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Hizashi had always spoken English around him.
Not formally. Not carefully. It bled into the margins of his life the way sound usually did. It came with lyrics half-sung while brushing his teeth, radio slogans muttered under his breath. Lines tossed mid-conversation with the confidence of someone who knows no one is going to challenge him on pronunciation or source. It’s performance, mostly. Noise meant to fill space.
Shouta was good at sleeping through it. His life has been built around alarms, city hum, sounds that never fully shut off. He wouldn't be able to sleep at all if he couldn't shut it out. Hizashi's voice could be like white noise too, not because it lacked presence, but it was just familiar enough.
So the first time Shouta heard it, his exhausted mind didn’t flag it as important. Shouta just registered warmth. The familiar line of Hizashi’s arm draped loosely around his waist. The faint tick of breath against his neck.
“Whatever our souls are made of... his and mine are the same,” Hizashi murmured.
His mind supplied a category automatically: reference. Something half-remembered, half-performed. English did that to Hizashi. It let him be theatrical without being exposed.
-
It was only days later that the memory resurfaced, suddenly heavy.
He was in the middle of a patrol report and Shouta heard the words echo in his head, fully formed, like it’s been waiting. He paused, pen hovering, brows creasing deeper than the paper deserved.
The sentence didn’t sound like something Hizashi would say casually.
It didn’t sound like a joke, not like a lyric thrown for effect either. It lingered with the wrong kind of weight, it was too deliberate, too precise.
Now that he thinks about it, it had sounded terrifyingly sincere.
Shouta told himself he’s overthinking it. Fatigue does that, it wasn't even noon but he's already exhausted. The mind grabbed patterns where there wasn’t any.
That satisfied him enough to continue the report. Still, the memory of the words didn’t leave.
The second time, Shouta was awake enough to notice the difference. Hizashi was pressed warm against his back, loud presence reduced to steady breathing and the occasional twitch of movement. It was always interesting when Hizashi’s volume collapses in sleep. What’s left is weight, heat, proof of life.
But then Hizashi shifted closer in the bed, the way he did when his thoughts won’t settle.
His voice, when it came, was lower than usual. Softer than Shouta has ever remembered him be.
"I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times,"
he whispered, “in life after life.”
Shouta doesn’t move. Breathes through the sudden knot in his chest.
He understood the words individually. His English was functional, after all. He knew grammar. Vocabulary. Probably knew more references than the average Japanese man.
But understanding the sentence doesn’t explain the pressure that builds behind his chest, or why the word numberless sticks out. He doesn't think people use life after life lightly. Neither do they say you like that, all direct, unguarded, like there’s no audience to impress.
Maybe Shouta was just trying not to think too hard about the word loved.
-
During the day, Hizashi was infuriatingly consistent.
Present Mic was loud in the UA staffroom, voice bouncing off the walls as he argued with Nemuri about lesson plans. He brought Shouta coffee and made the same comments when it was clear Nemuri won't agree with him.
He’s the same man he’s always been: expansive, affectionate, unguarded. He leaned over Shouta’s desk to read paperwork upside down and complained about the latest theatrics his problem class is getting up to.
There are no lingering looks. No awkward pauses that could be read as hesitation. No softness that didn’t already belong to him. Shouta almost dismissed it, convinced his brain made up the whole thing.
They go to bed like they always did, sliding into familiar positions with the ease of people who’ve shared space for too long to pretend it’s temporary. They fight about Shouta hogging all the blankets, which he firmly denied. The words only surfaced when the room has settled, when Hizashi’s breathing slowed into that particular rhythm that suggested he thought he was alone with his thoughts.
Minutes passed.
Shouta was awake. He doesn’t know why.
Behind him, Hizashi exhaled slowly.
Then.
“I am catastrophically in love with you.”
Shouta’s eyes snapped open.
The words landed heavy. Not because it’s dramatic, but because of the certainty.
He says it like he loves me.
There wasn't any flourish to it. No anticipation. It sounded settled.
Shouta knows what catastrophe meant, broadly. Something bad. But bad wasn’t good enough. The exact meaning matters. The next morning, he looked it up.
He told himself it’s practical. Precision in language mattered. Misunderstanding nuance could get people hurt.
Catastrophe: an event causing great and usually sudden damage or suffering; a disaster.
He stared at the definition longer than necessary. Scrolled.
In literature, it’s the final resolution of a dramatic plot, often involving tragedy.
Shouta exhaled slowly.
Patrol injuries come up to mind. Memories of late-night hospital stays. Flashes of too much red and then too much white. He knew that loving another hero wasn’t just emotional risk. It was structural. It was built into the bones of their lives. Catastrophically fit uncomfortably well.
Once he understood that one, the other incidents begin to slot into place.
They stop being isolated quotes and start forming a pattern: consistent tone, consistent intent. Hizashi wasn’t pulling lines at random.
He’s curating.
Shouta stared at the ceiling and thought.
Was that the first one?
He really didn’t know, and that bothered him more than it should. He doesn’t think the quotes came every night, he would have noticed something.
He replayed the nights backward in his head, searching for some clue or catalyst. They’ve been sharing a bed for years now. Off and on, until the off stopped happening. It hadn’t really been a decision, but practicality. Monitoring after injuries. Insomnia. Patrols that left one of them too wired and the other too tired to argue.
Somewhere along the way, the spare futon stopped being unfolded.
Somewhere along the way, it stopped being notable.
Have I just been asleep for most of it?
The thought irritated him.
Then unsettled him.
Because three times was not a coincidence. Because if this had been happening longer than he realized, then Hizashi had been saying something into the dark for a long time, assuming it would vanish unheard.
-
Shouta made a decision he pretended was practical.
He stopped sleeping.
Not entirely. He wasn’t reckless. But he stayed hovering in that liminal space, breathing even, muscles relaxed, eyes closed. Just awake enough to listen.
He told himself it’s temporary. Just until he was sure.
The first night he did it on purpose, Hizashi doesn’t say anything.
Shouta had laid there for hours, frustration prickling under his skin. He nearly gave up. Nearly let himself drift under.
Then there's a shift beside him. A barely-there exhale brushed the back of his neck.
“Love is not love,” Hizashi whispered, “which alters when it alteration finds.”
Shouta’s breath catches despite himself. So, it wasn’t random.
It was nearly every night then.
The knowledge changed something fundamental. It was routine already, watching Hizashi get out of his gear while he narrated his day, got the gel out of his hair. Watch Present Mic once again become Yamada Hizashi. Now he started anticipating it. He found himself counting the minutes until Hizashi’s breathing slowed, until the room settled into that particular quiet Hizashi seemed to need before letting himself speak.
Some nights the words came quickly. Some nights they come late, when Shouta’s eyes burned and his body ached for rest.
He stayed awake anyway.
It felt wrong to sleep through them, now that he knows they will come. Like missing a confession because you didn’t bother to listen.
-
And yet, the week goes on. Each day was ordinary in a way that feels almost aggressive. Hizashi was loud this morning. His voice echoed down the hallway as he argued with a radio host through his phone. Shouta found Erasure activating on reflex, wanting to just go back to sleep. It was too early to deal with any drama. He ate too fast, stole Shouta’s toast without asking, complained about traffic like it personally wronged him. At school, Mic gestured wildly, laughed too hard, and filled rooms with sound like he always had. Shouta napped.
Nothing was different.
Maybe that’s the problem.
If Hizashi was even slightly off, quieter or distracted, that meant Shouta could dismiss the nights as bleed-through. Stress. Injury. Temporary instability. Even insanity. He knew how to deal with trauma, except this didn't seem to be that. He didn't know what to think of this, Hizashi being flawless in his normalcy.
He touched Shouta the same way he always had: a hand on the shoulder when passing behind him, a brief lean into his space. He flung an arm around him during the staff meeting like gravity naturally pulled him that direction. Nemuri grinned at the sight, Shouta glared back, but they had always been this way. There was no hesitation. There was no significance added or removed.
It’s identical to the last year. The last three.
The worst part was that if Shouta didn’t know to listen at night, he knew there would have been nothing at all.
Once he started staying awake deliberately, his body adapted. He listened, catalogued, and then, after Hizashi settled again, he let himself drift under. It’s not good sleep. It doesn’t sink deep enough to feel restorative. But it’s enough. Enough to patrol. Enough to teach.
The quotes continued. They came softly, always after Hizashi’s breathing had slowed into that even rhythm and he was certain Shouta was asleep. Always in English. Always precise. Never rambling.
Shouta started categorizing them automatically.
Some are declarations. Others are stranger. Less direct. They circled concepts instead of naming them.
It took effort to not look at Hizashi differently during the day. He’s professional enough not to stare. He's disciplined enough not to react when Hizashi leans too close or laughs too loudly in his ear. Shouta's not perfect, he has hidden his face in his capture weapon more than once whenever he slipped up. Mic just grinned, enjoying it like making Eraserhead annoyed and flustered was his fourth job. He certainly does it enough to count.
But the awareness sat under everything now, like a low hum, even when Hizashi was not there. Under everything Shouta does. Even when he's teaching.
-
After dismissing today’s homeroom, he noticed the book.
It was sitting on the edge of Jirou’s desk, half-covered by her bag. The spine is creased. The pages are visibly worn, corners bent and softened with use.
English.
Poetry, if the thinness and formatting are anything to go by.
The room is thinning out. UA was always loud, filled with shouting, jokes and half-whispered gossip when students think he won't hear. He encouraged it. Aizawa had a reputation to uphold after all, and this helped spread it like wildfire. He can hear Bakugo scream something vaguely outside the class.
He started to walk, but three steps in, something made him stop. He found his gaze land on the book again. Jirou noticed it immediately. She didn’t say anything at first. Just waited until she’s close enough that her voice won’t carry.
“You want to borrow it?” she asked, casual.
“No,” Shouta replied automatically.
“You’ve been staring at it for thirty seconds.” She wouldn’t have said that before USJ. It was strange, having a first-year class that wasn't scared of him.
“It looked interesting.”
“It’s poetry. Mostly British. Collections from the romantic period and other popular ones,” she offered. The word romantic hangs in the air, denser than it should.
He hesitated.
Then, “I had a question.”
That gets her attention.
Jirou straightened slightly, posture shifting to something more poised. Removed the jack plugged into her phone. She doesn’t ask what kind of question. She waits.
“There are quotes,” Shouta said. “In English. I want to confirm meanings.”
She perked up. It's not the way someone prying for gossip would, but with interest. The kind that came from being trusted with something specific.
“Okay,” she replied. “Which ones?”
He recited them.
Not all of them. He chose ones he remembered clearly, ones he had already half-decoded himself. Three, just to test consistency.
He kept his tone neutral. Clinical.
Jirou listened without interrupting, head tilted slightly, fingers tapping against the book’s spine.
“…Those aren’t obscure,” she said finally. “Some are pretty famous.”
“Are they,” Shouta asked, after a pause, “romantic.”
She looked at him.
Really looked.
“Aizawa-sensei,” she said, “they’re not subtle.”
That landed harder than it should.
“Context matters,” he added.
“It does,” she agreed. “And the context for those is… devotion. End of the world, if you go I go kind of stuff.”
He exhaled slowly.
The confirmation doesn’t feel like relief. It felt like something settling into place with a quiet finality.
She watched his face, “You want literal translation, or intent?”
“Both.”
She nodded, flipping the book open. “Here. This one goes, ‘Love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds’. That’s from Shakespeare. Sonnet 116. It’s about love being constant, unshaken by change or circumstance. It’s not the kind of fleeting affection you see in everyday life.”
Shouta’s fingers curled slightly against his palm.
“And this one, ‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same’,” she continued, flipping the book close like she knew she won’t find it there, “I don’t remember exactly where it’s from. But it's supposed to capture a deep connection between two people. Similar to soulmates.”
He closed his eyes briefly and let that sink in. When he opened them, she was still in thought.
“I haven’t heard the last one before,” she admitted, “At least not in anything Mic-sensei’s read or referenced in class, or on air.”
He can see her next thoughts click. It’s like watching a disaster.
"We could ask him,” she continued, “I mean, he’d know the sources better than I do—"
“No.” Shouta cuts her off, too fast.
She stopped.
He reined himself in, “Don’t bother him. And make sure this stays between us.”
He can’t ask Mic. That’s why he’s asking her. And now he’s realizing how strange it must look. A teacher asking a student instead of his friend, the one with the degree in the damn language. God, this was a mistake. He notices the faint pink on her ears. She’s going to figure it out. Probably already has.
She nodded once, decisive. She closed the book and slides it toward him.
“Borrow it,” she said. “Return it whenever.”
Shouta takes the book.
-
That night, Hizashi noticed it immediately. Makes it a whole thing. Of course he did.
“Wow. Look at you.” He flopped onto the bed beside Shouta, peered at the book in his hands and grinned, “Someone’s been busy with the fancy words.”
He's dressed in sweatpants and an old shirt he won't let Shouta throw away. Hizashi's gear is all over the floor, but it's not like he can say much when his own capture scarf was taking up half the sofa.
Shouta doesn’t respond. Hizashi, undeterred, reaches over and flips it open.
“Oh, these are good,” he said casually, skimming.
Then.
His breath catches. Just slightly. Barely enough to register. Shouta registered it anyway. Hizashi flipped another page. Then another. His grin didn’t quite come back.
Shouta wondered if he was going to read one aloud.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
The question itself was neutral. But it’s obvious how Hizashi was finding this whole thing absurd. That Shouta would voluntarily pick up English poetry for a pastime. He couldn't believe it either, maybe Shouta was going insane.
Shouta kept his voice even. “Jirou said you read some of these on air.”
It’s close enough to truth to pass. Hizashi always knew when he lied outright.
He laughed. It comes out relieved.
“Oh! Yeah, I do that. Old classics. Producers love it.” He handed the book back like nothing happened.
Later, when the room settled, Hizashi shifted closer.
“You are my heart, my life, my one and only thought.”
He felt the shape of the words settle into him. He didn't get how Hizashi managed to sound so sincere, how he left no room for doubt. Suddenly he can't breathe. There's a pressure building behind his eyes, and Shouta doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this kind of devotion. He really didn't.
He drifted, jerked back awake, then drifted again in fitful circles. He couldn’t sleep after that, now that he had confirmation. That it's not some misinterpretation, or a language or cultural thing like Shouta had convinced himself it must be. He understood exactly what Hizashi was saying; he just didn't understand why.
He found his breathing getting shallow, from just how much he wanted this to be real. To let himself be loved. The hope that it might be real was almost worse than the thought that it wasn’t. The intensity scared him.
“Shouta?” Hizashi shifted beside him, pushing himself upright. “Hey, you're shaking.”
So he was.
A cool hand pressed briefly against his forehead, then pulled away.
“You're not burning up... was it that dream again?” Shouta gave a hum. He let Hizashi think it was, let him hover and press a glass of water into his hand.
“Briefing starts soon,” Hizashi said, apologetic. He's changed into his gear now, only his hair and glasses remain. Shouta knew; there was a special ops mission planned today. They had responsibilities.
“Go.”
“Okay,” Hizashi got up. "I'll be back. Call me if you need anything."
-
Morning came without relief.
The day was brutal in the way fatigue compounds quietly. The mission had left a fracture just enough to bruise, left a faint edge of pain in Hizashi’s shoulder even after Recovery Girl healed it. Then, he had gone to the Radio Station. Shouta had gone on his usual patrol.
By the end, Hizashi had come to bed later than usual. He hadn't bothered joking or narrating his day. The exhaustion was obvious in the way he moved, the way he was visibly drained, quieter.
Hizashi hadn’t said much tonight. Just curled slightly against Shouta’s chest.
Shouta’s hand traced the line of his shoulder, along the curve of his arm, memorizing every flex, every subtle movement. The hand now rested against his back. He could feel the warmth radiating through the fabric, the shallow rise and fall of breath.
It wasn’t often Shouta let himself hold Hizashi this way.
Tonight, he stayed still, didn’t expect any words. Just waited, willing Hizashi to get some damn sleep. If anything, he slept less than Shouta does these days. At least Shouta gets his naps.
“I love thee to the depth—” Hizashi whispered, voice catching midway.
Shouta found himself recognizing the words this time. It’s from some poem. It’s a first, not having to look it up.
He waited, for the rest of the sentence.
But Hizashi doesn’t complete it. Doesn’t let himself have it.
Shouta had always thought Hizashi would say something if he ever wanted them to be more. But for nearly two weeks, he had been confessing in the dark. Only when he's so sure Shouta wouldn’t hear. And it was always with borrowed words, with pretence.
He was wrong. Hizashi wasn’t going to be the one to say it. And Shouta hadn’t said anything either, not when it had always felt like pushing his luck.
Suddenly, not saying anything felt like a conscious choice. Feigning sleep didn’t seem like the quiet mercy he’d made it out to be.
The accent is off. His voice sounded rough, nothing like Hizashi’s.
“—and breadth and height my soul can reach,” he finished it anyway.
Hizashi stilled. Then relaxed.
“You’re awake.” The words are light. Steady enough. He doesn't explain, but neither does Hizashi take the words back. Right. He must think this was the first time Shouta heard him. He must think this was just a lucky catch.
Shouta tightened his arms, felt the way Hizashi shifted his head further into the hollow of his shoulder. He thought about what he could even say. What excuse did he have for this? For the weeks of eavesdropping?
“Hizashi,” Shouta started. The name returned to his tongue with a grounding familiarity.
Shouta considered not saying anything. Anything he said won’t be poetic. Shouta doesn’t do poetry. Except there’s a high chance Hizashi would stop this, this little routine, now that he’s been caught. One thing Shouta had learnt this week was how careful he was. He would retreat into jokes and commentary, and English would go back to being performance. Shouta dreads that even more.
But if Hizashi can spill his heart out in a language that isn't even his own, then the least Shouta could do is fucking try.
Shouta shifted slightly, careful not to disturb where Hizashi’s head rests. He had his hair up in a loose bun, tonight. For a moment, he just watched. Hizashi looked up at him. His eyes were half-lidded, staring at him in a way that made Shouta’s chest tighten. Knowing he had his complete attention.
He waited for Shouta to continue.
“It’s not the first time I’ve heard you,” Shouta said, finally.
Hizashi froze. There isn’t a metaphor that fits this. There’s just the way Hizashi’s gaze lingers, the slight catch in his breath, the way his lip parts without sound.
The expression on his face shouldn’t belong there- shocked, vulnerable, unmasked in a way that Shouta never wanted to make him feel. His shoulders tighten, just a fraction. He almost looks scared. Of Shouta.
Words catch at the back of Shouta’s throat. They never came to him half as easily as they do for Hizashi, who lives and breathes them. The careful wall he’s built for years, the rational restraint that’s kept him alive, breaks apart.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Hizashi’s.
This would be easier to understand.
Hizashi went still. For a heartbeat, or a hundred, he doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, doesn’t pull away. It’s like pressing against a dream. Then, he shifts, a shiver runs through him beneath Shouta’s fingers where he had cupped his jaw. And he presses closer to Shouta in answer.
“How… how long?” Hizashi asked finally, voice low and shy. Shouta realized he's never heard that tone from Hizashi before, but there’s a smile on his face.
Shouta exhaled sharply and found his own face mirroring him. He felt like a fool now for even hesitating. For thinking Hizashi wouldn’t want this too.
“I don’t know.” he admitted honestly. “I don’t know when it started. Only when I noticed.”
Hizashi closed his eyes briefly and leaned into the warmth. He doesn’t ask anything else, as if just existing in this space was enough for an answer.
Shouta didn’t know what Hizashi was thinking.
“Do you want to know my favourite?” Shouta found himself asking.
“You have a favourite?” Hizashi lit up at that.
His hand twitched to rest over Shouta’s arm, fingers push against his wrist. “Shouta. Tell me.”
He sounded almost normal now; completely awake, like he had realized it wasn't a dream. Except Shouta could still feel the quiet tremor of disbelief that hadn’t faded yet. He nudged Hizashi's foot.
He took a steadying breath. Thought about how this one had sounded less like poetry. How it was a prayer. A truth he had already known.
Then, carefully, he gave the words back.
“Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay.”