Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Goto isn’t sure what makes him say it, that night. 

He knows why he's thinking it, of course. Weeks, months now, since the incident with Sawada, and he isn’t so unselfaware as to be surprised by his train of thought. The trajectory of his and Masayoshi’s relationship has become something inevitable. All he needs is time. 

“You know you can sleep out here, right?”

Masayoshi looks down at Goto on the bed, halfway through the motions of shrugging off his body armour. It’s one of his newer costumes designed by Harazuka, but the scarf still hanging loosely around Masayoshi’s neck is older than that, the sight of it filling Goto with a warm wave of nostalgia. It’s inclusion tonight was purely functional; Masayoshi’s nose is still red from the cold. 

“Eh?” Masayoshi finally responds, tilting his head to the side like a puppy. “I’m fine sleeping in the closet. I’d be in the way on the floor. You’d trip over me.”

Masayoshi walks over to the closet and pulls it open, shooting Goto a funny look, as if he needs reminding about their sleeping situation. Masayoshi’s futon and sleep things are tucked to the side at the bottom. Ignoring them for now, Masayoshi starts returning the parts of his costume to their places on the shelf above as he peels off each layer. 

It’s become a familiar scene, these past few months. Masayoshi still goes out on patrol most nights, as if nothing had changed at all. As if littering and jaywalking were still just as important as the monster and alien threats that had long since been driven away. Each night, Masayoshi assures Goto that he’ll be fine, citing the same lack of monsters and aliens. Goto still waits up for him every night anyway, cell phone ready at his side in case of emergency. It doesn’t ring as much, these days. A good sign, in more ways than one. 

And at the end of each uneventful night, Masayoshi sheds his hero mask, and curls up in Goto’s closet to sleep. Goto used to ask (tease) Masayoshi about when his new apartment would be ready. The answer was always soon, soon, soon. Goto had stopped asking a while ago, now, hoping answer couldn’t change in the absence of the question. 

Goto could let his most recent question go, too, but he doesn’t. 

“No, I meant,” he pauses. Inhale. Exhale. “I mean you could sleep on the bed, if you wanted.”

Masayoshi frowns. “I wouldn’t make you sleep in the closet, Goto-san.”

Goto has to stop himself from laughing. He wonders what horrifying look must be on his face at the effort. As if he wasn’t in the closet already, wholly unaware that he was until Masayoshi had ripped the door off the hinges, stark fucking naked. Goto’s taking his first tentative steps out into the room outside, braced against the damaged door frame, but of course it’s a movement too subtle for Masayoshi to notice. He steels himself. 

“We can both sleep in the bed, idiot.”

“Oh.” Masayoshi’s red nose is joined by red cheeks. 

Masayoshi stands there, unmoving for a moment, in just his boxers and an undershirt. The black bodysuit he wears under his armour is still balled-up in his arms. 

“It’s just the heating in here isn’t the best.” Goto adds, a tentative step back to safety. “You must be cold.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. They both know the closet is the warmest place to be. The small space fills so quickly with body heat even as the heater struggles to fill the main room. 

Masayoshi smiles anyway, like he’s just been entrusted with an important secret. “Yeah.”

When Masayoshi has folded away the last of his costume and turned out the lights, he slips into bed beside Goto. He’s as unselfconscious in this as he is in everything else, seemingly unaware of all the places they’re now touching under the covers. 

One of Masayoshi’s feet is pressed on top of Goto’s own, frozen toes tucked under the leg of Goto’s sleep pants to poke at his shin. Goto feels the cold ghost of something else – a hand? – pass over the exposed skin of his abdomen, where his shirt has ridden up, but the sensation disappears as Masayoshi settles.  

Goto stifles a sharp inhale, holding his breath as Masayoshi’s skin slowly finds equilibrium. 

“Goodnight, Goto-san,” Masayoshi says, voice warming along with the rest of him. 

Goto lets himself exhale. “Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

They fall into a routine, or as close to a routine as they can manage, with their lives. 

Whoever makes it home first in the evening takes care of dinner. Masayoshi is usually the busier of the two of them, but it still works out that they have curry at least once a week. On Goto’s nights, he caves to the siren song of takeout and convenience store meals more often than not. On the rare days where they both have the same evening off, it warrants a trip to the store to get ingredients for a proper meal, prepared together in Goto’s small kitchen, shoulder to shoulder. 

The important part, though, is that barring emergencies and night shifts, they always eat together. 

It doesn’t feel like Spring has truly bloomed until Goto realizes the sun is still out come dinnertime. He and Masayoshi are sitting at the low table in the main room, plates of curry scraped nearly clean, and a stray glare from the still-setting sun is partially obscuring the view of their current episode of Harakiri Sunshine. It doesn’t seem to bother Masayoshi, who still occasionally mimes along with the hero’s movements, endearing and familiar. 

Goto thinks he could probably act out this whole episode, too, if he had any inclination. Masayoshi’s collection of DVDs is still small after the destruction of his apartment, and is currently limited to the dozen or so cases stacked on the floor in front of Goto’s TV. They’ve probably seen each episode on those discs multiple times each already, just since Masayoshi moved in. 

Goto’s eyes rest on the stack of DVDs. They should really get a shelf for those. The tower isn’t yet unstable, but in a few more months, Goto suspects it’ll be listing to one side from the weight of Masayoshi’s passion and lack of impulse control. There’s not really enough room for a new bookcase to put them on, and the lease won’t allow him to put any new holes in the wall for a shelf. It's up for renewal soon, the lease, now that Goto's thinking about it. 

“We should move in together,” is what comes out of Goto’s mouth, train of thought pulling into its final station. 

“We already live together...?” Masayoshi says, looking sideways at Goto and away from the credits now rolling down the screen. There’s a lilt to his tone, like he thinks Goto’s being a bit silly, but then Masayoshi frowns. “We do, right?”

“Yes, we do,” Goto sighs, but he’s smiling. “I just meant that we should look for somewhere together. Something more permanent.”

“You want to buy a house?” Masayoshi sounds alarmed, like buying a house is somehow moving more quickly than proposing naked to someone you’re not even dating. 

“No, I just –” Goto makes a frustrated noise. “We should get a place big enough to fit all the things you love in it, too. Like your old place, but.... together.”

“Together,” Masayoshi repeats with the same emphasis. His face flushes, matching the warmth of the smile spreading across his face. “I don’t know, Goto-san. This place can already fit everything I love in it.”

Goto coughs, some overwhelming emotion suddenly caught in his throat. He would be jealous of Masayoshi’s ability to say these things with a mostly straight face, if Goto didn’t feel like he was about to combust. 

When the feeling passes, though, he can’t help but tease “So you’re going to stop buying superhero stuff? I think we’re running out of room.”

“Well,” Masayoshi backtracks, looking just a bit sheepish. “A new place might be nice. I miss having a room for my figurines.”

Goto rolls his eyes, having already accepted they would be looking for at least a two-bedroom for that exact reason. The faint annoyance is nothing compared to the surge of affection that goes along with it, as with most of Masayoshi’s quirks. 

The past few months, Goto has been making an effort to relearn casual touch. He hasn’t been close to anyone in years, besides Masayoshi. He’s not particularly close with his family, not anymore. No close friends, either, only professional acquaintances and barely-familiar neighbours. He was only just getting used to Masayoshi’s friendly touches – gentle tugs on his arm, playful pats on the shoulder, a hand reaching out to ruffle Masayoshi’s hair – when the boundaries of their relationship began to change. 

It didn’t happen all at once. Goto is surprised to realize there are now whole categories of touches he’s allowed to initiate, that would’ve seemed bizarre less than a year ago. An arm wrapped tightly around a waist, as they both lie together in bed. Interlocking hands, adamant about not being separated in a crowd. A quick peck on the cheek, an everyday expression of gratitude and love for when mornings were too sleepy or days too busy for words. 

Still, knowing that he's allowed to touch Masayoshi – and acknowledging that he wants to – is a different lesson entirely than learning how to be appropriately spontaneous about it. 

And so, Goto hesitates just a beat too long before that warm feeling of affection has him leaning over the low table towards Masayoshi. He misjudges the distance a bit, the corner of the table digging into his stomach uncomfortably as he does. Finally, inches from his target, Goto can’t decide between a cheek kiss and a proper one, and ends up splitting the difference, catching the corner of Masayoshi’s mouth. 

Despite all that, Masayoshi lights up as Goto pulls away, golden in the setting sun. 

“You missed, Goto-san,” he accuses, playful, before leaning back in. 

Chapter Text

“Goto-san!” Masayoshi whines, one hand flying up to pull at his own hair “We’re going to miss our reservation!”

The only thing stopping Goto from laughing outright is the look of genuine distress on Masayoshi’s face, though the contrast between Masayoshi’s expression and the scene in front of him makes it even harder to swallow it down. 

Masayoshi is only half-wearing his nicest suit at this point. He’s still wearing his dress shoes and his slacks, though they’re scuffed and creased to hell now. His jacket and waistcoat are gone, both having been tucked hastily under Goto’s arm when he’d rescued them from the ground earlier, trailing behind Masayoshi. Only Masayoshi’s dress shirt is left on his top half, fully unbuttoned and hanging off his shoulders to reveal his Samurai Flamenco costume underneath. Masayoshi had clearly tried to shrug off the shirt as well, but the collar is still held in place by his tie, now twisted into an impossible knot and standing firm despite Masayoshi’s efforts to tug it free. His free hand falls from his hair to tug on his collar absently, the other balancing the bicycle in front of him by the handlebars. 

“We might still be able to make it,” Goto tries. He fumbles with the jacket in his arms for a moment, pulling out Masayoshi’s phone from the pocket to check the time. “It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to return the bike, yeah?”

“We should still find the nearest police station to report it,” Masayoshi insists, even as he frowns at the suggestion. 

There weren’t any monsters or aliens attacking the earth these days, but excitement still swirls around Masayoshi enough to make Goto worry about the universe, sometimes. How else could you explain some kid deciding to snap a bike lock on a busy sidewalk ,sun still in the sky, in full view of possibly the most famous hero in the world? Goto is still itching to ask the kid whether it was a dare, or if he was just that unobservant, but he’s probably long gone now. The thief had cut through a park, ditched the bike, and run off pretty quick, probably as soon as he realized who the man chasing him was. 

Or maybe not. Goto snorts at the thought. Maybe he’d just seen his persistent pursuer tearing off his own clothes at a full sprint and decided the whole thing wasn’t worth it. 

“We can just call it in on the non-emergency line.” Goto wiggles Masayoshi’s phone in his hand. “I can do that while we walk.”

Masayoshi smiles, visibly relaxing a little. He gives another tug at the tie twisted around his neck, but the knot remains stubborn. Looking down at his front to finally gauge the situation, Masayoshi lets out another whine. 

“My suit is ruined...” Masayoshi says, all sincere disbelief. He really hadn’t noticed. “They won’t let me in like this.”

“Then take it off and just go in your hero suit. Either they don’t let us in, or you get the heroes’ discount.”

“It’s supposed to be formal, Goto-san,” Masayoshi insists, as scandalized as if Goto had suggested a murder. 

Goto sighs in defeat. He looks down at himself, his own suit creased and still a bit sweaty just from jogging behind Masayoshi “We can go somewhere else instead.”

Goto hands Masayoshi his phone back, draping the discarded clothing over the bike’s handlebars at the same time. 

“You return the bike,” Goto suggests, “and I’ll pick up dinner. Meet back home?”

Masayoshi looks like he’s about to say something else, but instead bites his lip and nods. “I can call it in.” 

Goto hums his agreement, leaning over to peck Masayoshi on the cheek. It’s a familiar habit, now, but Masayoshi’s face still turns a bit pink. Goto takes off in search of dinner, leaving Masayoshi alone in a park with just his thoughts and a stolen bike. 

When the sun has finally set enough to turn the city gloomy, Masayoshi and Goto find themselves sitting on a bench, in the park across from their apartment. They each have a container of curry balanced on their lap, the warmth of it bordering on uncomfortable in the stickiness of the summer evening.  

At least Masayoshi’s down to only one layer now, Goto thinks, even if that means eating in his hero outfit. They were set on eating outside, to maintain some semblance of a proper night out, and going all the way up to the apartment just to change and come back down had seemed silly, at the time. Now, eating curry on a park bench, Goto in his rumpled suit and Masayoshi looking ready to fight crime, they must make quite the sight. 

Goto turns to Masayoshi, ready to voice the thought, but whatever joke he’s about to make falls from his tongue when he notices Masayoshi has barely touched his food. 

“You alright?” he asks. 

Masayoshi pushes the curry around with his plastic spoon instead of answering. “I ruined our date.” 

“No, you didn’t.” Goto says, firm. He doesn’t need to elaborate – he knows Masayoshi has no real guilt about pursuing a thief, the impact on their date night out notwithstanding.”Besides, it isn’t ruined.”

“But we never get to go on real dates.”

 Goto frowns, setting down his curry on the bench beside him, so he angle himself towards Masayoshi on the other side. “We go on dates all the time, idiot.”

“Not the real kind!” Masayoshi is moving his hands as he talks, adamant. “The kind where you put on your best clothes and go to a fancy restaurant where all of the waiters look like they know French.”

“I thought we were going to that Italian place?”

“I said look like, Goto-san. They look like they would know French. Like poodles.”

Goto opens his mouth to argue with that before realizing they’re getting way off track. He pinches the bridge of his nose instead. 

“My point is,” he starts again, lowering his hand from his face to look Masayoshi in the eye “We go on dates all the time. We went to that show just last week. That hero team with the instruments –”

“Brass Rangers?”

“– Brass Rangers, right. That went fine.”

“That was a show in a park in the afternoon,” Masayoshi continues, “We were the only adults there without kids.”

Goto huffs a laugh. “Since when do you care about that? You love those things.” Goto frowns, a flicker of doubt. “I thought you had fun.”

“I did have fun.” Masayoshi makes a frustrated noise. “It’s not romantic, though. Other people don’t go on dates like that.”

“Is that what this is about?” Goto sighs in relief, leaning back on the bench again. “I think you watch too much TV.”

Goto’s tone is a joking one (even if Masayoshi pouts in response), but there’s a gain of truth in there somewhere. Masayoshi is new to all this, even measured against Goto’s own inexperience. He has no real frame of reference for a normal, adult relationship. The shows he watches – that they watch together, now – never really dwell on that aspect of life. When they include romance at all, it’s barely a side plot. Being in a relationship is a character trait like any other, a detail communicated through the shorthand of clichés. Clinking glasses over dinner at a fancy restaurant, maybe an arm stretched over the back of the seat at a movie theatre – they were images to communicate an ideal, but not the thing in itself, not the substance of it. 

“Masayoshi...” Goto starts “Dates are just doing something you want to do, together, and deciding to call it a date.”

Masayoshi looks at him skeptically. “I just thought.... you might want to do something normal, for once.”

“You’re not normal,” Goto laughs, seeing Masayoshi bristle at the bluntness of it. “We’re not normal. Nothing about this relationship is normal.”

“I first saw you naked in an alley before I even knew your name,” Goto continues, “You proposed to me naked before we were even dating. We’ve slept together and you still call me by my family name, you freak.”

The freak is said like an old endearment, soft and worn like a familiar blanket. Masayoshi still flushes bright red. 

“You never said anything!” Masayoshi argues, voice starting to pitch “I won’t call you Goto-san if you don’t want me to, Hide –” A strangled sound comes out of Masayoshi’s mouth, like a cat being smothered under a deflating air mattress. “Hidenori.”

Goto makes a face. “I don’t want you to, if you’re going to say it like that.”

“I’m not saying it like anything.” A beat too long. “Hidenori.”

“Alright, stop that.” Goto waves his hands in front of him, as if dispelling a cloud of smoke. He takes a deep breath. 

“I’m just saying,” he finishes finally. “We’re not normal people. I don’t expect our relationship to be normal. I don’t really want it to be normal, most of the time. We can just... keep doing things we like together, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Masayoshi manages a smile. “Goto-san.”

Goto rolls his eyes, but lets the name pass without comment.

“And I don’t know about you,” Goto says instead, reaching for the last of his curry again “But there’s not much better than a curry dinner we don’t have to make ourselves from one of your instant packets.”

“It’s a date, then,” Masayoshi agrees, beaming, as he raises his plastic spoon to his mouth. 

Chapter Text

One thing about Masayoshi that most surprises people that don’t know him, Goto thinks, is his lack of ego. 

Part of it is just pure earnestness. He really does care about justice that much, in that uncomplicated and genuine way that dims as most people get older and realize the conflicts of the world are usually too nuanced for superheroes. That earnestness, at least, comes across loud and clear in all of Masayoshi’s media appearances, even if some are still surprised when they meet him in person, and find out that’s it’s really not an act he’s been putting on all this time. 

Beyond that outward sincerity, though, he’s also probably one of the few people who could be offered the title of World President and not get a big head about it. No matter what happens to Masayoshi, no matter what he does to protect the world, no matter how much the universe itself bends to his whims – he never seems to think he’s above other people. He’s just some freak with an enthusiasm for fighting crime, and that hasn’t changed since he moved from lecturing smokers to fighting aliens. 

It’s clear when you see Masayoshi talk to other people, because he will talk to anyone. 

Goto’s been to a handful of film and television sets now, observing the tail end of Masayoshi’s work day when the shooting for some show goes too long. Even in his limited experience, it’s easy to pick up that Masayoshi behaves a little differently than his costars. They’re all very polite, of course, but in that unfailingly professional way of industry veterans. They come prepared to do their given lines, executing them with efficiency and with the upmost respect for the time of everyone they’re working with. 

Masayoshi is never purposely rude, but he is always talking with everyone. He’s not just talking with the director and writer, discussing in excruciating detail the motives of a character meant to be a cute two-minute cameo, but with the general crew as well. He’ll ask them about their work, all genuine curiosity, carrying the unwavering assumption that everyone else is also here because of some deep passion for their work, or for cheap formulaic superhero shows. 

The thing about talking to everyone with the same level of passion is that, occasionally, Masayoshi will actually meet someone that matches his energy completely. 

“Akiyama-san showed me the pictures from her wedding today!” Masayoshi says, continuing on with his account of the day. The bag with their convenience store meals inside swings a bit dangerously in Masayoshi’s hand as he talks animatedly. Goto can’t help that his eyes focus on the movement, even as Masayoshi keeps talking as they walk. “They were both dressed like zombie brides.”

Akiyama is one of the costume designers on a show Masayoshi currently has a recurring role in. Her genuine passion for costuming had quickly pulled her into Masayoshi’s freak orbit as he does with so many people. Goto no longer wonders how Masayoshi had convinced someone to make that first Samurai Flamenco suit for him back then, and have that person not even sell him out to the press. Masayoshi just inspires that level of loyalty, it seems.   

Akiyama had recently been married in a ceremony on Halloween night, with all of her guests dressed appropriately for the occasion. Masayoshi had been sad to have missed it, but you wouldn’t know from how excitedly he speaks now, just recounting seeing the photographs.

“Well, Akiyama-san was wearing a suit,” Masayoshi rambles on “But she would still be a zombie bride, right?”

Goto hums noncommittally, just to show he’s still listening, still eyeing their shaken dinner warily. 

“Oh!” Masayoshi interrupts himself, swinging the bag between them even more dramatically. “But their best man was dressed like the Steel Samurai! Akiyama-san made it, so it looked really cool and not like those plasticky costumes you see at stores at all.”

Masayoshi throws his hands up to emphasize, the bag narrowly missing someone passing them on the sidewalk in the other direction. 

“Enough, let me take that,” Goto finally says, reaching beside him to grasp Masayoshi’s hand in both of his. He works the handles of the plastic bag out of Masayoshi’s grip, transferring it to his own. “You’re a real hazard, you know that?”

Masayoshi doesn’t even pause to look embarrassed. “I didn’t know you could dress up as a hero at a real wedding.”

“Oi,” Goto interjects, nudging Masayoshi in the side with their dinner. He knows that tone all too well. “You better not be getting any ideas.”

“What ideas?”

“I am not marrying you in your hero outfit, idiot. So don’t even think about it.”

“Goto-san is so mean...” Masayoshi huffs, sulking. “I would marry you in your police uniform.”

“But the difference is, I wouldn’t want to get married in my uniform. Besides, Mari would probably be there. I don’t want to deal with that.”

Masayoshi laughs, but cuts himself off. Goto can almost hear his train of thought switching tracks, like someone turning an old cassette tape around to the B-side. Click. Whirrrrrr.  

Their walking slows, and soon they’re standing still on the sidewalk. Masayoshi opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates before any sound comes out. When he does speak, it’s quieter than Goto is expecting. 

“You’d want to marry me?” 

“Of course.” Goto can’t help the fond smile on his face. “Who else am I going to marry?”

Masayoshi smiles back. “There’s probably a waiting list.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true!”

They start walking again. The spring in Masayoshi’s step is dramatic enough that Goto can feel their upper arms brush with nearly every one. 

“I wasn't sure you'd want that, after the first one,” Masayoshi confesses softly. He's trying to sound casual, but his face always gives everything away. He clears his throat. “Does this mean you’re saying yes to my first proposal, or do I have to ask again?”

Goto hums, considering. “I’d appreciate if you asked again in better circumstances, yeah. Maybe with clothes on this time.”

“Got it.”

“And not in your hero suit, either.”

“No fair, Hidenori.” Masayoshi shoots Goto a sideways look, his smiling eyes making it clear that yes, he was saying it like that on purpose to annoy him. The bastard. 

Goto keeps his face carefully neutral, determined not to let Masayoshi win. Instead, he moves the plastic bag he’s carrying to his other hand, so he can take Masayoshi’s hand in his. 

As their fingers tangle together and Masayoshi’s mischievous smile melts into warmth, they continue walking towards home. 

Towards the future.