Chapter Text
Love never came easy for Shouta. As a kid, watching everyone around him pair off and fall for each other, he couldn't help but wonder if something was wrong with him. Eventually, he figured out it was just the way he was made.
But it was easy to fall in love with Hizashi Yamada.
Bright, loud, the kind of person who could light up a space just by being nearby. He was all the things Shouta had never been. Complete opposites. Which made it all the more frustrating when, at fifteen years old, Shouta felt his heart skip a beat for the first time.
It didn't start small—the feelings hit him all at once on a frosty December morning, only three months after meeting Hizashi. Shouta knew then that he was utterly doomed.
Years passed, and that feeling never faded. Through UA, through hero work, through every late night and early morning they spent together—it only grew stronger, quieter, more certain. And Shouta learned to live with it the way he lived with everything else: silently, privately, tucking it away where no one could see.
Especially not Hizashi.
It was easier that way. Safer. Because Hizashi had always been surrounded by people who adored him, and Shouta had never been good at competing for attention—or asking for it.
Either way, Hizashi deserved better than him. Someone just as bright, just as beautiful—all the things Shouta could never be.
When it actually happened, Shouta hated how much it stung. Tucked away in some dark corner of Nemuri's place, the New Year's party loud and alive all around him, he watched Hizashi from across the room—watched the woman at his side, practically glued to him—and took another slow sip from his glass.
"Y'know, if you stare any harder, she might actually catch fire."
Nemuri's voice cut through his thoughts. Shouta didn't look at her, just rolled his eyes and took another drink.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You're a terrible liar, Shouta."
He finally glanced at her, finding her leaning against the wall beside him with that knowing smirk she always wore when she thought she had him figured out. She probably did. Nemuri was just like that.
"I'm not lying," he said finally, voice flat and face carefully neutral. "I'm just tired."
"Tired of pining? I would be too after fifteen years."
Shouta's jaw tightened, but he didn't bother denying it. There wasn't much point when Nemuri could read him like an open book.
"He looks happy," he mumbled, eyes drifting back to Hizashi and the woman laughing at something he'd said. "Happier than he has in a long time."
"Yeah," Nemuri agreed softly, no longer teasing. "But so could you, if you'd just—"
"Don't," Shouta cut her off, shaking his head. "It's fine. This is fine."
Nemuri watched him for a long moment, nothing but the ambient chatter and sound of music filling the space between them. Then she sighed, slow and heavy, like she'd given up on something.
"You’re impossible."
"Someone has to be," Shouta replied, finishing what was left in his glass. The bitter taste matched the feeling settling in his chest—familiar, unwelcome, but manageable. He'd been managing it for years, what was another?
After a moment, Shouta let out a quiet breath and pushed away from the wall. "I'm heading outside. Need some air."
"Shou—"
"Please, Nem. Just—drop it." The desperation must've bled through his voice, because she pressed her lips together but didn't push, just gave him a small nod.
The balcony was thankfully empty when he stepped outside, the cold soon-to-be January air biting at his skin. He welcomed it—anything to clear his head, to give him something to focus on that wasn't the ache in his chest or the sound of Hizashi's laugh carrying through the walls behind him.
With numb fingers, Shouta dug the crumpled pack from his back pocket and pulled one out, sticking it between his lips.
"I thought you quit ages ago?"
Shouta nearly jumped. Nearly. He hadn't noticed the absence of Hizashi's laugh or the opening of the door—but that voice, those footsteps, were achingly familiar. He turned, cigarette still unlit between his lips, and found Hizashi standing in the doorway—alone—with that easy smile that had always been Shouta's undoing.
"Old habits," Shouta muttered, pulling the cigarette away without lighting it, shame already taking root in the flush of his cheeks. "What are you doing out here?"
"Saw you rush out—wanted to check on you. You doing okay, man?" Hizashi's voice softened as he leaned against the balcony railing, his usual showmanship absent.
Shouta's throat tightened. He wanted to say yes, to brush it off like he always did, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he just shrugged, fingers still clutching the unlit cigarette like a lifeline.
Hizashi didn't say anything for a while as Shouta lit his cigarette, feeling like nothing in comparison to the star beside him, like he'd fallen straight from the sky just to stand here. No wonder everything felt so dim and cold when he wasn't around.
"You seem different tonight," Hizashi’s breath turned to mist in the cold air as he spoke, concern audible. "Quieter than usual. Even for you."
Shouta took a long drag, letting the smoke curl between them like a barrier. "Just thinking about how fast time goes by."
A hand landed on his forearm, fingers curling around it with just enough pressure to ground him. Shouta's gaze snapped to Hizashi, catching the sharp edge of worry carved into his expression. "You're not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?"
"What? No—"
"Shouta."
He paused, taking in Hizashi's face. They were close now—barely any space between them. Shouta felt himself leaning forward, begged his body to listen, to stop, but it was like a magnet pulling him in.
Smoke billowed between them—thick and sudden—before the wind tore it away just as fast. Shouta yanked the cigarette from his lips. "Shit, sorry—"
Lips pressed against his—warm and sudden and real—fireworks bursting somewhere in the distance as the clock struck midnight.
Shouta went still, like every part of him had turned to stone. Then something cracked and gave way—and he was kissing back, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of Hizashi's neck. It should've been everything—fifteen years of yearning all crashing into this one moment, a dream he'd never let himself believe in—but then he was being shoved back, hard, the railing biting into his spine.
And Hizashi? Hizashi looked horrified. Disgusted. Shouta's heart plummeted. He released Hizashi immediately, stumbling back another step, the cigarette falling from his fingers to the balcony floor.
"’zashi—"
"Fuck. No, I'm not—I'm not into guys, I’m not a—" His voice cracked, raw and panicked, and Shouta flinched like he'd been hit. Of all the people he thought would say something like that, Hizashi had never been one of them.
Shouta's chest felt hollow, carved out and exposed. He opened his mouth—to apologise, to explain, to say anything—but nothing came out except a shaky breath that clouded in the freezing air between them.
"God—why'd you even kiss back? What the fuck?" Hizashi's voice broke again, fear bleeding into something sharper, angrier. Shouta felt his own hands trembling at his sides, cold and useless.
"I thought—I don't know what I thought, but not—" Hizashi gestured wildly between them, like the space itself had become something toxic.
"I'm sorry," Shouta managed, voice barely above a whisper. The words tasted like ash.
Hizashi didn't respond. He just stared at Shouta like he was something unrecognisable, something twisted and changed—entirely different from the picture his mind had formed from the day they’d met.
Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared back inside, leaving Shouta alone on the balcony with nothing but the distant echo of fireworks and the bitter taste of smoke and citrine on his tongue.
Scorched by the star he'd been circling all along.