Work Text:
The apartment was quiet in a way Shota couldn't stand. Not at all peaceful, just full of blank noise and the sound of his own sighed breaths. No music was drifting in from the kitchen, no booming commentary from the living room. Shota had grown used to the sudden bursts of laughter echoing down the hallway, and its absence made the man frown. There was no noticeable sound in the Aizawa-Yamada household, just the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the ceiling fan.
Shota sat on the edge of his bed with one sock on, the other forgotten on the floor somewhere. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, a few stray strands clinging to his stubbly jaw.
Meanwhile, the two twin cats were curled up in the corner of the room; one on the windowsill, the other making biscuits in the laundry basket Hizashi always forgot to empty. Just as Shota began to entertain the idea of taking a nap, his phone buzzed on the nightstand to his left. He didn’t rush to check it. He already knew who it was.
HIZASHI
- Sorry babe i got extended
- Another few weeks at least
- I’ll make it up to you though
- Promise!
No emoji, no exclamation points besides the single one after his last message. Just the usual Hizashi-brand optimism, thoroughly dulled by exhaustion. Shota stared at the screen blankly, his thumb hovering over the keyboard before dropping listlessly. He set the device down face-first and leaned back, folding both arms behind his head. Meanwhile the ceiling fan spun lazily above him, the blades creaking slightly every third rotation. One. Two...Creak.
He didn’t reply to his husband's message. Instead he lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him something. What exactly, he didn't know.
Eventually Shota made his way to the kitchen, filling the kettle and plugging its wire into the wall. It didn't take much time before the water started to boil. He didn't really want tea, but the ritual helped.
The living room was dim. He didn’t bother turning on the overhead light when he walked in, just the small lamp by the couch. The one Hizashi had insisted on buying when they first moved in together because he thought it looked “cozy.” Shota had called it gaudy at the time, but of course he let it stay.
Now, it casted a soft amber glow across the cushions and folded blanket Hizashi normally left in a heap. The remote was buried under a stack of papers. Shota found it, clicked the TV on, and lowered the volume until it was barely audible. Some bird documentary was playing. He didn’t care enough to change it, instead sitting on the couch and letting his eyes drift toward the balcony instead.
The city was loud out there, filled with car horns and never-ending chatter, but none of the noise registered to him despite his living on the second floor, close to the commotion. It was like watching a movie with the sound off. On-screen, a Sulphur-crested cockatoo flared its crest and let out a shrill cry, bringing the man's attention back to his television. Shota blinked, then looked closer. The bird’s feathers were bright yellow, spiked upward like a crown. Loud, flashy... and of course impossible to ignore.
His chest tightened. It looked like Hizashi. Not really, but close enough to be upsetting. The bird's stance reminded Shota of those stupidly exaggerated shoulder pads, the crest resembling his husband’s wild sweep of blond hair, the way the man always managed to take up space with his voice and his presence. The cockatoo shrieked again and Shota couldn't help but wince. It was definitely the kind of sound Hizashi would mimic just to make him laugh. Shota stared at the screen, his jaw tight.
Everything reminded him of his husband lately. The lamp, the clothes in the laundry, the half-used bottle of citrus shampoo in the shower, and now even the stupid birds on TV. He looked away, but the sound continued. The cockatoo kept calling, loud and persistent and mind-numbingly annoying to the point Shota had to mute the tv altogether. He leaned back into the couch with his eyes closed and let the quiet settle over him. But the silence only reminded him of everything he was missing.
Truthfully, Shota considered calling Hizashi more than a few times, just to hear his voice. If he did, he'd probably say something like “You could’ve warned me.” Or “You promised you’d be back by now.” Or maybe nothing at all. Maybe he'd just breathe into the receiver until Hizashi said “I’m sorry, babe” in that soft, guilty way he did when he knew he’d made his lover sad.
But Shota didn’t call.
Instead he picked up the mug, took a sip and immediately grimaced. Way too bitter. He hadn’t added any honey. Shota sighed. Hizashi always added honey when he made Shota's tea. He set the mug down and stood, restless as ever. The apartment felt too big tonight. Too clean, even. He’d spent the last few weeks keeping it spotless, like if he scrubbed hard enough it would summon Hizashi.
Like the blond would walk through the door and say “Wow babe, this place looks amazing,” and then kiss him like he’d been gone for years. But the door stayed closed. Shota wandered into the bedroom again. The cats followed, their tails swaying nearly in sync. He pulled back the covers and slid into bed. The sheets were cold, but he ignored the chill.
The man lay on his husband's side of the bed, one hand resting where a warm body used to be.
-
Shota didn't sleep well that night. The bed felt too big, the sheets far too cold for his liking. He ended up waking up twice before morning, reaching for a man that wasn’t there. The pillow under him no longer smelled like Hizashi's shampoo. Instead it smelled like the generic softner he'd used on it, something the black-haired man regretted greatly.
He hadn’t expected it to hit this hard. They’d been apart before, of course. The world wouldn't pause just for them, a fact he knew well. But this time the extra space felt different. This was the longest one of them had been gone since they started living together, and the absense of Shota's lover left a part of him feeling almost empty.
But alas, the night bled into morning, and before he knew it his alarm was ringing. The man groaned at the noise, pressing the balls of his palms into his face. He felt like he had hardly slept a minute. At least with Hizashi next to him, the man could manage a few hours. Nowadays, he felt like all the coffee in the world wouldn't be enough to get him through the day.
The pillow beneath his cheek was warm. Too warm. He turned his face into it anyway, breathing in the faint scent of fabric softener and regret. The cats were already up. One pawed at the edge of the blanket while the other sat on the windowsill, narrowing its eyes at whatever moving object was outside. Shota didn’t get up right away. He lay there staring at the ceiling, mourning the absence of his lover until his cat jumped onto the bed and started kneading his arm.
After drinking a copious amount of coffee, he wandered to the balcony. The city was only just waking up below, the distant beeps and vrooms of vehicles just barely reaching the man's ears. He leaned on the railing, letting his eyes roam the street out of pure habit. He wasn't looking for anything, had nothing to expect. Which is why he didn’t see Hizashi until he was already halfway across the path to the building.
Shota blinked once, slowly with disbelief. For a moment he thought he was imagining it. Maybe this was just another trick of a sleep‑starved mind desperate for something familiar to hold onto. But the figure crossing the street towards the apartment complex didn’t disappear when he blinked. The blond hair he was seeing was real. The duffel bag slung over one shoulder was real. The suitcase in the other hand was real. That familiar, lopsided grin... was painfully real. Hizashi Yamada was home.
Shota’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. He just stood there frozen, his mind racing a thousand different ways for what felt like hours even after Hizashi entered the building. He didn't shift an inch until he heard the familiar rattle of keys, but when his husband opened the door Shota was already standing right in front of it.
Hizashi's keys were still dangling from the lock, one hand still wrapped around the doorknob. He hadn’t even stepped fully inside yet. His chest rose and fell in a sharp inhale, like he’d been bracing for anything except this: his husband standing there, close enough to touch, his eyes wide and unreadable. “...Hey,” Hizashi said softly.
Shota didn’t answer. His throat felt tight, like every word he’d thought of saying to the man over those past few weeks had tangled together and lodged somewhere deep behind his ribs. Hizashi’s gaze studied him. His messy hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the faint crease on his cheek from the pillow he’d barely slept on. Something in the blond’s expression crumpled.
“I know I should’ve called to let you know I was coming back early,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was just so excited to see your face.”
Hizashi pulled out the keys and let go of the dufflebag, letting it thud softly against the floor. He nudged the suitcase in aswell before stepping inside fully, pushing the door shut behind him with his heel. “Shota,” Hizashi tried again, taking a careful step forward. “I’m home.”
That did it. Shota moved before he could think. In one instinctive motion his hand fisted the front of Hizashi’s jacket, pulling him forward with a force that elicted a soft gasp out of the blond. But Hizashi didn’t resist. He never would. Up close, Shota could see everything. He saw the exhaustion in Hizashi’s eyes, the faint golden stubble he hadn’t bothered shaving, the love in his smile. “You’re late,” Shota finally said, his voice low and gravely.
Hizashi sighed with a small, instinctive smile. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Shota exhaled shakily, the sound full of emotions he couldn't name. He tugged Hizashi closer until their foreheads touched, the warmth of it hitting him like a wave after weeks of cold sheets and colder mornings. “You should’ve come home way sooner,” Shota whispered. “I wanted to,” Hizashi breathed. “Believe me I wanted to. Every day.”
Shota closed his eyes. The tension in his shoulders finally loosened, just a fraction. Hizashi’s free hand slid up to cup the back of his neck, fingers threading into dark strands of hair.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, the apartment didn’t feel too big. It felt full again.