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1. GRUDGE
The gym smelt faintly of disinfectant and rubber, the air heavy with the echoes of earlier classes.
Across the mat, Yamada Hizashi stretched his arms over his head with exaggerated looseness, like he was warming up for a performance rather than a spar.
Shouta watched him from behind half-lidded eyes.
Yamada was loud even when he was silent. Every movement was expansive, careless in a very intentional way. Shouta had learnt early on that it was not accidental—that Yamada occupied space because he wanted to, because he expected the world to make room for him.
Shouta found it grating.
“Hey,” Hizashi said, flashing that too-easy grin as he dropped his arms. “You ready?”
Shouta hated that fake friendliness. He knew that people like Yamada tended to be two-faced, and laugh at you right after being polite.
Shouta simply shifted his stance as an answer, sliding one foot back a few centimetres and lowering his centre of gravity. His weight settled evenly, knees bent just enough to allow immediate movement. His hands stayed relaxed at his sides, fingers loose. His eyes were fixed on Yamada’s shoulders rather than his face.
They had sparred before. Everyone in the hero course had sparred. It was part of the curriculum, part of learning control, and part of understanding how easily things could spiral if force or timing was misjudged. Today’s session was supposed to be strictly physical-combat training: no support items, no quirks.
That meant no capture weapon, a huge disadvantage, which he should cover with much more carefulness than he would generally use.
That was why Yamada’s ugly mug was getting on his nerves. His face reminded him—unhelpfully and quite irrationally—of the first time Yamada had spoken to him instead of letting him focus.
It had been loud, of course. Yamada wouldn’t accept otherwise. He took all the space and expected the rest of the world to simply… adjust. He remembered how the boy had leaned over his desk during a break, voice bright, asking invasive questions.
Where are you from? You were in Gen-ED, right? You always look tired—do you even sleep?
Shouta had assumed it was a joke. His voice was so exaggeratedly amicable that it had to be a joke. People like Yamada did not approach him sincerely. They poked. They prodded. They laughed when he did not answer, covering the delightful silence.
Shouta had shut him down curtly, eyes never lifting from his notes. Go bother someone else.
Yamada had laughed then too, but it had sounded sharper.
“Begin,” their teacher, Sentinel, said.
Yamada moved first. He always did: it was his way of taking people by surprise.
He lunged forward in a burst of motion that was fast without being reckless, opening with a feint that dipped his shoulder. Shouta did not bite. He stepped aside, pivoting smoothly, eyes tracking Hizashi’s hips instead of his hands.
He anticipated the follow-up: a low sweep aimed at his footing.
Shouta hopped back, barely clearing the arc of the kick, and stepped forward. His fingers closed around Yamada’s wrist while the other boy’s momentum was still committed.
For a fraction of a second, Yamada froze.
Then he twisted free with a laugh, letting the motion spin him backward into a reset stance.
“C’mon,” Hizashi said lightly. “That was low effort even for you.”
Shouta ignored him.
He always ignored him.
Yamada’s breathing stayed even as he advanced, every step eerily soft.
Shouta’s heart rate increased, focused. Yamada was fast. Faster than most people expected from someone whose quirk favoured distance. He used that assumption against people, closed gaps they thought were safe, and stayed unpredictable by never committing to a single rhythm.
He watched the way Yamada’s grin sharpened.
Hizashi felt irritation spark.
Aizawa always looked at him like that: like he was a problem to be managed. Like he was noisy clutter in an otherwise orderly room. He knew that gaze; he had seen it hundreds of times.
At first, though, Hizashi had thought that maybe he was just judging way too fast. That the other boy was just anxious and offish.
He had tried to befriend him.
Aizawa had dismissed him without even looking up. He hadn’t had even the basic decency of glancing at him.
Arsehole.
Hizashi surged forward again, this time throwing a punch aimed at Aizawa’s jaw. Aizawa blocked with his forearm, the impact sending a jolt up his arm. He turned with it and hooked his leg behind Hizashi’s ankle.
Hizashi stumbled.
For a heartbeat, surprise flickered across his face.
Shouta felt the opening and stepped in, reaching for Yamada’s centre of gravity. He moved on instinct, intent on ending the exchange quickly.
But Yamada recovered with a sharp twist of his body, planting his foot hard and slipping free. His elbow came up defensively, narrowly missing Shouta’s collarbone as he disengaged.
They circled.
Shouta catalogued the exchange rationally—practised detachment was extremely efficient—and he noticed something. Yamada was pushing harder than necessary. His strikes were controlled, but the intent behind them was too violent.
Good, Shouta thought. Let him burn himself out.
Hizashi, on the other side, was thinking the opposite. Aizawa was not rising to the bait. He fought like he lived: dismissive. It felt like being ignored all over again. That didn’t work well for Hizashi, whose strategy generally consisted of forcing reactions out of his opponents.
He would have to up his speed then.
Hizashi lunged again, faster now. He tried for a jab, then brought a knee. Finally, a feint that turned into a grab. He closed the distance aggressively, forcing Shouta to act.
Shouta blocked, shifted, grabbed Hizashi’s sleeve and yanked. Their bodies collided, chests knocking together.
The impact knocked the air from Hizashi’s lungs in a sharp exhale. For a split second, they were chest to chest, too close for clean technique. Hizashi felt the solidity in Shouta’s small frame.
Shouta, instead, felt that the other boy was too light.
It unsettled him.
He tightened his grip and attempted to sweep Yamada’s leg again, but he shifted his weight at the last second, locking his stance. He retaliated by shoving Shouta backward, harder than necessary.
Shouta stumbled but did not fall, his outstanding balance making itself known.
Their teacher took a step closer to the mat, but neither of them noticed.
Hizashi laughed, breathless. “That all you’ve got? Would have expected more of you after what you pulled to enter the Hero course.”
Something in Shouta snapped; he was so tired.
Why couldn’t he just shut up? He was always prodding. Always.
Shouta closed the distance in two steps, ducked under Yamada’s next swing, and hooked an arm around his waist. He drove forward, yanking Yamada off his feet and all but throwing him on the mat.
The rubber burnt against Hizashi’s exposed skin, but he didn’t give it much thought. Instead, he focused on trying to break the hold. Aizawa didn't give in.
They struggled.
Neither Shouta nor Hizashi were thinking about the training anymore. It was a reckoning, something born from a grudge that neither of them wanted to recognise.
Sentinel shouted their names, but neither of them obliged.
Shouta pinned Hizashi for a brief, breathless moment before he bucked hard, rolling them both across the mat. They came to a stop tangled and ungraceful, sharp elbows and all.
“Enough!”
Hands grabbed Shouta’s collar from behind, hauling them apart.
Aizawa froze as soon as he was lifted, dangling like a lost kitten. Hizashi stifled a laugh while watching his face, and Aizawa scowled.
Then, Sentinel released Shouta’s neck, and he regained balance almost instantly. Yamada took way too much time standing up. They looked at each other. It was uncomfortable, now that they no longer were fighting, to see bruises already blooming and chests heaving.
Sentinel’s gaze moved between them slowly, arching an eyebrow in acute disappointment. That was worse than anger; it always was.
“Explain,” they said, firmly, while crossing their arms.
The word landed as intended, with weight, sharp and precise, like a blade placed carefully at the throat.
Neither of them spoke.
Yamada opened his mouth first, clearly intending to joke his way out of it, then caught the look in Sentinel’s eyes and thought better of it. His grin died half-formed. He scratched the back of his neck instead, posture loose but eyes wary.
Shouta stood rigid, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight. He stared at a point just past Sentinel’s shoulder.
The hero exhaled slowly.
“That”, Sentinel said, gesturing once at the mat between them, “was not sparring.”
Sentinel stepped closer, metallic boots pressing against the rubber.
“That was a pub scuffle."
Hizashi stiffened.
Shouta’s shoulders tensed, almost imperceptibly.
“You were instructed,” Sentinel went on, “to engage in close-combat drills. Emphasis on technique and situational awareness.”
Sentinel stopped directly in front of them.
“Instead, you both decided to settle something personal.”
Hizashi’s irritation flared defensively. “We were just—”
“Quiet,” Sentinel said.
The single word cut him off completely.
Sentinel’s eyes hardened.
“If this had been a real engagement,” Sentinel continued, “either of you could have been injured—not because the opponent outmatched you, but because you stopped thinking.”
Sentinel let that sit.
“You want to be heroes,” Sentinel said. “Ego should be the last thing that comes to mind when fighting.”
Sentinel stepped back and gestured toward the edge of the mat.
“You’re done. Both of you. Report to Recovery Girl if needed, and then I want a 5000-word essay describing each thing you did wrong and its cause.”
Hizashi let out a slow breath through his nose.
Shouta nodded once, sharply.
As they moved off the mat in opposite directions, neither of them could quite tell whether the reprimand hurt more than the fight had.
2. PERFORMACE
The gym was quiet.
That, in itself, was a miracle. After the dorm system was applied, finding quiet places had been extremely hard. There always was an issue, a student needing help, a meeting, a night out. But now, it was late enough that no classes were scheduled, late enough that this time and place was theirs.
Shouta stood near the mat, the capture weapon coiled loosely around his shoulders like an afterthought. His posture was relaxed, almost slouched, but his weight was balanced with habitual precision. He looked tired. Exhausted.
Hizashi, on the other hand, looked infuriatingly awake.
He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders, visor already in place. His movements were smooth and easy, but now it was more out of familiarity than performance.
He shot Shouta a sideways grin.
“You know,” Hizashi said, “most married couples go on dates.”
Shouta blinked slowly. “This is a date.”
Hizashi laughed, bright and unbothered. “I meant going to restaurants and cute little parks.”
“That’s a loss of time. We can spend time together while training.” Shouta tugged at the end of his scarf, testing the tension. “Besides, you’re the one who said you felt rusty.”
“I said I was bored,” Hizashi corrected. “I don’t get rusty.”
“Mhm,” Shouta replied, incredulous.
Then, he activated Erasure.
The familiar pressure settled behind his eyes. Hizashi felt his quirk drop out immediately, clean and absolute. He made an exaggerated noise of complaint, one hand going to his chest.
Shouta closed his eyes, dropping his quirk.
“Oh, you are so mean to me.”
“You like it that way.”
“Is what I hear a dirty joke?” Hizashi said teasingly, mocking him. “Are you in a playful mood, Sho?”
Shouta didn’t answer; he knew better than to bite that bait. Instead, he looked at his husband, who had slid forward in a smooth, curving path, testing distance rather than closing it outright. Testing Shouta, too, and his reactions to closeness.
Shouta didn’t give him a thing. He simply watched him through half-lidded eyes, tracking the subtle shifts in his shoulders, the way his weight rolled from heel to toe.
Then, Shouta flicked his wrist.
The capture weapon snapped outward, just a wave, not really intended to catch on Hizashi. His husband was testing him, and Shouta was planning to do the same.
Hizashi ducked under the capture weapon with a lazy bend of his spine, hair brushing the mat as he spun out of reach. It looked effortless and beautiful, and Shouta’s capture weapon almost snapped its owner.
Hizashi was so distracting.
“You are getting predictable,” Hizashi teased.
“You dodged early,” Shouta shot back, both words and his capture weapon, and darted towards Hizashi. “I could have made a comeback while you were regaining balance."
Hizashi pivoted, letting Shouta’s momentum carry him past, and tapped Shouta’s hip with two fingers as he slipped by.
Way too close to his arse.
Shouta scowled. “Hands off, Zashi.”
“No way.” The man grinned. “That’s the easiest way to distract you.”
They kept going, but neither of them could secure the advantage. Hizashi kept moving, long strides and sudden shifts in direction, forcing Shouta to adjust angles. Shouta responded in kind, alternating between close-range combat and mid-distance strikes, the scarf flowing and snapping as naturally as breath.
It felt almost… like dancing.
Hizashi dipped low, sliding across the mat to avoid a sudden sweep, then popped back up inside Shouta’s reach. Shouta reacted instantly, twisting his wrist to redirect Hizashi’s arm and sending the scarf looping around his waist.
It felt less like a binding and more like a hug. A really tight hug.
Hizashi clicked his tongue. “You are no fun.”
“You say that every time you are losing.”
“Don’t get cocky, Sho.”
Shouta flashed Erasure for a brief second, just enough to make a point. Hizashi felt it immediately and huffed a laugh.
They reset after that, breathing steadily, eyes locked.
But, before Hizashi could make his usual fast entrance, they were distracted.
Thump. Many thumps, in fact: footsteps outside the gym. Then, excited whispers bled through the door.
Shouta stilled.
Not outwardly—his posture barely changed—but something in him went taut, attention snapping outward. He tilted his head just enough to listen, brows drawing together.
“…is that—”
“No way, that’s—”
“Shh, you’ll get us caught—”
Students.
Shouta sighed, long and tired, the sound slipping out before he could stop it. Of course, it was too much to ask for half an hour for himself.
He loosened his grip on the scarf, letting it curl around his shoulders, and glanced toward the door.
“We should stop,” he said flatly. “I’ll tell them to clear out.”
He took half a step back, disengaging, already shifting into teacher.
Hizashi’s eyes flicked toward the door—and then lit up.
“Oh?” he said, voice brightening with unmistakable delight. “We have an audience?”
Shouta shot him a look. Fuck, Hizashi hadn’t noticed. “No.”
“Yes,” Hizashi corrected cheerfully. “We do.”
Before Shouta could react, Hizashi raised his voice just enough to carry, pitched precisely to be heard through the door without shouting. “Careful there, Eraserhead. You’re slowing down.”
Shouta’s eye twitched.
“Hizashi,” he warned, low.
Hizashi grinned and dropped into motion.
He whooped once—hard.
The floor hummed.
It wasn’t the way he usually used his quirk. There was no blast of noise, no concussive wave in the air. Instead, the vibration rippled through the mat itself, a low, rolling tremor that travelled outward in a widening circle.
Shouta felt his legs tremble, conducting the waves as well as the mat.
Outside the gym, several students yelped in surprise.
“The floor—!”
“That—was that Mic-sensei?!”
Shouta swore under his breath.
He reactivated Erasure, eyes snapping open as Hizashi surged forward on the vibration’s momentum, using the unstable footing to mask his approach. Hizashi felt his quirk cut off mid-stride and laughed, skidding sideways instead of forward, boots squealing softly.
“Rude.”
“Not more than you,” Shouta said, but he was already moving.
The scarf snapped out again, but it was ampler, designed to herd, not to tie. Hizashi ducked and spun, letting it skim past his shoulder, then vaulted upward, planting one foot briefly against the wall to redirect himself.
Show off. Shouta almost didn’t stifle the eye roll.
From the hallway:
“Did you see that?!”
"It looked like how Sensei moves—”
Hizashi landed lightly and immediately swept toward Shouta’s legs either to trip him or to force him to jump.
Shouta chose the latter.
And, the moment his feet left the ground, Hizashi was there.
Shouta felt an arm slide around his shoulders, precise and familiar, and then Hizashi twisted, using Shouta’s own momentum to turn him upside down. Shouta reacted on instinct, wrapping the scarf around Hizashi's left forearm and tying it around his neck in one fluid motion as they landed.
It was a lock. Just, maybe, a bit too intimate for a training sesion. But it still was a lock.
Hizashi froze, breath huffing out in a surprised laugh. “Wow,” he said low, so the students wouldn’t hear. "You ought to have taken me to that date.”
Shouta didn't dignify the comment with an answer; instead, he leaned in just enough to make the hold undeniable. “You wanted to show off. I’m just following your lead.”
Hizashi arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because it seems to me that you are awfully close to leading right now.”
Outside, the whispers had escalated into frantic analysis.
“That was a neck lock—did you see how manly it looked?”
“Present Mic didn’t even panic. Struggling could worsen—”
Shouta heard it.
The realisation hit him all at once; he was matching Hizashi’s energy.
Of course, he knew that he was letting him make a performance out of their spar, but now it dawned on him that to every flourish he was answering with something equally far-fetched.
He released the lock and stepped back abruptly.
But the release did not end it. It only changed the tempo.
Hizashi rolled his shoulders, a bit of pressure building there after the lock, and took Shouta’s retreat as an invitation rather than a boundary.
He stepped in again—not fast, not slow—matching Shouta’s pace so perfectly that he didn’t feel like he was going to strike. It felt like he was going to hug him and spin him around.
Shouta scowled.
“You’re enjoying this,” he muttered.
“Of course I am,” Hizashi replied. “And you’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The ‘I’m pretending this isn’t fun, but it absolutely is’ thing.”
Shouta lunged again while the other was distracted.
The capture weapon snapped low, skimming the mat before rising in a clean diagonal meant to force Hizashi airborne. Hizashi didn’t jump. He twisted, rolling over one shoulder and popping back up on the other side of the scarf, already moving before Shouta could reorient.
Shouta adjusted without conscious thought, pivoting, the scarf flowing back into his control. Their movements overlapped—advance and retreat blurring until it became impossible to tell who had the advantage.
Outside the door:
“That timing—” Kaminari’s voice, breathless. “They don’t even hesitate.”
“They are predicting the other moves.” Yaoyorozu whispered.
Shouta heard them. Now that they were at an impasse, he could tell the voices apart.
Rationally, he knew he should stop, but his body refused to.
Hizashi slid in close again, too close for sound attacks — Zashi wouldn’t risk bursting his eardrums. He shifted his weight suddenly, shoulder brushing Shouta’s as he stepped past. Shouta turned with him automatically, scarf looping around Hizashi’s waist again, loosely.
They spun.
It did feel a lot like dancing.
Hizashi leaned back just enough to avoid a tightening pull—just like a dip—using the scarf’s tension to redirect himself instead of resisting it. Shouta followed, eyes never leaving Hizashi’s neck.
“Did you like it?” Hizashi murmured, low enough that only Shouta could hear.
“Shut up.” Shouta shot back.
Hizashi’s grin widened.
He whooped again—not as hard this time, though. The vibration rippled outward, subtle but destabilising. Shouta compensated instantly, Erasure flaring bright.
Hizashi felt the quirk cut off and adapted mid-motion, using the last echo of vibration to spring upward and over Shouta’s next sweep.
Shouta could see that his foot was in a position that would surely cause a sprain. Not actually thinking, he shot his scarf, catching Hizashi’s ankle for half a second, long enough to correct it.
The both of them paused, unstable. Shouta could feel the tickling aftermath of the vibration in his legs, and Hizashi was taking into account the phantom feeling of the scarf that had been there but no longer was.
Outside:
“Did you see that?!” Midoriya hissed, surely notebook already out. “Aizawa-sensei redirected his own weapon to support Present Mic’s landing!”
Bakugou growled. “That was control.”
“Then why didn’t he slam him?” Kirishima asked, awed. “He totally could’ve.”
Shouta absolutely could have.
He didn’t, because this was his husband, and they were playing, not training. It wasn’t really the best example he could give his kids of how a spar should be.
“I think this is enough,” he said, bringing a hand to his eyes.
Hizashi straightened slowly, expression unreadable for half a second before that familiar grin returned, but the softer and warmer version. “Okay,” he agreed easily. “We’ll stop.”
He moved towards where he had left his jacket, over the bench, and rummaged in an inside pocket before throwing the familiar bottle of eye drops to Shouta.
Then, he glanced toward the door and raised his voice. “Show’s over, kiddos.”
There was a beat, and a flurry of panicked footsteps. Suddenly, almost the whole of Shouta’s hell class appeared in front of both men. It seemed that Iida wasn’t there, nor was Asui, Mineta or Kouda. The rest were anxiously shifting their stance, guiltily glancing between their teachers.
Even Bakugo wasn’t looking him in the eye, although he did look more defiant than his peers.
“S-sorry, Aizawa-sensei!” Uraraka squeaked, bowing so fast she nearly tipped forward.
That seemed to break whatever fragile dam of panic the rest of them had been holding back.
“We didn’t mean to spy!” Yaoyorozu added immediately, hands clasped in front of her. “We were just passing by, and then—we heard something, and—”
“And then Mic-sensei shook the floor,” Kaminari blurted out, pointing accusingly before clapping a hand over his mouth. “I mean—respectfully, sir.”
Ashido all but jumped excitedly. “It was incredible, Aizawa-sensei!”
Shouta sighed.
Deeply.
He rubbed at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He still hadn’t got the time to pour a few eyedrops in there. When he looked back at them, his expression was flat, the usual kind.
“You were eavesdropping,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” several voices answered at once.
Bakugou crossed his arms, jaw tight. “You should lock the door next time.”
Hizashi snorted, unapologetic, and slung an arm loosely around Shouta’s shoulders before he could sidestep it. “Wow, is that victim-blaming I hear?.”
Bakugou bristled. “I’m not—”
“Enough,” Shouta cut in, voice quiet but firm.
The class snapped to attention almost reflexively.
Shouta studied them for a long moment, red eyes moving from face to face. He recognised the guilt still buzzing under their skin and the barely contained excitement.
Finally, he spoke.
“You shouldn’t have been listening,” he said. “And you definitely should have left.”
Several heads ducked lower.
“That said,” he continued, “you didn’t actually interfere. And you didn’t use recording devices without consent…”
Midoriya froze. Kaminari slowly lowered his phone from where it had been hovering very conspicuously near his pocket.
Shouta’s gaze flicked to him.
“...because that goes against the code of conduct,” he finished.
Hizashi leaned down slightly, stage-whispering, “You’re all welcome, by the way.”
Shouta elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.
Midoriya gathered his courage, then spoke. “Aizawa-sensei—um—if I may?” At Shouta’s slight nod, he continued, words tumbling out. “The way you and Present Mic-sensei moved—it looked like a hero partnership. Like Mandalay and Tiger in that filtered training session!"
Kirishima nodded vigorously. “Yeah! Like, super manly trust!”
Several students murmured agreement. Midoriya kept talking then, increasing the speed of his blabbering. “But you two never fight together! You move in totally different areas. Then how is it that you are so synchronised?”
Shouta went very still.
Hizashi’s arm tightened just a fraction, warm and grounding.
“That’s enough analysis, kiddos.” Hizashi said. “You are reading too much into it. Eraser and I just have known each other for a long time.
There were a few disappointed noises at that, but no one pushed.
“As for punishment,” Shouta continued, already turning toward the door. The students tensed, actually silent for once. “You won’t be getting detention.”
Relief rippled through the group.
“But”, he added, glancing back over his shoulder, “starting tomorrow, you’ll be spending an extensive amount of time on stealth training.”
The relief evaporated.
“Wait—stealth?” Kaminari echoed weakly.
“Yes,” Shouta said. “Since so many of you seem to think you’re quiet.”
Hizashi laughed outright.
Shouta paused, then added, almost absently, “If I hear footsteps where there shouldn’t be any, we’ll start over.”
Ashido grimaced. “Sensei, that’s so evil!”
Shouta’s mouth twitched. Barely.
“Dismissed,” he said.
The students bowed again, far more orderly this time, and filed out—still whispering, still buzzing, still absolutely doomed to talk about this for weeks.
As the door shut behind them, the gym finally fell quiet again.
Hizashi leaned in, voice low and pleased. “You know they’re telling the entire school, right?”
Shouta sighed, tired and resigned. “I know.”
“And that video Kaminari took will definitely be uploaded.”
“We will be lucky if you aren’t trending topic by tomorrow morning.”
Hizashi grinned wider. “Worth it.”
Shouta didn’t disagree. It had been fun.
3. DOMESTICITY
The couch was soft and warm and comfortable, and Shouta loved it.
He lay half-reclined against the armrest—tucked in the corner of the couch—with his cold feet curled under his bottom. Hizashi sat beside him, one leg crossed over the other, a book open in his hands. The room was dim, lit mostly by a floor lamp that cast everything in warm, forgiving light.
It was then that Catastrophe—honouring her name—jumped without warning.
She landed on the armrest with precision, tail flicking once as she surveyed them both with obvious judgement.
Shouta’s eyes opened a fraction wider, pupils dilating as he glanced at the brown cat.
“…Troph,” he murmured.
The cat turned her head slightly in his direction, nose twitching, unimpressed.
Shouta lifted one hand, palm up, fingers snapping to earn her attention. He didn’t move otherwise. He knew better than to look too eager.
Troph stretched, then stepped delicately onto Shouta’s chest. Shouta stayed still, trying to make himself comfortable for the princess.
Her weight settled there, solid and warm, paws kneading once before she curled up neatly, chin tucked beneath her tail. She purred, loud and triumphant.
Shouta didn’t breathe.
Then, Hizashi looked down. His eyes widened.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
Before Shouta could react, Hizashi reached over, scooped Catastrophe up with both hands, and pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his chest like a baby. Troph made a small, pleased noise and went completely limp, trusting and traitorous.
Shouta stared.
“…You stole my cat.”
“Our cat.” Hizashi said cheerfully, adjusting his grip. “And, besides, she was unguarded.” Then, in a high-pitched voice, he spoke to Troph. “How can a cat be this much pretty?” He booped her nose once. “This shiny—” He dipped low to kiss her temple, “cute—” another kiss, “and gorgeous.”
He ended his speech with a full attack of incessant kissing, which Troph took without batting an eye.
Instead, it was Shouta’s eye that twitched.
Then he lunged.
Hizashi yelped as Shouta’s fingers dug mercilessly into his sides, a sudden, vicious tickle onslaught that made him laugh despite himself.
“Sho—no—no fair!”
Troph escaped from his embrace, scurrying away somewhere.
“You kidnapped her,” Shouta replied flatly, not letting up.
Hizashi twisted, trying to scramble away, laughter breaking his words apart. He lost his balance at the edge of the couch—and instinctively grabbed Shouta’s sleeve on the way down.
They fell together.
The impact knocked the breath from both of them as they hit the carpet in a tangle of limbs. Catastrophe, it turned out, had ended atop the backrest of the couch. She sat there, tail wrapped around her paws, staring down at them like a disappointed deity.
Hizashi was still laughing, chest heaving, one arm hooked around Shouta’s waist to keep him from getting away.
“You started this,” Shouta muttered, trying to push himself upright.
Hizashi tightened his grip and rolled them, pinning Shouta halfway down with his weight. “Uh-uh. It was you who started. I simply hugged my baby!”
Shouta tried to wriggle free. “It’s no use arguing with you.” He reached toward the couch with one arm. “Troph—”
Hizashi immediately intercepted, fingers digging into Shouta’s ribs.
Shouta choked on a startled sound, his body jerking despite himself.
“Don’t—,” Shouta accused, breathless.
“Na, na, na. I can’t listen to you,” Hizashi shot back, grinning.
They twisted again, Shouta managing to get a knee under himself, only for Hizashi to hook his ankle and send them both rolling. The struggle was clumsy and intimate, their chests knocking, their hands grabbing at sleeves and waistbands, and laughter. Plenty of laughter.
Hizashi leaned in close, voice low and teasing. “You know she prefers me.”
“Filthy lies.”
Shouta was the one to tickle him this time, sharp and sudden, earning a half-shout-half-chuckle as Hizashi collapsed against him, forehead knocking into his shoulder.
Above them, Catastrophe blinked slowly, having taken the position of a perfectly toasted loaf of bread. Even if she didn’t look like it, she was judging.
In the spur of the moment, neither of them heard the door being shut nor the muffled footsteps of a teenager until it was too late.
“I really hope you two aren’t traumatising Trophy.” Hitoshi deadpanned. “She’s got an impressionable mind.”
Shouta froze.
Hizashi froze too—mid-laugh, half-draped over Shouta’s chest, one hand still dangerously close to tickling territory.
Very slowly, Shouta turned his head toward the voice.
Hitoshi stood a few steps behind the couch, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, expression perfectly flat. His eyes flicked from Shouta to Hizashi, then to the cat loafing atop the backrest, and back again.
There was a long, heavy beat of silence.
“…How long have you been standing there?” Shouta asked.
Hitoshi tilted his head, considering. “Long enough to remember I also have an impressionable mind.”
Hizashi groaned and dropped his forehead onto Shouta’s shoulder. “Aw, c’mon, that bad?”
“Yes,” Hitoshi said immediately. “And also no. Mostly confusing.”
Shouta closed his eyes. This was happening. Of course it was happening. He had known—known—that peace never lasted in the dorms. Even less now that the kid actually lived with them.
“You didn’t say hello,” Shouta muttered.
“I did,” Hitoshi replied. “You didn’t hear me. You were busy… wrestling?”
“That was a tactical dispute,” Hizashi said, lifting his head. “Very serious.”
Hitoshi raised an eyebrow. “Over…?”
“Cat privileges, of course,” Hizashi answered immediately.
Catastrophe flicked one ear, and Hitoshi hummed. Indeed, a vital topic.
Shouta finally shoved Hizashi off him—taking advantage of him being distracted—and sat up, rubbing at his face with one hand. His eyes itched.
Hitoshi walked closer, stopping beside the couch. He reached up and scratched Catastrophe under the chin. She accepted the affection with regal tolerance.
“She looks deeply traumatised,” he said dryly. “Scarred for life. Poor kitty.”
Hizashi laughed and flopped onto his back on the carpet, arms spread. “Then she must have more scars than Sho here, because this sure isn’t the first time she’s seen us spar.”
“I see.” Hitoshi kept petting that soft fur. “Reiterated psychological abuse. Must be rescued.”
Then, as light as Hizashi was with his feet, he took hold of the cat, letting it rest on his forearm, and darted out of the living room and, allegedly, to his room.
The space where Catastrophe had been was suddenly, painfully empty.
Shouta stared at the backrest of the couch.
Hizashi stared at the doorway.
They stared for the exact same amount of time—three heartbeats—before both of them moved at once.
“Hitoshi,” Shouta said, face expressionless.
“Oh no,” Hizashi breathed, scrambling to his feet, laughter already bubbling up again. “Oh, he did not.”
From down the hallway, Hitoshi’s voice floated back, infuriatingly serene.
“She’s safer with me. You two are clearly compromised.”
Shota and Hizashi shared a look, then began signing.
'We have two options,' Hizashi commented, 'we let it be or we plan a siege.'
Honestly, it wasn’t a hard decision at all. A chilly grin spread Shouta’s face in two as he brought a hand up, only two fingers extended.
Hitosi didn’t know what was coming for him. It would, though, include an excessive amount of tickles, Hizashi's terrible singing and Shouta’s amused —malevolent— chuckles.