Quick as lightning Aizawa’s hand flashes out, flipping Hitoshi off the sofa and he squawks in surprise, coffee flying everywhere.

“Tsk, still slower than me though.”

“Noooo not my coffee!”

—

It takes Hitoshi an embarrassingly long time to realize what’s going on. Four entire days to be precise. In his defense the first few days he was recovering from extreme sleep deprivation and adjusting to having another human constantly sharing his space. School is still on break so Aizawa is just there all the time. And he seems to be filling that free time by fixing Hitoshi’s life.

It’s subtle at first, because Aizawa is a sneaky fuck like that. Things are a little tidier when Hitoshi comes home from work. Laundry processed under the guise of needing to bulk out his own load by adding Hitoshi’s clothes. On the fourth day when Hitoshi finds groceries in his fridge and an actual meal plan for the week taped to his fridge his brain finally catches up to what’s going on.

Turns out the man Hitoshi assumed was an absolute trainwreck in his personal life is neat, precise, and organized. By the fifth day a calendar appears on the fridge, the sixth has it filled with reminders and to dos, and by Friday Hitoshi’s cabinets have been reorganized and it’s actually logical and helpful . 

He loves the changes. He can’t deny that having real coffee and food regularly in his system is doing wonders. Realizes he sleeps better in a clean place with a clear idea of what the week holds for him. Aizawa’s the best roommate he’s ever had.

But as helpful as Aizawa is, he’s also keeping his distance. Bouncing around Hitoshi like he has some sort of invisible force field that keeps them co-existing in the same space but not fully interacting, and it’s driving Hitoshi insane. He’d trade it all to just hang out with Aizawa for an hour. 

It’s after dinner Saturday night that the opportunity finally presents itself. Not only has Aizawa cooked, but he also booted Hitoshi out of his own kitchen, refusing to let Hitoshi clean. Hitoshi has already lost this fight three times this week, so instead he sprawls on the sofa and just watches Aizawa as he works.

“How is it that you have more liquor than actual groceries at any given time?” Aizawa asks, cocking his head toward Hitoshi’s prized possession: a third, maybe fourth, hand rickety liquor cart filled with bottles of booze and syrup.

“It’s mostly leftovers from a training I did,” Hitoshi says, rolling off the sofa to wander over to the cart. He snags a bottle of hibiscus elixir, spinning it on his palm before catching it and pointing it at Aizawa, one eye shut as he pretends to aim. “I can make killer cocktails now.”

Pun intended.

“Is that so?” Aizawa abandons the dish cloth, leaning against the sink as he eyes Hitoshi. “Can you make a French 75?”

Can he make a French 75? It’s such a softball request it’s insulting.

“With my eyes shut,” Hitoshi says with a snort, scanning his selection. “Boring, but totally doable. I’ll need to get champagne though.” 

He has no idea where he’ll procure it from, but he’d give it a shot if that’s what Aizawa wants.

“Can you make something similar without it?” Aizawa’s tone shifts to something more teasing as he crosses his arms. “Or is that beyond your skill level?”

Psh, challenge accepted. If it can even be called a challenge. Hitoshi had to come up with harder things to even get hired at the bar. The place didn’t even have a menu. The bartenders were all required to come up with drinks on the fly based on whatever customers requested.

“Of course I can,” he says, clicking his tongue as he scans his options. He snags a bottle of cucumber simple syrup as he searches for the right gin. “Something citrus forward? If you like French 75s then on the lighter side. I gotchu.”

“Something refreshing,” Aizawa adds, shifting closer so he can watch Hitoshi work. “I prefer lemon over other citruses like grapefruit or orange.”

Hitoshi nods distractedly, an idea already forming. Luckily, thanks to his new temporary roommate he actually has the ingredients he needs in his fridge to make this one. He slips past Aizawa, snagging an egg and a bottle of club soda from the fridge, separating the white out and shaking it up.

The drink he finally pours into two glasses is frothy and light green. It’s basically a gin gimlet with a twist, not terribly complex, but fits the bill for Aizawa’s request.

“One light refreshing drink as desired,” Hitoshi says, sliding the drink in Aizawa’s direction.

Aizawa snags the glass, sniffing it tentatively before he raises it to Hitoshi. “Cheers.”

“Cheers!” 

Hitoshi clinks their glasses together before they both settle on the sofa. He sips his own drink, watching Aizawa out of the corner of his eye. Aizawa’s first sip is tentative but his expression quickly shifts to surprised, then pleased as he takes a larger sip, and Hitoshi chest warms at how much Aizawa is obviously enjoying the beverage.

“I did not expect that to be good.”

Hitoshi grins, wiggling further down on the sofa as he tries not to look too smug. He’s not surprised. Mixology isn’t exactly something every twenty year old knows, but Hitoshi discovered he not only has a knack for it, he truly loves it. Working at that bar had been a blast. It was a bummer to have to shut it down and arrest everyone in it.

“Careful or you’ll hurt my feelings.”

“I’m genuinely impressed.” Aizawa muses, continuing to nurse his drink as he sinks back into the cushions. “It’s just the right amount of gin and the right amount of lemon. The cucumber and egg whites are nice touches.” He glances at Hitoshi out of the corner of his eye. “You must impress a lot of your hookups with this trick.”

“Only the ones I like, the rest of them get cheap beer,” Hitoshi says with a wink.

 In reality he doesn’t use it much, it’s more sad than fun to make a single fancy cocktail to drink alone, and most of Hitoshi’s hookups aren’t worth the expensive booze he’s managed to stock the thing with. He’s spent more time collecting ingredients than he has consuming them. But now that he has a captive audience who actually seems to like his drinks…? 

“You know…I did score this really cool stuff that changes color. You wanna see?”

“As long as we can drink it,” Aizawa says with a snicker.

“Obviously.” Hitoshi pounds his drink, hopping up as he heads eagerly for the cart. He’s been dying to try the gin out that Scribe gifted him for his birthday, but he’s not a fool, he needs a test subject for that shit first. He snags the bottle, spinning around to find Aizawa watching him over the back of the sofa. “Okay, suggest something else. Don’t try to think of specific drinks, just a flavor or mood you’re craving.”

Aizawa cocks his head, looking like a curious cat as he eyes Hitoshi. “You’re going to make a drink based on my mood?”

“Yup.” Hitoshi starts rifling through the cart, pulling out a new shaker and strainer as he talks. “Come on, hit me.”

There’s a long enough pause that Hitoshi turns, propping a hip against the cart as it creaks concerningly. Aizawa contemplates him, rubbing his chin thoughtfully before his lips quirk up in amusement.

“Subdued belligerence. Not to mention a little squirrelly.”

Hitoshi can’t help the laughter that bubbles up. Exactly the kind of vibe he expected from Aizawa. He shoots a look at Aizawa as he starts pulling ingredients. “If you’re trying to stump me, it won’t work.”

“I’m just being honest,” Aizawa says with an innocent smile and Hitoshi rolls his eyes.

A few minutes later Hitoshi carefully sets a perfectly clear drink in front of Aizawa, along with a shot glass full of bright blue liquid.

“Pour the shot in before you drink it,” he instructs, plopping down on the sofa again, eagerly awaiting Aizawa’s verdict.

Aizawa does as ordered and pours the shot in, eyebrows raising as the blue liquid shifts to a beautiful lavender purple upon contact, swirling in the clear liquid until it changes the entire drink.

“Fancy,” Aizawa says with a smirk. He raises the glass to his lips then pauses, shooting Hitoshi a look. “There isn’t an aphrodisiac in here or anything, is there?”

“Guess you’ll have to try it and find out,” Hitoshi says, shrugging innocently. 

Aizawa frowns, glancing at Hitoshi’s empty hands. “Aren’t you going to have any?”

“Nope.” Hitoshi learned his lesson the hard way about Scribe’s homemade concoctions. They might have a knack for making delicious liquors, but they often hit like a howitzer to the face.

“For some reason,” Aizawa says with a suspicious squint that Hitoshi just continues to smile innocently at, “I can’t help but make bad decisions around you.” He takes a sip, then another with an approving hum. “That’s nice.” He drains half the glass as Hitoshi preens at the praise, delighted to have managed to impress him twice. “The flavors evolve really nicely.”

“Good right? Surprising considering it has rice wine vinegar in it.”

“Rice wine vinegar? That’s what that is?” Aizawa asks, eyebrow lifting as he drains the rest of his glass. “That really is delicious.” He sets the glass on the coffee table, throwing an arm over the back of the sofa as he leans in toward Hitoshi, a challenging glint in his eye. “What else you got?”

Oh excellent , Aizawa is a drinker . Hitoshi can already think of at least six drinks he wants to test out on him, but he’d really rather have Aizawa pick.

“Depends,” Hitoshi fires back, scanning Aizawa for any sign that the two drinks he just pounded are hitting him, but Aizawa’s gaze is steady when it meets his. “What’s your mood now?”

Aizawa drops his gaze, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Can you invent a special shot? To memorialize our time together?”

Hitoshi flushes at the request. Aizawa wants him to invent a drink for them?

“Yeah, uh, yeah I can do that,” he agrees, rising to head for the cart again.

“Maybe something herbal?” Aizawa adds over his shoulder.

“Herbal?” Hitoshi cocks his head, flipping through all the possibilities before nodding. “Yeah, okay.”

The entire time Hitoshi’s working he can feel Aizawa watching him, but he very pointedly keeps his gaze on what he’s doing. If he actually catches Aizawa staring at him he’s almost positive he’ll drop something and end up making a mess. He always flounders under that heavy gaze, being a pro hasn’t changed that one bit.

Eventually he sets two bright red shots on the coffee table. Aizawa gives the shot a tentative sniff but seems satisfied with whatever he smells as he smirks at Hitoshi. “How’s your German?”

Hitoshi shrugs. “Gut genug, um meinen Schwanz gelutscht zu kriegen.”

Good enough to get my dick sucked.

“Why?”

Aizawa’s expression doesn’t change which tells Hitoshi all he needs to know about how good Aizawa’s German is.

“Zur mitte, zur titte, zum sack, zack zack!” Aizawa says, gesturing with the shot but not drinking.

‘To the middle, to the tit, to the balls, go go!’ 

Hitoshi lets out a startled laugh, nearly dropping his shot. Aizawa might not know much German but his accent is impressive. Hitoshi mimics the movements as they toast again, downing their shots.

“To the balls?? Where in the world did you learn that?”

“Undercover job in Austria. Hilariously, I didn't retain the language but I do remember that.” Aizawa snickers as he sets down his glass. “Also where I learned to hold my liquor.”

“Apparently,” Hitoshi says dryly. He abandons his own glass, leaning into Aizawa’s face to scan him critically. No flushed cheeks, clear steady gaze, god damn, is he really not feeling these at all? “You’re impressively sober with three of my drinks in you.”

Aizawa’s smile softens but he doesn’t pull back from Hitoshi’s proximity as he continues to study him. “Would it offend you if I told you that I don’t feel anything?”

“Nothing?!” Hitoshi demands. He narrows his eyes, giving Aizawa a light shove in the chest just to see how steady he is. “Not even a little bit?”

Aizawa catches his fingertips, dropping their hands into his lap, voice lower as he replies. “Maybe a little.” Hitoshi’s hand is released before he can truly process the moment and Aizawa adds in a more normal voice, “maybe something with whiskey next?”

“Right.” Hitoshi clears his throat, standing up as he tugs the sleeves of his hoodie over tingling fingertips. “Whiskey, can do. Give me a vibe.”

Aizawa ponders it before he chuckles, glancing up at Hitoshi through his lashes. “Kittenish.”

Hitoshi flushes and flees to the drink cart, chest tight. Maybe he’s starting to feel the drinks more than he thought.

Hitoshi ends up going with an upside down pineapple shot, which Aizawa finds deeply amusing, and only encourages him to give Hitoshi weirder and more obscure prompts. Hitoshi already knows he’s going to regret this many drinks in the morning, but how is he supposed to say no when Aizawa goes to the window, points at something in a shop across the street and says ‘I want what they’re having’. 

‘Them’ turns out to be a statue of two bright green frogs drinking who knows what out of a glass shaped like a snail. Hitoshi giggles his way through the entire process and they end up with a surprisingly tasty drink that Aizawa confirms has to be what the frogs are drinking.

“Okay, okay,” Aizawa says, still snickering as he props an arm on the sofa behind Hitoshi. “Now I’m feeling it. I can do one more.”

“Lord that took ages!” Hitoshi groans, dropping his head back on Aizawa’s arm in relief. He honestly thought he was going to be the only one suffering in the morning but it looks like he finally got Aizawa there too. “Alright, whatcha want for our final hurrah?”

Long fingers pick idly at the sleeve of Hitoshi’s shirt as Aizawa hums thoughtfully. “Surprise me.”

“Anything at all?” Hitoshi asks, rolling his head to look at Aizawa, cheek smushed against the soft cotton of Aizawa’s sleeve. He suppresses a yawn that the warm comforting scent of Aizawa pulls from him, blinking a couple times to wake himself up.  “No limits?”

“Nope,” Aizawa says, shaking his head. “Just one custom made drink.”

“Mmk, one custom drink coming up.”

He doesn’t even realize the drink he’s decided to make until he’s chilling the espresso concentrate and he almost scraps it and starts over, but Aizawa is watching him and Hitoshi doesn’t want to explain why he’s tossed out a perfectly good drink. 

When he’s done he sets a cup shyly down in front of Aizawa. “It’s not exactly a good nightcap but it’s one of the first drinks I created.” He hesitates momentarily before he adds quietly, “I named it the Shōta.”

Aizawa stares wide-eyed at the drink for long enough that Hitoshi shifts uncomfortably, contemplating snagging the drink and running, but eventually Aizawa leans slowly forward and picks it up, glancing at Hitoshi. “You named a drink after me?”

Hitoshi shrugs awkwardly as he settles back into the empty space beside Aizawa. “Yeah, I dunno. When I made it, seemed like ingredients you’d like. Espresso, rye whiskey, cola, bitters, vermouth. Sounded like a Shōta—er Aizawa drink.”

“I’m flattered,” Aizawa says, cheeks turning a rosy pink. “And honored.”

Hitoshi pointedly focuses on his own drink as Aizawa samples his, humming contentedly.

“I like it. Exactly my kind of drink.” Aizawa cups his beverage in both hands, sliding down on the sofa as he sips it. “You know me too well.”

Hitoshi’s lips twitch in a small smile as he slumps down next to him and he can’t resist leaning in until their crammed together in the center of the couch, elbows knocking awkwardly every time they shift. “Yeah well, I’ve spent most of my life watching you. I was bound to pick up something.”

Aizawa smirks at that, taking another sip. “You have shit role models, kid.”

Hitoshi scowls at his drink, his heady buzz taking a sour turn at the nickname. “Stop calling me that.”

“Calling you what?”

“Stop calling me kid , I’m not a child anymore.”

There’s a long silence as Aizawa studies Hitoshi and he tries not to squirm under that critical gaze. “I will as soon as you stop calling me Aizawa.”

Hitoshi pauses, drink halfway to his mouth as he blinks in confusion. “Huh?”

Aizawa shifts in his seat until they’re face-to-face, expression serious. “I’ve been waiting for you to call me by my given name for years. Call me, Shōta.” He winces, expression pained. “Unless that bothers you?”

“No no!” Hitoshi says frantically, setting down his glass and turning to sit sideways on the sofa. “It doesn’t bother me, I just…” He bites his lip, staring at his hands as his shoulders cave in slightly. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

“That’s ludicrous. I’ve been calling you by your given name since you graduated. I thought you would just follow suit but when you didn’t I thought maybe it was just you setting boundaries. I’ve tried my best to respect those boundaries.”

Hitoshi opens his mouth, then shuts it again, at a complete loss for words. He hadn’t really thought about that. Aizawa naturally transitioned from ‘Shinsou’ to ‘Hitoshi’ after high school, but the ‘kid’ and ‘student’ jokes never stopped either. Hitoshi had no idea that Aizawa was holding a boundary he thought Hitoshi had wanted.

“Oh,” he says lamely after a few minutes. He feels like he should apologize, but he isn’t exactly sure for what.

Aizawa gives Hitoshi’s knee a light squeeze, pulling Hitoshi’s gaze back up to dark apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry if I ever gave the wrong impression about how I feel about us. I really value our relationship and consider you a real friend.”

Aizawa–no Shōta already considers him a friend? Hitoshi can’t help the shit eating grin that spreads across his face. 

“Yeah? Awesome!” Nope, he needs to sound chiller about this. “I mean cool, that’s cool. I kinda assumed you saw me as just a former student. I’m glad we’re really friends.” He pauses before adding, “Shōta.”

Oh, that felt weird.

Hitoshi must have made a face because Aizawa just stares blankly for a minute before he’s hiding laughter behind his hand, eyes crinkling in delight. “You’ll get used to it.”

—

It was the gin that did it.

Or maybe it was the rum. 

Or the tequila? Patron has never been his friend. 

In any case, Shōta feels like garbage. Like he’s been run over by a semi truck multiple times and then belly flopped into a swimming pool from a twelve-foot diving board. He’s groggy, he’s thirsty, he hates life just a tad more than usual, and if he doesn’t get off this couch soon, he’s going to end up wetting himself. 

Unfortunately, he can’t move. Because instead of relocating to his bed last night, Hitoshi made himself comfortable on Shōta’s lap.

Curled up in a blanket, cheek pressed against Shōta’s thigh, Hitoshi is snoring peacefully and Shōta doesn’t have the heart to wake him. Not when the night terrors have been so frequent. 

He knows firsthand how terrifying the nightmares are. Knows how sleep deprivation consumes your sanity, bit by bit, until one day you’re carrying a sleeping bag around just to catch up on every second of sleep you lost in the last ten years.

Although knowing Hitoshi, he would never let that happen. He’s stubborn and strong and it hadn’t been long into their training when Shōta realized just how impenetrable Hitoshi’s willpower is. He’s a far more capable hero than Shōta was at the ripe age of twenty. Shōta envies him, in a way. Admires him.

Slowly, Shōta cards his fingers through Hitoshi’s hair, twirling the ends to see them curl. No graying yet. No wrinkles on his skin, although there are a few scars and hidden tattoos behind his ear. He traces a finger along a strong jawline, mesmerized by how smooth and soft his skin is. When Hitoshi sighs into a smile, Shōta’s heart jumpstarts, immediately startling him out of his thoughts. 

He waits until his heart rate’s back to normal before giving Hitoshi a quick shake. “Hey. Wake up. You’re on my bed.”

Hitoshi jerks upright at the contact, eyes wide open—bloodshot but otherwise completely alert—before he winces in pain, collapsing back onto Shōta’s lap and burying his face in his hands. “Oh god, no, why would you wake me up??”

“It’s one in the afternoon,” Shōta points out. He shifts uncomfortably. “And I need to use the facilities.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Slow as molasses, Hitoshi drags himself off the couch, only taking two steps toward his bed before tipping into it and shoving his face into the closest pillow.

As soon as Shōta regains feeling in his legs, he reaches for his backpack and pulls out a water bottle. He’s a bit wobbly when he stands, but already feels a hell of a lot better just moving around. 

“Here,” Shōta says, setting the water bottle on Hitoshi’s makeshift nightstand. “Hydrate.”

There’s a grunt from the bed, but Hitoshi doesn’t move a muscle. Which is fair. They drank a shit ton last night.

Someone like Hitoshi has the constitution to sleep his hangover off, but Shōta knows that he does not. He needs caffeine and food and a long soak in a nice, hot bath.

“Hey,” Shōta says, carefully taking a seat on the edge of Hitoshi’s bed, “I know you’d rather sleep til dinner but what do you say we find some lunch and coffee? I could use a bath too.”

“That all requires so much moving.”

“Trust me, I know. But you’ll feel better afterward.” Shōta wrinkles his nose. “I know I’ll feel better afterward. And… it’d be nice to have company.”

Hitoshi groans dramatically but, to Shōta’s relief, sits up and aimlessly reaches for a nearby laundry basket. “Okay, okay.” Sleepily, he pulls out his Eraser hoodie. “I know a place on the way to the sento that serves good hangover food.” He pulls the hoodie over his head and squints at Shōta. “Please tell me I’m not the only one hungover.”

Shōta snorts. Given the amount of alcohol they drank, there was no chance Hitoshi was suffering alone.

“Trust me, I am regretting all of my life choices.”

—

It’s amazing what coffee can do. Shōta’s mood improves tremendously after a single cup and he starts to feel more like himself after a plate of food. They spend the majority of their lunch shoveling food in their mouths, in silent agreement that any type of conversation would be too much effort.

Once their proverbial health bar is filled, they head to the public bath.  

“Okay, this might have been a good idea,” Hitoshi says, quickly stripping off the last of his clothing and wrapping a towel around his waist.

“You seem much perkier,” Shōta remarks, moving at a more leisure pace. 

Hitoshi half shrugs, shutting his locker door. “Good food and coffee will do that. Plus I slept well.” He drops onto a bench as his gaze wanders around the locker room. “No nightmares last night.”

That’s a relief. 

“You get a lot of those,” Shōta says quietly, head still buried in his locker. Hitoshi’s whimpers and muffled screams have kept Shōta awake almost every night, his own body completely attuned to Hitoshi’s agony. Shōta’s had to fight the temptation to crawl into bed with him and soothe him back to sleep.

“Who doesn’t?” Hitoshi says flippantly as Shōta takes the seat next to him. He’s seconds from offering some words of comfort when Hitoshi leans in, bumping his shoulder. “I had fun last night. I don’t get to do that often.”

Shōta smiles. “You have a talent for mixology. If you ever retire from hero work, you have a standing job offer as my personal bartender.”

“Offer accepted.” Hitoshi leaps up with a delighted grin before glancing down at Shōta’s prosthetic. “You need a hand?”

“Mmm. You go on ahead of me, I’ll only be a minute.”

Hitoshi nods and starts making his way to the bathing area. “K, but if you take too long I’m coming back to see where you’ve hobbled off to.”

Shōta rolls his eyes playfully, waiting for Hitoshi to disappear into the bathing area before leaning forward and scrubbing his face.

“I’m such an idiot.”

He truly is. While he’s managed to live pretty independently, his pride has prevented him from asking for help with what he considers the more tedious tasks. Bathing being one of them. Showers he finds are much easier, although even that takes twice as long as it used to.

The worst part of visiting the public bath is the audience. Their stares. Their double takes and not-so-subtle side glances. The overly polite but not entirely sincere requests to help from strangers who pity him. They all make him feel less than, broken, and fragile, and he hoped that asking Hitoshi to accompany him would help with that, but he shooed him away like an idiot. Too afraid to admit that he does need help every once in a while, or at the very least a friend to chase the stares away.

“Sensei?” A familiar voice calls nearby. “Is that you?”

Shōta turns his head. Lo and behold, there’s Monoma walking toward him with a shit-eating grin. Of all the people and of all the bathhouses in this godforsaken city, he just had to appear in this one.

“No, turn around, you’re seeing things,” Shōta says, shooing him away.

“I’m seeing things?” Monoma exclaims. “Last time I checked I still have two good eyes.”

Okay. Wow. Low blow. 

“Come any closer and I’ll change that for you,” Shōta deadpans.

“Oh, you don’t scare me.” Monoma tosses his duffel onto the bench and plops onto the seat next to him. He leans over and Shōta resists the urge to shove him off. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yes, well. Contrary to public opinion, I do bathe on occasion.”

“It’s not your hygiene we worry about, it’s your abysmal sleep schedule.” Monoma glances around. “Are you alone?”

Shōta shakes his head. “No, I came with Hitoshi.”

“Hitoshi’s here??? No way.” Monoma squints at him and looks around again, but the locker room is empty. “You’re lying, he hates bathhouses.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Where is he then?”

Shōta gestures to the bathing area. “He went in without me.”

“What? He left you behind? What a bastard!” Monoma scowls. “Why do you put up with him?” 

Shōta snorts. “Because his cocktails are delicious.”

“You’re drinking with him?!”

“I’m staying with him,” Shōta clarifies, carefully peeling his shirt off. “While my apartment is under renovation,” he adds after seeing Monoma’s jaw drop.

“Oh.” Carefully, Monoma reaches over, tugging the shirt over Shōta’s head. “You know you could have texted. My apartment is way more accessible.”

Shōta bites his bottom lip. “I know.” First floor. Big bathroom. Only a couple stops from his own apartment. The ease of life would be a vast improvement but he’s not sure if his quality of life would be any better. “As it were, I swore to never step foot in your apartment again.”

“You didn’t make that promise to me.”

“I made that promise to myself.” Shōta bends over and unzips his pant leg to access his prosthetic. “Don’t read into it, Monoma. You know how I feel about us.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got your message loud and clear,” Monoma says, waving his hand. “At least let me help?”

“Sure,” Shōta agrees because the faster he can get undressed, the faster he can settle into a bath. 

Monoma kneels in front of his prosthetic. He’s only done this once before, but his memory seems to serve him well and Shōta guides him the rest of the way. Admittedly, this is something Shōta can do himself but he thought he should practice putting his ego aside. 

“So…” Monoma says after a long silence. He starts to slide the prosthetic off at an excruciatingly slow pace, being extra careful. “Did Hitoshi show you the color changing gin?”

“We practically drained the bottle.”

Monoma laughs. “Next time you should ask him to—”

“Hey, Shōta, you fall over or som—” Hitoshi materializes around the corner, stopping in his tracks at the sight of Monoma. “Neito?” 

 “There he is!” Monoma says, eyes lighting up. He looks back at Shōta with a wink. “Seriously thought you were kidding, I have never seen him bathed ever .”

Hitoshi glares at Monoma as he marches over. “Just because I don’t let you watch me doesn’t mean I don’t bathe.” He takes a knee right next to Monoma and practically shoves him away. “You’re doing it wrong, move.”

Monoma doesn’t budge. “Rude, can’t you see I’m trying to help?”

“Yeah, emphasis on trying,” Hitoshi drones.

Sighing, Shōta slides his prosthetic off his stump and props it against the bench, reaching for his crutch nearby. “Actually, I’m all set. I just might need a hand getting around.”

Hitoshi immediately rises, offering his hand before Monoma can. “Come on, it’s pretty quiet right now, so you don’t have to go far.”

Shōta nods but before he can reply, Monoma cackles loudly. “You’ll need to help him out of the rest of his clothes first, dum dum.” 

Monoma stands and snatches his duffel, bumping Hitoshi’s shoulder as he walks away. As children do. Hitoshi proceeds to stare Monoma down as he disappears behind a row of lockers.

“He has a point, you know,” Shōta says gently.

Hitoshi retracts his hand, looking embarrassed. “Right, sorry. How can I help?”

The blush warms Shōta’s heart and he smiles reassuringly. “I can undress myself. I just need something to help prop me up.” He extends a hand and Hitoshi takes it, fingers inadvertently threading. Hitoshi holds on tightly, steadying Shōta as he tugs his pants and boxers down. 

It’s surprisingly easy to get to the bathing area from there. Unlike previous aides Shōta’s had, Hitoshi doesn’t coddle him or treat him like an invalid. He guides Shōta slowly, patiently stopping and going when Shōta needs to readjust his crutch. He’s easy to direct, helping Shōta soap and rinse off places he can’t reach, and engages him in normal conversation as if this is something in his normal routine. He seems completely comfortable in Shōta’s space. Content, even.

Luckily, there’s only a couple of people in the bath. Hitoshi helps Shōta sit on the very edge of the pool before sinking into the water himself. 

“There’s a corner over there that people tend to avoid,” Shōta says, pointing to a far corner on the opposite wall, away from prying eyes. “You mind if we sit there for a while?”

Hitoshi offers his hand and guides Shōta into the water, but it’s not exactly a graceful transition. Shōta crashes into him, arms wrapping around Hitoshi’s neck to keep from slipping into the water. Luckily, Hitoshi is as solid as a rock, his hold on Shōta firm and unyielding, and the both of them turn away, blushing.

“Thanks—”

“Sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Shōta murmurs, cheeks still warm. “I can somewhat hop-float if I hang onto you.”

Hitoshi nods and they start to tread to the far side of the bath. “Do I want to ask why people avoid this spot?”

“Because it’s pretty secluded and people assume that any two people over there are probably fucking.” Shōta chuckles quietly at the grin already forming on Hitoshi’s lips. “So they tend to stay away.”

“Kinky.” 

“And surprisingly considerate.”

Hitoshi shoots Shōta a flirty look as they reach and claim their own little corner. “You know, you didn’t have to get me to a bathhouse to get me naked. You’re already practically in my bed.”

Shōta resists an eye roll, ignoring the heat pooling deep in his belly. “Mmm. Yes. This was my plan all along. I deliberately flooded my apartment, prompting a temporary eviction, and planted myself at the diner two blocks from your apartment in hopes that you would pass by and take pity on me. Once I was in, I’d have access to your body 24/7.”

Hitoshi laughs and presses the back of his free hand to his forehead, feigning a swoon. “The deviousness, the romance, take me now, Shōta.”

Shōta snorts as he wades toward some steps on the other side of the bath, lowering himself into a sitting position on the top step. “So pervy’s your type, huh?”

Hitoshi settles next to him, leaning his head back on the edge of the bath. He shuts his eyes, a shadow of a smile remaining. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The banter comes to a halt as Shōta momentarily loses his breath, his brain processing the question.

“I would, actually.”

There’s a pause. Then Hitoshi cracks an eye open, expression genuinely curious. “Wait, really?”

Shōta nods.

Hitoshi straightens his spine, propping his arm on the edge as he eyes Shōta with suspicion.

Which is a fair reaction. Up til now, Shōta has made it very clear that he was not interested in knowing about Hitoshi’s romantic partners and sexual encounters. He often changed subjects. Replied with snarky remarks. Up til now, it didn’t matter. Up til now, he didn’t care.

“I’ll tell you,” Hitoshi says slowly, “if you tell me what your type is too.”

Shōta swallows thickly. “I guess that’s only fair.”

Hitoshi hums, propping his head on his hand and looking thoughtfully into the water. “Guess it depends on what I’m looking for. One night stand? Not very picky, not gonna remember their name anyway, just gotta be hot and a decent lay.” 

Shōta blinks. That sounds familiar.

“For a relationship?” Hitoshi continues, scratching his head. “Probably someone older. My work demands too much of my attention to deal with all the drama of some guy my age who doesn’t get it. Sense of humor, intelligent, independent, ya know? And sure”— he smirks at Shōta, flicking water in his direction—“pervy is fun too.” 

Shōta chuckles, flicking water back at him. “Y’know, Mic just happens to be single again.”

“Pass, I enjoy silence too much to get anywhere near that man.”

“Valid.” 

Hitoshi drifts closer and makes a come-on gesture. “Well? Let’s hear it.”

“Alright, but you probably won’t like my answer too much.” Because Shōta doesn’t have a shortlist of ideal traits or a dream guy, he long abandoned the idea that anything like that could actually exist. “My only requirement is that he’s someone who’s easy to be with. Someone easy to confide in, easy to listen to, easy to be around. Easy to live with.” Shōta reclines his head back with a sigh. “Everything in my life has been so unnecessarily exhausting that I’d like to be with someone who is just easy to…love.”

It’s funny, in a kind of a painful way. Shōta can’t recall a time he’s ever said all this out loud, not even to Mic who’s been his best friend since high school. But in this moment, the words spill from his lips almost effortlessly.

Hitoshi pokes Shōta in the arm and Shōta picks his head up, meeting Hitoshi’s softened expression. “Why would I not like that answer? That sounds nice. Why would anyone want a relationship that’s hard?”

Shōta chuckles, eyes darting to Monoma at the faucets. “Some people love the drama.”

Hitoshi follows his gaze and his face falls flat. “Ya know, you let that drama into your bed.”

Shōta winces. Ouch. He didn’t expect that to sting. “Technically, it was his bed.”

“And that makes it different somehow?”

“No, but I try to convince myself that being lured by a spritely young pro is better than seducing someone half my age.” Shōta glances at Hitoshi with a frown. “I thought you said it didn’t bother you.”

Hitoshi shrugs, averting his eyes. “It doesn’t.”

That was unconvincing, which is strange since he’s normally a good liar. A skill that Shōta wishes he taught Hitoshi later in his high school career. 

“You know it didn’t mean anything, right?” Shōta says quietly.

Hitoshi turns to Shōta and this time looks at him as if he’s the liar. “Except it did actually.”

Oh. Shōta doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like the fact that Hitoshi might know something beyond Shōta’s comprehension. Doesn’t like that Hitoshi might have realized something before he did. Or that he might think that there’s something going on between him and Monoma when there isn’t. 

“What do you mean?” Shōta asks tentatively. He tracks Hitoshi as Hitoshi moves around, shifting Shōta’s gaze away from Monoma.

“If it really didn’t mean anything, you wouldn’t be beating yourself up so much about it,” Hitoshi explains. “The guy I kicked out of my apartment last week meant nothing, I literally do not remember his name and haven’t thought of him since. But you’re ashamed of sleeping with Neito, and that means something.”

It’s silent. Shōta never thought about it that way. He’s always felt guilty for not holding the line between student and colleague. Student and hookup. Student and friend. But the truth of the matter is they’re no longer his students and he’s not responsible for them. Not anymore. He shouldn’t have to feel bad for drinking with Mina and Hanta. Or sleeping with Monoma. Or falling in love with Hitoshi.

Shōta pales.

Oh fuck.

“Sorry,” Shōta murmurs, his heart pounding against his chest. “You’re right. It bothers me more than I thought it would. I don’t want it to.”

Hitoshi places a comforting hand on Shōta’s arm. “I know it can’t be easy, being in your position. But at some point you have to see us as more than just your former students.” He squeezes and the water drifts them closer. “I’m more than just your protege. I’m your friend.”

Shōta presses his lips together to keep the confession from slipping out.

You're much more than a friend, Hitoshi.

—

Before Shōta knew it, summer break was over.

He wasn’t ready. Paperwork and student files are strewn across the coffee table in an effort to lesson plan and refine training regimens before Monday. He’s tried to concentrate on work for the better part of the day, desperate to finish before dinner, but his mind keeps drifting to his roommate.

His fondness for Hitoshi has only skyrocketed now that Shōta’s admitted how deeply in love he is. It hit him like an incoming freight train and now Shōta can’t stop thinking about him. Can’t help being closer to him. Can’t stop spinning his wheels on how and when Hitoshi became more than just a friend. 

Maybe living with him changed Shōta’s mind. Or maybe he’s had these feelings long before.

Either way, the thoughts consume him, thoroughly distracting him from his work.

“School stuff?” Hitoshi asks, setting down a bottle of ginger ale for Shōta, who murmurs a quick thank you for the drink.

“Class starts up again next week.”

Hitoshi drops into the seat next to him, peering at the paperwork and Shōta can do nothing else but watch him. Looking for any small sign that Hitoshi might reciprocate his feelings. A tiny tell that there might have been something real in that high school crush.  

“What is this?” Hitoshi asks, snatching a piece of paper from the table.

“What?”

“Are you seriously starting the semester with a test??”

Shōta shrugs. “How else would I be able to tell who’s been studying during the break?” He takes the sample test and trades it for a student file that Hitoshi immediately starts to flip through. “Right now, I’m trying to figure out how to deal with Furukawa.”

Class 3A’s problem child who manages to find and push all of Shōta’s buttons. 

“Teleportation? Sweet, that’s handy.” Hitoshi scans a page and arches an eyebrow, seemingly impressed. “Seems like a cool kid. What’s the problem?”

“His attitude.” Shōta tosses his notebook onto the table and leans back, shutting his eyes, exhausted. “His confidence precedes his actual skill level. Don’t get me wrong, the kid’s talented, but he’s constantly overestimating his ability.” He peeks an eye open and gives Hitoshi a knowing look. “Remind you of anyone?”

Hitoshi grins. “I have no idea what you’re implying.” He flips back to the first page, studying Furukawa’s photo. 

Shōta smiles. Lately, he’s been seeking Hitoshi’s advice on lesson plans, appreciating the points of view he brings. He loves having someone to talk shop with who isn’t another faculty member and Hitoshi is a great soundboard. 

“Talented, smart, over confident,” Hitoshi says, nodding, “sounds like the standard recipe for a future pro.”

“Eventually. Right now he’s a pain in my ass.”

Hitoshi settles back on the sofa, sitting close enough that Shōta can practically feel the rhythm of his breathing. “He a team player?”

Shōta shifts just to get closer. “When it suits him.”

“And when it doesn’t?”

“He goes rogue and ends up sabotaging the mission.” He slides down a little, thoroughly enjoying being in Hitoshi’s personal space. He gives him a light kick. “Come to think of it, you were never that reckless.”

“I worked too hard to get in the hero track to let my ego screw it up. Sounds like he hasn’t realized that talent actually isn’t the only thing you need to go pro.” Hitoshi snorts and takes a sip of his drink. “You’ve got yourself another Bakugou.”

Shōta groans. “Oh great.” Actually, that gives him an idea. He grabs his phone sitting on the armrest. “Maybe I should give Dynamight a call.”

Before he can search for Bakugou’s contact, his phone starts to ring.

Shōta’s stomach drops as his landlord’s name flashes across the screen. 

He doesn’t want to pick up. He knows what the call is about and, as difficult as it is to live in a shoebox on the fourth floor, he refuses to leave the one thing that means the world to him. At least for tonight.

“Uh, you gonna answer that?” Hitoshi asks.

Shōta sets his phone down and goes for his drink. “It’s late. They’ll leave a voicemail.” He raises his bottle toward Hitoshi and smirks. “What do you say we use these to chase a couple of shots?”

Hitoshi jumps out of his seat in delight and makes a beeline for the liquor cart. “I’m in, tomorrow’s my day off anyway.” He points a warning finger at Shōta as he grabs a bottle of vodka. “If you wake me before noon, I am not responsible for my own actions.”

Shōta chuckles, silencing his phone before shoving it in his backpack. “You’ll get your beauty rest, I promise.”

—

“What’re your plans on Saturday? Besides sleeping in ‘til noon?”

Hitoshi grins, scooping up Shōta’s dinner plate as he heads for the kitchen. Tonight was Shōta’s turn to cook which puts Hitoshi on dish duty. A responsibility he finds he doesn’t mind because Shōta always ends up coming over to help dry dishes and keep him company as they chat.

The summer has flown by with Shōta here. Delay after delay has kept him extending his stay, and Hitoshi finds he doesn’t mind. In fact, he enjoys having Shōta around. Sure the space is a little cramped, but once they’d rearranged, upgraded Shōta’s bed with actual sheets and blankets, and then added a couple shelves (all dragged up by Hitoshi while Shōta ‘supervised’) it’s actually been really nice.

Their routines mesh well together, and unlike Hitoshi’s past roommates, Shōta respects his weird schedule, moving around the place like a ghost whenever Hitoshi sleeps obscene hours into the day.

 “No plans. Apparently, all my friends are workaholics like me. I couldn’t even get Denks to co-op online with me.” Hitoshi passes a dish towel to Shōta as he joins him. “Why?”

“Mina gave me tickets to a digital art museum in town. Accused me of needing a night of culture and the arts. She said she’d ask me about it on Monday and expects pictures,” Shōta explains, digging a set of tickets out of his pocket. Dark pleading eyes shift to Hitoshi as he holds them out. “Please don’t make me go alone.”

Hitoshi snickers, drying his hands as he snags a ticket from Shōta. He’s never heard of the place, but knowing Mina it’s probably worth checking out. 

“How’s it feel to be the one getting tested?” he teases and Shōta snorts, playfully bumping Hitoshi’s shoulder.

“Watch it,” Shōta warns, feigning a glare but Hitoshi knows it’s all an act. 

Shōta’s more bark than bite and Hitoshi figured that out years ago. He rolls his eyes, swaying with the shove until he lands back against Shōta’s shoulder. Browsing through the website for the museum he arches an eyebrow, whistling in appreciation. 

“Wow, this place looks cool. Yeah, I’m in.” He passes the ticket back, leaning in against Shōta with a small smile. “I’ll even get up early so we can miss the crowds.”

Shōta lets out a relieved sigh, pocketing the tickets. “I was hoping you’d say that. Ten a.m. too early?”

“For art and a day with my favorite roommate? Nah. Just have coffee ready.”

—

Mahō Museum, it turns out, is located in the back alley of a back alley that they only find thanks to Hitoshi’s GPS and Shōta’s flawless sense of direction. Despite that, they’re still not the only ones who found it, but luckily this early in the day there’s only a short line before they’re being let inside.

Rather than a typical museum with art on the walls and large open galleries, Mahō Museum is more immersive. The rooms are the exhibits and groups wander through in small clusters that are limited by timed entry. 

In silent agreement, they both take their time walking down the first dark hallway, letting the rowdy family they’ve been let in with get a solid head start. When an attendant starts to eye them for dawdling Shōta feigns struggling to walk faster than a glacial crawl as he clings to Hitoshi’s arm and Hitoshi has to press a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing aloud. It does the trick though and the attendant hesitates before heading back to the entrance to space the next group out behind them.

“Wow, you’re shameless,” Hitoshi hums, tone hushed in the dark space as they head toward the first glowing room. “Milking other people’s sympathy like that.”

Shōta continues to limp along like he’s got the world’s shittiest prosthetic, hanging on for dear life as he slips his hand into Hitoshi’s. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh huh. Sure you don’t.” Hitoshi grins, stepping into the first exhibit room and then comes to an abrupt halt, eyes wide. “Oh wow.”

“Is that—”

“Yup.” 

Hitoshi holds his hand out and glowing purple drops of water explode on his palm. The room echoes with the sound of falling water, and what looked like just a trick of the light turns out to actually be illuminated rain. A gentle indoor rainstorm that flickers blue and purple.

Across the room Hitoshi sees the other family disappearing down the next hall as the father tucks an umbrella into a nearby bin. A glance behind them reveals a similar bin filled with more umbrellas. Hitoshi snags one, popping it open with the hand that isn’t still entwined with Shōta’s, holding it over both their heads. 

“At least we don’t end up drenched.”

Hitoshi slips an arm around Shōta’s waist, pulling him closer so they can both fit under the small umbrella as they head for the center of the room. Hitoshi hadn’t realized how intimate the experience would be. Not that he minds, but tucked in against Shōta, surrounded by only the quiet patter of water drops and dimly twinkling lights it’s hard for it to not feel…romantic. 

Next to him, Shōta extends the hand that isn’t on Hitoshi’s waist, watching the pattern the light makes on his palm as rain hits it. It would be a beautiful picture, but he’s pretty sure he’d get scolded for trying to dig his phone out, and he’s not entirely sure he can manage it without soaking them both, so instead he just commits the view to memory, watching Shōta as he watches the rain.

“Ready?” Shōta asks after a minute, glancing at Hitoshi, and Hitoshi flushes at being caught looking at Shōta and not the exhibit.

“Yeah, onward.”

They abandon the umbrella at the hallway and Hitoshi reluctantly releases Shōta, letting him walk down the hall on his own as Hitoshi trails after him, distracted by the way his gut tightens every time Shōta glances back to make sure he’s still there, a small smile on his lips.

Hitoshi thought he’d long ago left behind the way his body reacted to Shōta, but over the past few weeks, he’s found it slowly creeping back in. Infecting his mind and thoroughly distracting him both at work and home. It doesn’t help that as they’ve settled into the routine of living together they’ve gotten more and more physically comfortable around each other.

Just the other week, Hitoshi had nearly burned himself on the stove while cooking when he’d caught a view of Shōta changing out of the corner of his eye, and had to make up a bullshit excuse for why all the noodles had ended up accidentally dumped in the sink.

Recently it’s been worse. Or better. He’s still deciding. Shōta has become touchy and it’s driving Hitoshi absolutely bonkers. He’s never had this much physical contact in his life and every time it’s gone he finds himself craving more. Constantly resisting the urge to reach out and take Shōta’s hand.

A hand that’s currently extended to him.

Hitoshi blinks, glancing up at Shōta who’s standing in the doorway, hand still out, the other resting on a curtain that blocks the entrance to the next exhibit.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Hitoshi says, taking Shōta’s hand, threading their fingers together as they duck through the curtain. “Just got lost in thought for a second.”

Shōta studies him for a moment as Hitoshi schools his face into a more neutral expression. 

“Something on your mind?”

I think I still have feelings for you.

“Nothing important,” Hitoshi says instead, tugging Shōta further into the room.

The next space is filled with a warm orange glow from hundreds of paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The lamps sway gently as they walk deeper into the room, the light reflected a thousand times off the mirrored walls, ceiling, and floor.

They stand there for ages, staring in awe at the infinite lights. It isn’t until Shōta shifts that Hitoshi realizes they’re still hand in hand, but Shōta doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems perfectly comfortable standing in this peaceful room, shoulder-to-shoulder, fingers twined together. Like it’s totally natural and not making every nerve in Hitoshi’s body light on fire.

Hitoshi glances shyly at Shōta, watching him out of the corner of his eye.  In the warm glow of the room Shōta looks different. Not physically, it just softens him in a way that Hitoshi has only seen when Shōta sleeps. He pulls his phone out, snapping a couple photos, then gets a third one when Shōta catches what he’s doing and blushes. Hitoshi’s pretty sure it’s going to be his new phone background. When he tries for another picture Shōta flattens a palm over the phone, smirking as he pushes his hand down.

“Quit it.”

“Hey, Mina said she wanted proof.” Hitoshi hooks his arm around Shōta’s neck, tugging them together as he flips his camera to selfie mode. “And she’ll never believe I came with you without proof.”

Shōta begrudgingly holds still but he averts his gaze as Hitoshi snaps a photo and Hitoshi clicks his tongue in disappointment as he examines the picture. “You’re not even looking . You have to at least pretend you’re having a good time.” 

“I am having a good time,” Shōta says dryly, shooting Hitoshi a teasing look. “I’m just having an extremely bad hair day.”

Hitoshi’s laughter is loud enough that it bounces off the walls and he slaps a hand over his mouth as Shōta snickers in amusement.

“Come on,” Hitoshi says, grabbing Shōta’s hand and dragging him toward the door to the next room to hide the embarrassed blush on his cheeks. “One more room to go.”

—

The last room is by far the most impressive. Double the size of any of the other rooms, beautiful floral patterns are projected onto every surface, twisting and twining like they’re growing at high speed as they curl across surfaces. The far wall is one giant light waterfall, flickering gold and silver sparks that flutter to the floor before vanishing.

A few people are sitting out in the middle of the room, letting the lights dance over them, but there are also benches all around the sides where some groups are lingering as well. 

Hitoshi heads for the nearest bench but Shōta gives his arm a tug, pointing at a large rocky structure by the waterfall. He says something but Hitoshi can’t hear it over the gentle orchestral music echoing around the room, so he ducks closer, head cocked to Shōta.

“What?”

“I said, mind if we sit over there?”

“Oh, sure,” Hitoshi heads that way, hooking his arm through Shōta’s elbow so they’re still close enough to talk as he smirks at him. “This another one of those ‘special’ corners of yours?”

“It’s a good photo op,” Shōta says, rolling his eyes. He pauses, nose wrinkling in annoyance and Hitoshi can’t help thinking it makes him look cute. A word he’s only just recently even started associating with the man. Handsome? Sexy? Wildly intimidating? Intelligent? Always. Cute? Endearing? Home? That’s new. 

“You know…for Mina’s files,” Shōta adds.

“Ah yes, the infamous Mina blackmail files,” Hitoshi chuckles, fiddling with his phone and snapping a picture of them as they draw near the rock structure. “I regret that I have a decent number of photos in those files too.”

They’re not the only two to fall victim to Mina’s rather impressive information network. He mostly just tries not to think about it. Or piss her off.

“That woman has too much power,” Shōta muses with a shake of his head.

As they clamber up onto the rock, Hitoshi takes Shōta’s hands, helping him to navigate the sloped terrain, easing him down to sit near the top. Once he’s settled, Hitoshi joins him, caving to the desire to sit pressed up against Shōta as they silently watch the flowing greenery around them.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Hitoshi leans back on his palms, stretching his legs out in front of him as he looks at Shōta. “This place is really cool, thanks for inviting me.”

“Thanks for helping me be more cultured,” Shōta says with a warm smile and a chuckle. 

Shōta shifts, mimicking Hitoshi’s position, fingers brushing against Hitoshi’s hand and then staying close enough that their thumbs overlap, hooking together and Hitoshi loses the ability to breathe. He can’t help reading into every gesture, every touch, searching, hoping for some indication that Shōta might have feelings for him. It’s a pipe dream, he knows that, but as stupid as it is, hearing that Neito of all people managed it actually gives Hitoshi hope he might have a chance. 

“Anytime,” Hitoshi says, clearing his throat and giving Shōta’s shoulder a friendly bump. “I wouldn’t mind seeing more things like this. I should probably do more with my limited time off than slowly get absorbed by my mattress.”

“It’s a comfortable mattress,” Shota agrees, staring out at the room. His lips quirk into a smirk but he doesn’t look at Hitoshi. “Not that I’ve slept in it or anything.”

Hitoshi’s head whips around at that. Oh. Oh shit. Well if that doesn’t do all sorts of things to Hitoshi’s imagination. Images of Shōta asleep in his bed, tangled in blankets, expression soft, skin glowing in the morning light, flood Hitoshi’s mind. Followed quickly by a flurry of thoughts of Shōta in his bed awake …and naked. Hitoshi’s cheeks burn excruciatingly hot and he does his best to cover it with a scowl as he looks at Shōta.

 “When you say it like that, it sounds like you’re crashing in my bed every time I work nights.”

Shōta just gives Hitoshi an infuriatingly vague shrug. “Not like it matters anymore. My apartment’s finally ready so you’ll have your bed and your space back soon.”

Hitoshi’s mood drops so fast it makes his head spin. 

Shōta’s leaving? He was always going to leave but…Hitoshi isn’t ready yet. Doesn’t want this to end. He likes it too much. 

“How soon is ‘soon’?”

The long silence that follows puts a horrible knot of dread in Hitoshi’s stomach. Shōta stares at his hands before looking up, but he won’t meet Hitoshi’s eye. “Tonight.”

Hitoshi sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh.” 

He wasn’t kidding about soon. He bites his lip, averting his eyes as he tamps down on his disappointment. He’d been hoping they could at least have a final few days together. Plan something together for their last hurrah, but apparently Shōta doesn’t want that. 

“Surprised they’re letting you move back on such short notice,” Hitoshi says, pulling his knees up and propping his arms on them.

“Well,” Shōta hums. “The landlord called last week and I’ve been spending the last few days getting the apartment in a livable state again. It’s time, you know?”

“Right, of course,” he says stiffly, gaze locked onto the shifting flowers on the wall like the vines that grow there can hold his heart together. “I’m sure you’re sick of my place by now.” 

You’re probably sick of me by now.

“Hitoshi…” When Hitoshi refuses to look at him, Shōta wraps a gentle hand around his arm, tugging him until Hitoshi begrudgingly looks at him. “You remember this was supposed to be temporary, right?”

“Of course I do,” Hitoshi snips. He’s not an idiot . This was always a temporary arrangement. It’s just… it hurts that Shōta didn’t even bother to tell him it was all about to end. “I’m not sure how you expected me to react, considering you’ve apparently known for a week and only decided to tell me hours before you leave.” He gestures at the beautiful space around them, nose wrinkling. “Was this supposed to make it easier?”

“No, no, I—” Shōta pauses, falling silent as he frowns. A few long seconds tick by before he speaks again. “I…didn’t want to dampen the mood, or have you worry. And I guess I just wanted our last day together to be, you know. Special.”

“You don’t have to protect me from my own feelings.”

“It…it wasn’t your feelings I was trying to protect,” Shōta says quietly.

“I don’t understand,” Hitoshi says, frowning in confusion as he twists to look at Shōta. “You just said you didn’t want me to worry.” 

“I didn’t, it’s just—” Shōta sighs, scrubbing his face before he drops his hands in his lap, giving Hitoshi a helpless look. “I just knew that if and when I told you I would then have to face the very real fact that I would be devastated about leaving you. And I wasn’t ready to do that.”

Shōta…doesn’t want to leave? That…doesn’t make any sense. Hitoshi’s place is a shithole. The stairs are nearly impossible for Shōta, the room is cramped. They’re basically living on top of each other, and Hitoshi’s sure his wack-a-doodle hours and life aren’t the easiest thing to live with. Shōta should be delighted to be going back home. Unless…no.

Hitoshi shifts slowly until he’s sitting cross-legged, facing Shōta, eyes wide and heart in his throat. “Why would you be upset about leaving?” he asks cautiously.

When Shōta meets his gaze he looks oddly wary, searching Hitoshi’s face like he’s hoping to find something there. “Because that’s what happens when you leave someone you love.”

Hitoshi’s never been in a car accident, but he has swung full speed into a few brick walls in his life, and Shōta’s words have the exact same effect on him. Knocking the wind out of him as he stares at him in disbelief. He must have misheard. Or misunderstood. Because there’s no way that Shōta just confessed that he’s in love with Hitoshi.

“What?”

“Yeah,” Shōta says with a resigned chuckle, averting his gaze in embarrassment. “I’m just as surprised as you are.”

“I—you—” Hitoshi cuts himself off, rubbing his face with his hands as he takes a deep breath. He knows he’s not reacting appropriately to this. He should be grabbing Shōta and blurting his own feelings back, but his brain can’t quite seem to comprehend what’s happening. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just…I’m gonna need a hot second.”

He presses his hands to his forehead, taking a few deep breathes as Shōta just waits beside him, unbelievably patient as Hitoshi processes that the man he’s had feelings for since he was fifteen has just told him he loves him.

Holy shit Shōta loves him? Shōta loves him. Shōta loves him?

Hitoshi drops his hands, leaning straight into Shōta’s personal space as he squints at him, jabbing Shōta hard in the chest. “You’re saying…like you …about me?”

Shōta rolls his shoulders, clearly embarrassed as he nods. “I know it’s weird.” He pauses, glancing at Hitoshi out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t expect you to feel the same.”

Weird? Weird?? Shōta loves him. It’s not weird, it’s the best fucking news Hitoshi’s gotten in his entire life.

“Stop it, I’m not saying it’s weird, I just…” Hitoshi can’t help laughing, all the pining he’s done, all the anxiety as his feelings resurfaced during their time together and Shōta… “God, all the shit you’ve been giving me only to find out you feel the same way as I—” He cuts off, trying to think back to all their moments together, pinpoint a change in Shōta, in his behavior toward Hitoshi. He’s hidden it so well. “How long?”

“I’ve known a couple weeks?” Shōta wrings his hands anxiously, caving in on himself in a way that makes Hitoshi’s heart ache. “Although to be honest I’ve always felt something different with you. Living with you just made me realize what that something was.”

He can’t stand to see Shōta look so… upset about his feelings. So alone in it, because he isn’t. But Hitoshi has seen him after Neito, and he can’t live with the thought that Shōta might regret it if he finds out Hitoshi feels the same and something happens.

“Shōta,” Hitoshi scoots closer, closing the gap that Shōta has been putting between them as he puts a hand on Shōta’s clasped ones. Shōta opens his hands immediately, letting Hitoshi thread their fingers together. “I need you to be honest with me. Do you…do you feel guilty that you love me?”

Shōta’s spine straightens, looking shocked as his hand tightens around Hitoshi’s. “Not one bit.”

Relief floods through Hitoshi, all his fear and anxiety washed away with pure euphoria. A grin stretches across his face as he arches an eyebrow at Shōta, tone shifting to playful. “So then you’re just an idiot who actually thinks I might not feel the same way about you.”

Because only a fool would think Hitoshi would let this chance pass. That he doesn’t want to be with this man that he admires, respects, and loves.

Shōta blinks, cautiously meeting Hitoshi’s gaze. “You said you grew out of your high school crush.”

Hitoshi smirks, leaning in closer as Shōta sucks in a sharp breath at their proximity, sharing the same breath as Hitoshi lowers his gaze before glancing at Shōta through his lashes. 

“Apparently, I was mistaken. I am, occasionally.”

Shōta scans Hitoshi’s face for a moment before all the tension leaves his face and a smile curls the corners of his lips. “Convince me.”

Hitoshi is more than happy to oblige. He closes the gap between them, fingers slipping into Shōta’s hair as he kisses him. The kiss sends electric shocks straight through Hitoshi’s body. It’s so easy to kiss Shōta, so familiar, yet new and exhilarating at the same time. Shōta hums contentedly into the kiss, a hand settling on Hitoshi’s where it rests on Shōta’s thigh.

When Hitoshi finally has to admit he needs air or he’s going to pass out, he pulls back, forehead bumping against Shōta’s as they both catch their breath.

“Shōta?” Hitoshi says quietly, and Shōta hums, giving Hitoshi’s hand a squeeze.

“Yes?”

“I love you too.”