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Shōta sighed, sweeping his gaze across the apprehensive faces of his students.
“There have been several reports of flower petals and full flowers found in trash cans across the school, including a concerning amount from this classroom specifically. That means I get the joy of having to give you all the hanahaki talk, since there always has to be a student or two who suddenly loses all ability to communicate when faced with their very special and very unique true love.”
There were several nods of assent throughout the room, although they were accompanied by snickers at Shōta’s last drawled words. The class was visibly more relaxed now they knew it was just another lecture on hanahaki disease. It was a near-yearly event that all highschool teachers and students were forced to sit through, and Shōta wished they’d just turn it into an annual assembly already.
“Let’s get this over and done with quickly, then, since I see you’re all familiar. Hanahaki disease is not deadly or dangerous unless an extreme case is left completely untreated. If you find yourself coughing or throwing up petals or flowers, please contact a health professional to find out whether your case is severe enough to require treatment.” Shōta caught a few guilty expressions out of the corner of his eye, and mentally noted down names to keep track of.
“Surgery is practically never required these days, and even when it is, you won’t be losing your ability to love or memories of your loved ones. Please don’t fall for illogical playground rumours. As future heroes, it is part of your job description to listen to medical professionals.”
The chatter around the classroom quickly wound down into glazed-over eyes as Shōta spent the next few minutes rotely repeating misconceptions and corrections. He could probably recite this entire script in his sleep at this point, and from the looks of it, so could his students.
Less than half of the period was spent discussing the illness, and soon Shōta returned to his original lesson plan of revising first aid methods for helping civilians in emergency situations. It wasn’t anything complicated, and he was thankful for that. The stack of paperwork awaiting his return was already big enough as it was.
When the bell rang and the last of his students mercifully flooded out into the hallway, Shōta slumped forward onto his desk. His brain pounded in his skull, and he was afraid the itch in his throat was making his voice rasp.
The date on the roll in front of him refused to change.
May fifth. The date of Oboro Shirakumo’s birth, and precisely four months before his death.
Before long, he was dragging himself to the staff bathroom, trying to muffle his rasping breath and wracking coughs with his capture weapon. No matter how consistent he was with his medication, flower petals always escaped his lips on this day.
And, as Shōta choked up his guts in front of the mirror, he saw Hizashi stumble into the bathroom clutching his mouth, just in time for their bi-annual meeting.
Dandelions coloured white, yellow, and red decorated the sink. Fluff stuck to his bloody lips, and Shōta watched with tired eyes as seeds were sent dancing around the room from his strained breaths. The seed heads irritated his throat more than the flowers did, and they were a pain to clean up after.
Just like Oboro, really.
Eventually, the wheezing and gagging died down as Shōta and Hizashi finished emptying their lungs. They’d be back at lunchtime, no doubt, but for now Shōta was content to quietly clink his pill bottle against the one Hizashi raised in the air.
“A toast to our lost friend,” Hizashi said cheerfully, tipping out two white capsules into his hand. Shōta mimicked the action, and together, they clapped their hands over their mouths, tipped their heads upwards, and swallowed.
That was quickly followed by matching grimaces at the bitter taste in their mouths.
Shōta dug out his canteen from his utility belt, taking a sip before passing it to Hizashi. He leant against the bathroom wall, while Hizashi chose to sit on the edge of the sink.
“It’s that time of year already, huh?” Hizashi sighed.
“Any good flowers this time?” Shōta said, in place of an actual response. Hizashi craned his head over his shoulder, looking at the mess they’d made. He hummed a low tune as he searched, his hand hovering above the sink.
Shōta closed his eyes, enjoying the soft sound of Hizashi’s voice echoing throughout the room. It was peaceful, pleasant despite the tackiness on his lips and the dull ache resounding through his head. Over a decade of friendship had dulled any awkwardness Shōta might have felt about the situation. Shōta had wrecked Hizashi’s favourite jacket by bleeding all over it in the middle of a surprise villain attack, and Hizashi had wrecked Shōta’s only good shirt with snot and tears when Shōta had left the hospital alive.
A little blood and flowers between friends was nothing to be worried about.
“Here we go!” Hizashi announced brightly. Shōta cracked open his eyes to judge his offerings, then rustled through his belt for a bag. Carefully, he picked out the flowers one at a time, examining them before adding them to the bag.
“Hey! I liked that one! What was wrong with it?” Hizashi complained as Shōta returned one flower to the sink.
“Too big. I’ve got enough petals already, I’m not breaking that one down to press it.” He staunchly ignored the way Hizashi’s eyes lit up at his admission that it was otherwise perfect for pressing.
The small bag filled with dandelions was then delicately tucked away into a pouch on Shōta’s belt. Hanahaki flowers were infamously frustrating to press due to the higher concentration of moisture from the blood and saliva that soaked into the petals, but Shōta had taken up the hobby soon after Oboro’s death.
It had started when Hizashi and him weren’t invited to the funeral. Oboro’s family hadn’t known them well, and didn’t make any effort to reach out. It made sense, but it still hurt. When they did finally manage to contact Oboro’s parents and ask where the gravesite was, it was only more disappointing.
Oboro had been cremated, not buried, and his family had decided to scatter his ashes into the wind. To keep with the theme of his free-spirited nature, they’d chosen not to have a gravestone.
Therefore, there was nowhere for Shōta and Hizashi to visit. No funeral, no grave, no place for them to mourn. The only thing they could do was visit each other, and tearfully choke up flowers in his memory together.
So, Shōta created a tradition. Every time he got the chance to, he saved as many flowers as he could, and he pressed them. It brought closure, to be able to leave Oboro flowers in some way.
When he could, he pressed the seed heads too. Unfortunately, most got mangled as they were coughed up, but he treasured the few that weren’t. Hanahaki disease had an odd way of relating people to flowers, but Shōta had never had to wonder why Oboro’s flower was the dandelion.
Just like the tiny seeds he found caught in his scarf days after he thought he’d cleaned up, Oboro had always gone where the wind took him, constantly on the move or getting stuck on someone. Shōta had pinned his wishes on Oboro in the same way kids believe that blowing the seeds off a dandelion head would make their dreams come true, and Oboro, with a smile, had encouraged him.
And, just like a dandelion, Oboro was dead long before that wish came true.
Shōta sighed, hand resting on the now-closed pouch, and stood up. He had a mess to clean up. Hizashi startled as he moved, his head clearly in the clouds just as much as Shōta’s had been.
They worked together in a practised harmony, washing the blood off their lips and gathering flower petals to throw away. Hizashi started to quietly hum again, and Shōta found himself clutching the bundle of blood-soaked blossoms tighter at the sound.
Oboro was the seeds of the dandelions, but Hizashi had always been the petals.
It wasn’t a new realisation, nor was it a well-kept secret. Hizashi and him had quickly realised that the species of dandelion they harboured were different; while Hizashi coughed up native white dandelions, Shōta’s were the bright yellow of the introduced species. The seed heads were near identical, but it hadn’t taken long for them both to realise what the differing flowers meant.
They didn’t talk about it. Shōta didn’t want to know if Hizashi’s flowers were for Oboro alone. He didn’t want to know if Hizashi loved him or not. As long as Hizashi stayed alive and beside him, it was enough.
Pining after a love that will never be wasn’t an uncommon hobby for heroes. He never knew who it was for, but he’d caught his own mentor, His Purple Highness, spitting out rose petals on multiple occasions. It wasn’t the job itself that prevented relationships, with many famous pro heroes having very public love lives, but instead the mindset that drew people to heroics.
Heroes were for the public. No matter their motivations to take on the job, by becoming a hero, you forfeited your right to put your safety above another’s. Death and injury was an expectation, not an exception. Oboro had opened his eyes to that, so long ago. Dating anyone as a hero, whether it be another hero or a civilian, meant consigning your lover to a lifetime of worry, and if you weren’t careful, grief.
Of course, Shōta’s friends worried about him as well. Romantic relationships weren’t the only important kind for a hero. But it was different, Shōta told himself. Romance was an exclusive commitment. His closest friends had other closest friends, but he couldn’t logically ask someone to give up their chance at untold other potential romances to dedicate themselves to someone who would always be putting the world before them.
That being said, Shōta couldn’t deny that he would throw away all reason and logic if Hizashi asked him to. All it would take was one question, and his resolve would crumble to dust before Hizashi’s unwavering eyes and steady voice. Hizashi, despite his dramatics, never faltered or hesitated when he looked Shōta in the eye while they spoke, and it drove him to desperation.
His throat itched.
Shōta bent down, dropped the handful of dandelions he’d been slowly crushing into the bin, then calmly walked back to the sink and started gagging.
“Jeez, that’s a big one! Do dandelions even grow that big naturally?!”
He spat a few more petals into the sink, then stood back for a moment as he waited to confirm that it was only the one. It was quite large, easily five or six centimetres in diameter, and Shōta felt like it was mocking him. He was perfectly aware of just how hopeless he was when it came to Hizashi, he didn’t need a flower to point that out to him.
“Hey, Shōta, you said you weren’t going to press that other large dandelion earlier, yeah?”
“...Why do you want to know?”
“If you’re not gonna press them, can I have them?”
Shōta raised an eyebrow, suspicious at the too-innocent tone of Hizashi’s voice.
“It’s not for anything bad, I swear!”
The eyebrow climbed higher.
“Look, HeroRock FM was talking about this great recipe for dandelion tea yesterday, okay, and-”
“Hizashi. You are not making dandelion tea with flowers from my fucking lungs.”
“-There’s no real nutritional difference between dandelions from hanahaki and wild dandelions, people online say the taste is actually-”
“Those flowers are soaked with my literal blood.”
“Iron is good for you! Blood in tea is a big thing these days!”
“Use your own dandelions, then!”
“They’re not the right species!”
They locked eyes, Shōta’s disbelief battling Hizashi’s serious expression that was betrayed by his lips twitching into a smile.
“...You’re messing with me, aren’t you.”
Peals of laughter echoed through the bathroom at Shōta’s expense. He sighed, staring at the ceiling in regret as Hizashi wheezed. Hizashi’s wheezing soon turned into choking, and he leant back over the sink as white petals fell from his lips.
They stood there for a moment, comfortable in the silence, before Shōta quietly started cleaning up again. Hizashi retrieved the canteen from where he’d left it previously and swished water around his mouth to clear it of blood. It was a smart idea, as many of UA’s students had sensitive noses. Shōta would never hear the end of it if they found out he had hanahaki disease.
The bathroom was quickly returned to its previous state, ignoring the occasional fluffy seed. A quick check of his phone revealed they had another few minutes before the bell rang, and Shōta was content to spend it in silence with Hizashi.
The rest of the school day passed as per usual for Shōta. The medicine worked quickly, and the uncomfortable feeling in his chest eased as the day went on. He returned to the bathroom at lunch, Hizashi greeting him with a wave and a bright smile, but the unmarked essays on his desk drew him back into the staff room proper once he’d taken his second dose of medication for the day.
Shōta was still grading papers when the final bell of the day rang. His class had been stolen by Ectoplasm, who was desperately trying to help them all pass algebra, though Shōta wished him luck with that. It was only a few minutes before Hizashi pushed open the door and dramatically threw himself onto the couch, followed by Nemuri, who didn’t hesitate to sit on top of him.
“So,” she drawled, ignoring the indignant shriek from beneath her, “What’s the plan this year?”
“Nothing special. Get drunk, cry, the usual. You’re welcome to join us as always, Nemuri.”
“I think I’ll skip, unless one of you has had a change of heart about drunk makeouts. You two are such boring drunks.”
“That’s probably a good thing. My bones don’t have the resilience yours do anymore. Dancing on tables isn’t as fun when everything hurts the next day.”
Nemuri snorted at that, rolling her eyes in disdain.
“You can’t say that if you’ve never actually danced on a table before.”
Shōta grew quiet at that, ignoring the flush that danced across his cheeks. Hizashi, too, stopped his shrieking, a victorious smile on his face.
“No. Don’t tell me.”
Shōta avoided her intense gaze.
“Without me?!”
Nemuri turned her accusatory glare towards Hizashi now, who had the sense to look guilty in the face of her wrath.
“Hey man, don't blame me! I did invite you! You said no!"
Ignoring Hizashi's pleas, Nemuri shifted her sitting position, and if the spluttering sound was any indication, it wasn't to make him more comfortable.
"If you didn't record it, you're an idiot, and if you did record it, you better have a good reason as to why you didn't send it to me immediately."
Hizashi quietened again, staring blankly at the couch cushion in front of him. Nemuri shifted again after a moment, but Hizashi remained silent.
Then, he started coughing. Nemuri hurriedly stood up, and pulled Hizashi upright. Shōta grabbed the nearest trash bin, shoving it into Hizashi's lap. Hizashi's body shook as he heaved and choked, before finally a shower of white petals and red blood decorated the bottom of the bin. Nemuri rubbed his back comfortingly as he coughed up the last of the petals, while Shōta rummaged around in his pile of stuff, searching for his canteen.
Hizashi gratefully accepted it, taking a long swig before spitting out the bloodied water into the bin to join the rest of the mess. He grimaced, took another sip, then handed the canteen back to Shōta.
Nemuri sighed, pressing her head into Hizahi's shoulder.
"You two worry me, you know that? I know it's just the time of year, but if you need someone to help you bully doctors into changing your prescription again…"
Hizashi croaked out a laugh, still wheezing slightly. Shōta couldn't help but feel his heart skip a beat at that, as even with blood still smeared at the corners of his lips, and once-styled hair now messy and lopsided, Hizashi's smile was the same as ever, wide and beaming. Oboro had once commented to Shōta that he couldn't imagine Hizashi without his smile, and Shōta had to agree. No matter what changed, no matter how bad things got, Hizashi's smile remained.
The trio sat in silence for a while, Shōta's mind wandering back to the discussion that triggered Hizashi's coughing fit. He didn't remember most of that night, but he did vaguely remember the dancing. Had Oboro been part of the conversation that led up to that? Thinking about it now, it did seem odd that Hizashi hadn't recorded it. Shōta mostly remembered Hizashi's laughter, loud and clear, echoing around the room.
Shaking off his thoughts, Shōta stood up from the couch and stretched.
"It's about time we should be going." Shōta said. Hizashi nodded in response, while Nemuri groaned, clearly having gotten comfortable where she was. Still, she made no effort to stop him when Hizashi extracted himself from the couch, and instead flopped over to take up the newly available space.
"Okay, you guys have fun being boring. Call me immediately if things start to get interesting. I won't forgive you twice, Hizashi." Nemuri muttered in an overly exaggerated accusatory tone. Hizashi responded in kind with repeated reassurances as he gathered his stuff and cleaned up, and with that, they headed off.
They didn't bother to discuss where they were going. It was the same place they had gone year after year. First, the supermarket, to stock up on cheap alcohol and snacks. Then to the ramen place down the road, to order two takeaway servings of the usual. Finally, they drove to Shōta's flat. It was Shōta's flat for Oboro's birthday, and Hizashi's place for Oboro's death.
Initially, they had alternated the location each year, trying to find a suitable spot. They had tried places Oboro would have liked, from the school roof, to the local clubs, and even once, an animal shelter that they volunteered at for the day. However, as time went on, and Hizashi's popularity grew, it became more and more obvious that their collective mourning had to be a private affair.
The moment Shōta opened his door, his cat, Soba, immediately tried to squeeze past him and escape. Shōta picked her up and slung her over his shoulder as he walked inside. Hizashi followed, arms full of shopping bags, cooing at Soba.
Once everything had been unpacked, Shōta unceremoniously dumped Soba into a beaming Hizashi's arms, and walked across the room to grab his flower-pressing setup. For the first few years, he'd just piled heavy books onto each other, but eventually he'd given in and bought an actual flower press. It was a good decision, since the blood-soaked hanahaki flowers were prone to rotting if they weren't properly dried.
Along with his flower press, Shōta grabbed the notebook he saved his collages of pressed flowers in, and parchment paper. Returning to where Hizashi now sat cradling Soda in his arms, Shōta started to organise the things he'd grabbed on the table. He laid out several layers of parchment paper, and then carefully tipped out the dandelions Hizashi had collected earlier out on the table.
He put the biggest dandelion heads to one side, and the petals to the other. There was only one mostly-intact seed head to press, but he had saved a few of the individual seeds as well. While sorting through the pile, he picked out those that had gotten torn, damaged, or were too soaked to be useful, and threw them in the small bin he kept by the table for this very purpose.
Once Shōta was satisfied with his assortment, he stood up, finished for now. He would continue the process once the excess moisture had dripped off of the flowers and been absorbed by the parchment paper. He would still have to keep a close eye on the flowers when he pressed them to remove any that started to go mouldy, as well as change the parchment paper he used to press them daily, but he wasn't bothered by that. It had taken him many failed attempts to figure out the best method for pressing them, as the internet generally instead recommended other preservation methods for hanahaki flowers.
Hizashi noticeably brightened when he noticed Shōta had finished his task. Carefully setting Soba down on the floor, he smiled, and jumped out of his chair as well.
"So, what are we thinking? Drinks, snacks, marking papers…?" Hizashi asked, already heading back towards the kitchen. Shōta shrugged as he followed, having no real plan in mind. Hizashi nodded, made a few thoughtful sounds, then started chattering about the pros and cons of various options.
"Is there anything you need to do?" Shōta interrupted, getting sick of Hizashi's hemming and hawing. Hizashi hummed, leaning against the fridge. The dim, flickering light bulb that Shōta kept forgetting to replace cast shadows on Hizashi's face, and Shōta couldn't help but admire the scraggly stubble and messy hair that very few people but him would ever get to see on the always-(attempting to be)-stylish Present Mic. It was a sight he couldn't help but treasure, no matter how many times he saw it.
"Well, I'm definitely behind on marking your classes' english papers, but getting slammed sounds like a pretty good option to me right now." Hizashi said with a chuckle that quickly turned into a cough, as he doubled over and blindly reached for the nearest bin.
Shōta sighed, guiding Hizashi's hand towards the bin. Shōta then turned around, and reached upwards to grab two glasses from the cabinet. He filled one with water, hearing Hizashi heave and gasp beside him, and set the cups down on the counter. His own throat was starting to itch, so on second thought, he filled the other cup with water as well.
Hizashi's coughing grew louder as Shōta turned back towards him, then quieted for a second, before resuming as Hizashi spat out a mostly intact dandelion flower. Shōta watched patiently, waiting for Hizashi to finish clearing his lungs.
"Getting slammed, huh? I have patrol in the morning, so I'll pass on doing that hungover, but a glass of wine or three sounds good."
After another few final coughs, Hizashi straightened up and smiled, a small trail of blood still dripping off his lips. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then winced, and instead grabbed the cup of water Shōta had left on the bench. Hizashi made no effort to wipe the blood off his face while he drank, and Shōta resisted the urge to do it for him. Not only would it be completely inappropriate, but the blood would no doubt return soon enough anyway. Still, Shōta couldn't shake the impulse from his head.
Instead, he busied himself with retrieving the wine. The cheapest ones on sale were white today, so he had contented himself with that, even though he generally preferred red. He grabbed something that had fruits on the packaging for Hizashi as well, assuming he wanted something flavourful that would fuck him up quickly. Shōta pulled his head out of the fridge and held out his picks for Hizashi to judge.
"Mango Killer…? 12%...? What do they even put in this stuff?" Hizashi said, taking it from Shōta's hand. Despite his comments, Hizashi still cracked open the can, so he must be satisfied enough with Shōta's choice.
"You're the one who picked it off the shelf, aren't you?" Shōta asked, setting the wine down on the bench next to the glasses of water with a thud. Hizashi took another sip before answering, dramatically smacking his lips in consideration of the taste.
"I didn't read the label when I grabbed it. It's not half bad for something that's probably half shitty vodka."
"You know, we are Pro Heroes, Hizashi. We could afford to buy brands we actually like instead of the random shit they have on the bottom shelf." Shōta replied with bemusement.
"Where's the fun in that?" Hizashi said, taking another big sip of his questionable drink. He was serious about getting slammed, Shōta realised. In that case, he should probably figure out where Hizashi was going to sleep before it became an issue.
"Are you planning to sleep on the couch or the floor?" He asked. Hizashi blinked at him, then set aside his drink for a moment.
"Well, it's my day off tomorrow, but I wasn't really planning on staying the night-"
"Couch or floor?"
"Floor. Jeez, I don't know how you put up with that couch. It feels like sitting on a slab of concrete, and I'm not putting my back through that." Hizashi said disdainfully. Shōta had been meaning to replace that couch for years, but he had never gotten around to it, so he couldn't fault Hizashi for not appreciating it. Instead, he nodded a quiet acceptance, and got back to pouring himself a glass of wine.
The night continued on as usual, Shōta marking papers and pressing flowers as Hizashi kept up a background chatter of anything and everything, from stories about patrol to a running narration of how cute Soba was being. His words slurred as the night went on, but Shōta didn't mind. Hizashi's voice was familiar and comforting, and Shōta could listen to it forever.
It was no wonder Put Your Hands Up Radio was as popular as it was. For all the insults Hizashi had received for being too loud or behind the times, no one could deny that Hizashi could keep a conversation going. Unpersonable guests or technical difficulties with the music could not stop the show, not when Hizashi was on the air with a new tale about his misadventures in a coffee shop.
What Shōta liked most about Hizashi's voice, though, was how gentle Hizashi was with it. In highschool, Hizashi had struggled a lot with volume control. But he had persevered, and now, when Shōta saw him patiently comforting an injured kid, or baby talking Soba without scaring her, he couldn't help but remember how much effort Hizashi was putting into every quiet word.
Then again, when they were alone, he knew that Hizashi didn't try as hard to control his voice. He'd always chalked it up to how long they'd known each other, but even so, it made Shōta's heart shake with the walls when Hizashi laughed a little louder than he meant to.
That night, Shōta contributed his fair share of bloody yellow dandelion petals to the mosaic of mess that spilled out rubbish bins and across the bathroom floor. He would clean it all up in the morning, but for the moment, he lived like Oboro would have encouraged him to - putting it off for tomorrow's Shōta to worry about.
Study sessions had often devolved into teasing and joking when Oboro was around. He was a master of procrastination, but somehow always seemed to scrape by. Shōta could not, so he quickly learnt to schedule his actual studying around their so-called study sessions. Still, he went every time, no matter how little got done. It wasn't the most logical thing to do, but he could never say no to Oboro and Hizashi.
By 1:30am, Shōta had nearly finished working through his pile of assignments for the night. Hizashi, on the other hand, was dozing off, only startled awake by the alarm Shōta had forgotten to turn off for tonight.
"Is it… That late already?" Hizashi yawned, familiar with Shōta's roster of alarms. His breath stunk of alcohol, despite the distance between them. Hizashi had cleaned up after himself as he drank, but Shōta knew he had drunk more than enough to have a hangover tomorrow. Not that he had needed to drink much to reach that point, thanks to the high alcohol content that was hidden in some of those cans.
"I still have some work to do, but I'll set a futon up for you." Shōta said offhandedly, starting to get up from his chair. To his surprise, Hizashi shook his head vehemently.
"No… It's fine. I'll set it up myself, yeah? Know where your blankets are." He insisted. His voice was loud enough to make Shōta's ears hurt, which didn't inspire Shōta's confidence in Hizashi's current ability to handle sheets without getting tangled up in them.
"I'll set up a futon for you, Hizashi." Shōta repeated, trying to instil a sense of finality into his voice. Hizashi didn't respond, which Shōta took as acceptance, although he wasn't entirely sure how to interpret the look on Hizashi's face.
It didn't take long to haul the spare futon from where it had been shoved into a closet, and the spare duvet was stored with it. Apparently Shōta had not bothered to properly fold it and place it back where it belonged last time someone had slept over. A pillow and blanket weren't hard to locate either, only a few shelves up.
Hizashi watched him through half-lidded eyes. Shōta could feel his gaze on his skin as he laid out the futon, his heart thumping in his chest in response. He swallowed roughly, hoping to ward off any petals for the moment.
"There. All done. You can go to sleep now." Shōta said, hoping that Hizashi would give in without much trouble. It was always a gamble as to how easy it would be to get Hizashi to sleep when he was drunk; sometimes, he would pass out on the table and sleep through anything, while other times, he would fight tooth and nail to stay up until the sun rose.
Today, it seemed, was going to be a pain. Hizashi made it halfway to the futon, and then stopped suddenly. Shōta sighed, starting to wish he was still buzzed, as he felt an oncoming headache.
"Oh. Right." Hizashi said. "I need to wash gel out of my hair. Won't be long."
Shōta wanted to bang his head against the countertop as he watched Hizashi stumble over the futon in his attempt to get to the shower. Although Hizashi had complained to him multiple times about the intricacies of hair styling, including how long it was safe to leave products in, Shōta had also seen him snoring away worry-free with still fully-styled hair on more than a few occasions. Of course, now that the thought had occurred to drunk Hizashi, nothing Shōta could say would change his mind.
"Hizashi. Please. It'll be fine. You can shower tomorrow morning." Shōta tried anyway, and got firmly ignored. He sighed again, knowing it was a losing battle, but also knowing just how dangerous showers and baths could be when it came to drunk people. He wasn't going to let Hizashi smash his head open just for some damn hair gel.
He followed Hizashi into the bathroom, deftly avoiding the bloody petals despite his now fully-realised headache. He was regretting not cleaning them up earlier now, especially as he watched Hizashi nearly slip on one.
"Hizashi." Shōta called. The other man looked back at him, tilting his head inquisitively.
"Look, just stay there for a moment, okay? I'll help you wash your hair. You haven't even grabbed a towel."
"Don't need to do that. I'll be fine." Hizashi said, but this time, there was a higher pitched tone to his insistence that wasn't there before. Shōta frowned, but carried on his convincing regardless.
"Either I help you, or you shower tomorrow morning. I don't trust you in the bathroom when you're this drunk."
"Not drunk. Promise."
"I watched you almost slip and fall over all of a few seconds ago, Hizashi." Shōta couldn't keep the concern out of his voice, the pounding in his head overriding any part of his brain that would usually try to keep his composure. He watched Hizashi mull over his comment for a while, still clearly uncertain.
"Hizashi. Please." He said, rubbing his temples in a mixture of pain and frustration. That seemed to do the trick, Hizashi finally giving in and sitting down on the floor quietly. The shower was already stocked with shampoo and conditioner that Shōta never used, only there after repeated complaints from both Hizashi and Nemuri.
Shōta left to grab towels, and power-walked back just in time to catch Hizashi standing, fully clothed, in the shower attempting to turn it on. The sound of Shōta's sigh was enough to make Hizashi jump guiltily, and Shōta shot him a disappointed look. Hizashi was more compliant after that, letting Shōta help him out of his top when he got stuck.
Shōta made the executive decision not to help Hizashi out of his pants, not sure he could make it through without clogging the shower drain with petals. Hizashi seemed just as eager to avoid that, taking his time and managing without too many issues. Shōta tried not to stare at Hizashi's naked body, reminding himself without too much success that he had seen it a hundred times in changing rooms. Hizashi was very obviously doing the same, staring straight at the floor instead of anywhere in his direction.
Finally, they were able to step into the shower. Shōta turned on the water, adjusting the temperature from his usual cold to instead be lukewarm. If he remembered Hizashi's rambles correctly, water that was too hot could damage hair. However, he also remembered that if he kept it on cold, Hizashi might kill him.
"Temperature okay?" He asked. Hizashi just nodded in response. Shōta grabbed one of the bottles on the shelf, staring at it blankly. He knew that shampoo usually went on before conditioner, but he was fairly sure Hizashi had said something about usually doing two rounds of conditioner. Or maybe it was another product first? Shōta usually used 2-in-one shampoo & conditioner, and that was only after Nemuri yelled at him for using 3-in-one body wash on his hair, so he wasn't very familiar with most of this.
Luckily, even drunk, Hizashi knew what products he liked. He tapped Shōta's hand, and shook his head insistently.
"Shampoo first. Blue bottle."
Shōta put the white bottle he had in his hand back on the shelf. It was shampoo, but clearly it wasn't the type Hizashi wanted. He grabbed the blue bottle, and poured a generous amount onto his hands.
"Right. Come here." He said, beckoning Hizashi to where the water wouldn't instantly wash the shampoo away. Hizashi spent a second messing with his hair, then leaned towards Shōta when his hair was dripping wet. Shōta did his best to massage in the shampoo, not entirely confident in his technique. He could feel the gel in Hizashi's hair, crusted and stiff. It held sections of hair together, and Shōta tried his best to break up those sections and evenly disperse the shampoo.
Once he was halfway confident with his work, he dragged his hands out of Hizashi's hair and rinsed off the shampoo. Rather than following his lead, Hizashi leaned in closer, pushing his head to Shōta's chest. Not sure what to do, Shōta ran his hands through Hizashi's hair again, then gently guided his head upwards.
"Hizashi?" He asked softly. Hizashi's eyes met his, and they stared at each other for a moment. Shōta couldn't help but be mesmerised by how the concentric rings of black around Hizashi's pupils stood out against the green of his irises, creating an almost hypnotising effect that he could get lost in forever.
Then, Hizashi pulled away, and started coughing.
The white petals were the same colour as the shower floor, only distinguished by the red blood outlining them. Shōta ignored the itching in his own throat for the moment, more concerned with making sure Hizashi didn't fall. He grabbed Hizashi's wrist, and tugged as he slowly sat down. Hizashi stared down at him for a moment, covered his mouth with his other hand as he coughed again, then joined him on the floor.
The water washed away the blood as quickly as it left Hizashi's mouth, and the petals slowly started to build up in the hair catcher Nemuri had forced Shōta to put over the shower drain. For once, Shōta felt grateful that the hanahaki flower he and Hizashi shared was dandelions, the many small petals still allowing water to run through them.
The few minutes Hizashi spent shaking and spitting up flowers felt like hours to Shōta as he sat on the hard shower floor. Shōta firmly kept his hold on Hizashi's wrist, taking some solace from the faint feeling of Hizashi's pulse underneath his skin. Usually, Shōta treated their shared hanahaki like an inconvenience, something not worth worrying over, but right now, he was reminded of why it was considered a disease.
Hizashi slumped forward again once he had finished clearing his lungs, clearly tired out from the exertion. Since he was now helpfully right underneath the stream of water from the showerhead, Shōta let go of his wrist, and resumed washing the shampoo out of Hizashi's hair. Half of it was already gone, but the remainder was closer to the scalp - or at least, that was the justification Shōta used to continue running his hands through Hizashi's hair.
It was softer now that the gel was mostly gone, and although it hadn't been conditioned yet, it was still much silkier than Shōta's hair had ever been. Shōta had never been keen on playing with people's hair, hating how it felt when his hair tugged at his scalp, and confused as to why he would want to inflict that on others. Hizashi's hair, though… He had found himself staring at it on occasion, wondering how it would feel between his fingertips.
"Are we going to try conditioner, or do you want to go straight to bed?" Shōta asked quietly, aware that Hizashi probably felt like shit. Hizashi groaned in response, pushing his head further into Shōta's hands. The shampoo was completely gone now, but Shōta took the cue to mean he should keep playing with his hair.
The motion, however, came with an unpleasant reminder of the itching of his throat Shōta had been persistently ignoring. He could taste iron at the back of his throat, and he knew that before long, he'd be throwing up petals of his own.
"One second, Hizashi," Shōta said. "My-"
His sentence was cut off by his throat betraying him, as he started to gag and retch. Hizashi looked up in surprise and moved back, which Shōta was grateful for, since he didn't want to accidentally throw up blood onto his best friend. It wouldn't have been the first time if he did so, but it was still better avoided.
Shōta suspected that this flower might be a big one. His whole body shook as he choked it up, and let it fall out of his mouth. What he hadn't considered was that rather than being one flower, it was instead a clump of four equally-sized dandelions. His first thought was that he should save them for pressing, but he was swiftly distracted by the series of coughs that wracked his body, as yellow petals joined the white ones scattered across the floor.
"Shōta." Hizashi hoarsely whispered, placing a hand on his thigh. Shōta spat up a handful of petals at the touch, and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself and breathe deep breaths through the lump in his throat. The faster this flare-up was over, the better.
He was glad that Hizashi was drunk now. If Hizashi was sober, he might have put together what exactly had triggered Shōta's hanahaki. If Shōta was ready to face that, then he wouldn't exactly be choking up flowers right now. The thought only made him feel worse, so with another mouthful of petals added to the floor, Shōta tried to distract himself.
"So? Conditioner-" He cut himself off with a cough, "-Conditioner, or sleep?"
Hizashi's thumb started to gently caress his leg, completely derailing Shōta's plan of not thinking about the very stunning and very naked man in front of him. He took another deep breath, congratulated himself on not throwing up more petals, and decided to keep his eyes closed for the moment.
"Sleep. You need to sleep too, Sho." Hizashi's hoarse voice and slurred words bounced off the shower walls, and Shōta opened his eyes to find Hizashi staring right at him. He nodded wordlessly, then bent over and focused on trying to expel the dandelion he could feel itching at the back of his throat.
Hizashi cared about him. He knew that. It wasn't a new fact. Hizashi had asked to be his emergency contact after the third time Shōta ended up in hospital alone, and the breathless concern in those words was forever entombed in what used to be the hole in Shōta's heart.
Even so, the worry in Hizashi's eyes, as despite his drunkenness, he thought about Shōta's sleep schedule instead of his own… It took Shōta by surprise, just a little, as he finally managed to dislodge the dandelion with another bout of rasping coughs.
Thankfully, it only took another few minutes of heaving under the lukewarm water before Shōta was feeling well enough to leave the shower. He helped Hizashi out first, ignoring the soulful looks of pity the man kept shooting him, and briefly considered cleaning up some of the mess they had made before giving up on the idea.
He grabbed the towels from where he had roughly thrown them in a heap on the floor, and chucked one at Hizashi, who let it hit him in the face before he tried to catch it. Shōta let out a laugh at the sight before the worry caught up with him, and he refocused on getting himself dry and clothed sooner rather than later.
Neither man had brought a change of clothes, both used to sleeping in their work clothes more than was probably healthy. Shōta didn't see the point in sleepwear - He was only going to get a few hours of sleep at the most, so why would he waste time getting changed?
The major downside of this thought process, Shōta mused, was that his backup work clothes were harder to get into when he was slightly damp. The fabric stuck to his skin in a way the loose and lightweight material of pyjamas or his usual baggy clothes would not, making it hard to pull the tight-fitting clothing on quickly. Once he had finally won the struggle with the slim-cut pants that Nemuri had assured him he definitely wouldn't regret buying, Shōta looked up, only to find Hizashi staring at him again.
The other man was only half-dressed, one sleeve of his shirt dangling down his chest, and his cheeks were a shade of red that Shōta couldn't blame on the alcohol. Shōta frowned, looking down at his outfit and then glancing at the mirror. There wasn't anything particularly out of the ordinary, and he wasn't sure what had Hizashi so embarrassed.
In the time it had taken him to do that, whatever trance Hizashi was in had broken, and he had returned to fumbling with his shirt. Shōta sighed, resigned himself to his fate, and reached over to help him.
Hizashi froze at his touch, then relaxed again. It was clear to Shōta that the relaxation was forced, though he couldn't figure out why. His head pounded as he thought, and Shōta figured it wasn't worth thinking about. The faster he did this, the faster he could go to sleep.
He was a little less gentle with Hizashi's shirt than he meant to be, roughly guiding Hizashi's arm through the sleeve, and pulling the fabric down Hizashi's chest quickly. Hizashi struggled to follow his lead, clumsily pulling at the shirt to get it to fit right, his brain and body still slightly out of sync.
Shōta leant forward to fix Hizashi's collar thoughtlessly, and as his fingers brushed Hizashi's throat, he could hear Hizashi's breath stutter slightly. The position was more intimate than he intended, and Shōta couldn't help but hesitate for a second before he drew away, revelling in the warmth of Hizashi's skin, and the faint thudding of Hizashi's heartbeat.
Nobody else, he thought, could touch Hizashi's throat so casually without so much as a complaint.
Nemuri was the second closest person to Hizashi, but even she would have been rejected if she tried to touch Hizashi's neck. He would make it into a joke, probably, brushing it off even as he brushed her hand away. it was a vulnerable area for all humans, but Hizashi's quirk made his throat even more important to protect.
Shōta tried to push the image from his mind, but it intruded anyway. Hizashi's neck, bare and exposed, all his for the taking. How far would Hizashi allow him to go before he stopped him? What would it take before Hizashi pushed him away?
His own throat tickled in response, and with a start, Shōta realised that if it were his own neck exposed, and Hizashi the one with the power… There wasn't anything Hizashi could do that would be too much. Hizashi could wrap his hands around Shōta's neck and threaten to suffocate him, or to snap his neck in half, and Shōta wouldn't do anything but stare into those striking green eyes.
He stepped away from Hizashi, and Hizashi's beautiful, delicate neck, and spat another flower directly into the sink.
Shepherding Hizashi back to his futon went relatively quickly after that, which Shōta was thankful for. Hizashi was maybe a little too compliant, looking a little out of it as he plodded along behind Shōta. Shōta pushed down his worry, reminded himself he was trained in first aid if anything went wrong, and tried not to think about anything that would have him choking again.
"Comfortable?" Shōta asked, gazing down. Hizashi gave him a thumbs up in response, his smile just as distinctive as ever, before snuggling back into the duvet. Shōta felt himself smile too, just a little, as he turned away to leave. He needed to clean up the place a little, and finish marking those papers, and then he could sleep.
Of course, as always, what was supposed to be a twenty minute task quickly became thirty, and then fourty, and by the time he finally padded his way back through the dark living room towards his bed, the moon was once again nearing the horizon.
"Sho." He heard Hizashi's voice rasp out from somewhere in the darkness, "Shōta."
"Hizashi?" He asked, confused.
"Shōta. Shōta, don't leave me, Shōta-" Hizashi continued, the sleep and the lingering traces of alcohol visible in his voice. Shōta frowned, concerned, and made his way towards Hizashi, his eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light.
Hizashi was sprawled out in an uncomfortable looking way, his eyes half-lidded, but still piercing straight through Shōta. Hizashi shot out a hand towards his leg, his grasp strong with desperation, and he let out a sigh of relief when he felt Shōta's pants.
Shōta crouched down, studying the man in front of him. Hizashi had closed his eyes again now, and his breathing was slowing back to a steady pace. Mostly, he looked the same as he did when Shōta last saw him. Reassured, Shōta stood back up, ready to leave again, but Hizashi's grip tightened in response.
"Shōta." Hizashi murmured quietly. Shōta's heart skipped a beat, but regardless, he slowly attempted to extract his foot from Hizashi's grasp. This turned out to be a mistake, as Hizashi shakily cried out, and instead grabbed Shōta's other leg, and pulled himself off the futon to better curl himself up against Shōta.
This wasn't entirely unexpected. Shōta, Hizashi, and Nemuri all regularly had nightmares of losing the others, fuelled by the Oboro-shaped hole in their friendship. Still, this was fairly out of Shōta's comfort zone. Usually it would just be a tight hug the next time they saw each other, and then they would move on with their day.
Shōta had no clue what he was supposed to do in this situation.
He sat down, as best he could without crushing Hizashi, and helplessly patted his friend's arm.
"Hizashi. I'm alive. And I am very tired and need to go to bed." He tried, keeping his voice low, and hopefully soothing. Hizashi buried his head further into Shōta's legs, doing the opposite of what Shōta hoped to achieve. He let out a quiet sigh, and resigned himself to sitting in awkward silence until Hizashi decided to let go.
It didn't take long for Shōta's mind to start wandering, and not long until his eyes followed. The moon was barely visible from the sliver of the window his curtain failed to cover, and the trickle of moonlight that shone into the living room was just bright enough to make Hizashi's hair shimmer.
In the dim lighting, the harshness of Hizashi's bleach-blonde was softened, and with the gel washed out, it spread out around his head like a halo. Shōta's mind wandered back to the shower, and how it felt to card his fingers through Hizashi's hair. Would it feel different, now that Hizashi's hair was dry?
It didn't take much longer of Shōta sitting in silence before he gave into temptation, and he slowly brushed his fingers over Hizashi's hair. It was even softer now, though with a hint of stiffness that came from years of abuse of hair products. Nemuri had berated Hizashi on multiple occasions for never giving his hair enough time to recover between bleachings, saying she could feel it breaking apart through the hairbrush as she helped him fix his hair after training sessions.
Despite Hizashi whining to Shōta that he was afraid of going bald, Hizashi could never seem to resist bleaching his roots every time they started to show. Shōta had spotted a few hints of dirty blonde and silver under the bathroom lights earlier, and he wondered how long they would remain this time.
Shōta never really understood why Hizashi bothered with the bleach. Or any hair products, really. His hair was naturally light and fine, a result of his grandmother's American genes, but never quite bright enough for Hizashi. Hizashi insisted that the bleached and gelled crest was important for his brand recognition, and although Shōta agreed that it was definitely distinctive, Shōta thought that Hizashi's natural blonde was just as stunning.
But, Shōta had to admit, the sight of that stupid highlighter-yellow hairdo standing out above the crowd never failed to brighten his day.
His hand had wandered closer to Hizashi's scalp while he thought, and to his surprise, Hizashi's grip on his legs had finally weakened. Shōta was comfortable now though, and he didn't want to risk upsetting Hizashi again by trying to leave. Maybe it was just the heat thrumming through his skin at Hizashi's touch that was more prominent now that Shōta's worry had died down, but he didn't mind staying. He was only going to get a few hours of restless sleep regardless, so logically, it didn't make much of a difference whether he slept here or in his room.
He dozed off quickly, the constant sleep deprivation making it easy, but his sleep was fitful and patchy as always. This time however, every time he woke back up, breath caught in his throat, Hizashi breathed for him, consistent and steady against his calves. It was an odd kind of calming, and for some reason, Shōta woke up to his alarm that morning feeling better rested than he had in a long time.
Both Hizashi and Shōta had shifted positions in the night, Hizashi pulling more of the duvet over himself, and Shōta lying down properly after his legs had started to cramp. Regardless, they were more than close enough for Shōta's alarm to disturb Hizashi as well.
Hizashi made a sound that resembled a sentence, eyes only opening for long enough for him to realise that it was bright enough to give him a headache, Shōta presumed. Hizashi then shoved his head back under the cover, and made another attempt to speak, which sounded more like a croak to Shōta.
"Sho?" Hizashi eventually managed, after another minute or so.
"Hizashi," Shōta said. His own voice was creakier than expected, he realised, wincing a bit at the sound, "You were having nightmares."
He wanted to say more, elaborate, come up with some more logical reason as to why he stayed, or brush it off, remind Hizashi that it was nothing and it wasn't the first time they had slept next to each other, but before he could even figure out what to say, Hizashi was beating him to it.
"Sho. Marry me."
Hizashi's head was barely peeking out from under the duvet, his eyes only open enough to meet Shōta's. His moustache was lopsided, there was patchy stubble across his chin, and his hair was a tangled mess. He looked like the personification of a hangover, and there wasn't a hint of uncertainty in Shōta's mind as he replied.
"Of course."
He only really thought about it once the words passed his lips, all the questions he should have asked first coming to him second, but he couldn't bring himself to take it back now. Hizashi was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and everything else could come after. Hizashi lit up at his words, pulling himself from the duvet to crash his face into Shōta's, and then, with a yawn, rolled back over and hid his face back under the covers.
"Good," Hizashi mumbled, "Fuck. My head hurts."
And with that, Hizashi fell back asleep, leaving Shōta to process what exactly just happened.
When Hizashi finally moved from the floor again, it was midday. Shōta was on his fourth cup of coffee today, idly tapping the kitchen counter as he contemplated what to do next. He glanced over at Hizashi as he yawned, and without meaning to, smiled.
"Good morning, Hizashi." He said. Hizashi blinked slowly at Shōta, then suddenly, his face grew very red.
"Shōta." He breathed, staring at Shōta with the widest eyes he'd ever seen, pupils dilated and the green of his iris barely visible. Then Hizashi's face grew conflicted, and he looked away. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, then snapped it shut again. Shōta took another sip of his coffee, stretched, and grabbed another cup from the open cupboard. He filled it with water, and placed it on the table in front of him.
"Hizashi," Shōta said calmly, "You drank a lot last night. Here. I'll grab you some painkillers."
Hizashi gratefully shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed the glass, still avoiding meeting Shōta's eyes. Shōta retrieved some tackily Recovery Girl themed Ibuprofen from the cupboard, handed it over, and leaned back against the kitchen cabinets while he waited for Hizashi to take it.
"So," Shōta drawled, taking his time to enjoy the look on Hizashi's face, "I know you weren't thinking when you spoke this morning,"
Hizashi gaped at him, but Shōta continued, a small smile escaping onto his lips.
"-But I'm an understanding man. So, Hizashi," he said, pausing for dramatic effect, "I'm giving you one month to propose to me properly before I tell Nemuri we're engaged."
"You-" Hizashi started, then stopped, and instead simply grabbed Shōta by the collar and pulled him across the kitchen for a kiss. It was a proper kiss this time, passionate and lengthy, and Shōta decided he could forgive Hizashi for leaving him unsatisfied and with a sore forehead earlier, if he could keep getting kisses like this.
"Shōta, I love you very much, but if you pull another logical ruse on me today then I am going to slam my head into the wall hard enough to leave a dent." Hizashi said, panting as little as he caught his breath. Shōta let out a breathy laugh, too winded and light-headed to think of a good response.
Shōta's flat was still a mess that needed to be tidied up, Hizashi still needed to finish marking papers, and Oboro was still dead. But holding Hizashi close like this, in the midday warmth of the spring sun, Shōta felt like for once, it was him blooming instead of the dandelions that had haunted his chest for so long.