Archive of Our Own

AIZAWA SHOUTA would like to think he doesn’t hold onto many regrets.

It doesn’t mean they’re not cumbersome. No world exists where Shouta is able to get away scot-free from the weight of what he’s done.

For obvious reasons.

Trying to rationalize everything that he does the way he does is acceptable, though. No amount of stumbling and beating around the bush would be enough to entertain letting go of such caution, because it’s laughable, something even Hizashi would wager a chuckle at, if not for Shouta knowing fully well that the concern would pool anyway.

What a joke he is. Making Hizashi worry.

Logic has always been a welcoming presence even in the sea of regret. If he invites logic in for a drink, persuades it with a shuttered sigh and a comment on how fucking miserable he is, it’ll snort and wave him off with a promise to stay a little while longer and everything will turn out just fine.

It’s not true, it’s never true, it hasn’t been true since USJ, since Hizashi’s accident, since Oboro-- but what’s a little bit of deception between friends?

Constantly does it torment him, lure him like krill under the glow of an anglerfish. More often than not it can be seen lounging in his head, scratching at the edges, telling him all the sweet nothings he wants to hear and less and more; it’s fine. There’s nothing to persuade him it isn’t deserved otherwise.

He wills it to fall silent then. He’s got work to do.

Grumbling out a sigh, calloused hands reach for yet another Ethics paper -- he seriously needs to hold a meeting with Kaminari’s parents sometime soon, the amount of doodles that have been piling up right next to the spot Shouta’s marking his tests with a 60% and below have grown to a concerning level, he knows fully well that the blond could use his head to an astonishing degree if he just put the effort in and allowed himself to get checked out for his ADHD -- and another disbelieving sign leaves his throat when no red ink manages to mark the paper.

Reaching for his night stand’s drawer, there’s a clatter as everything inside shakes while his hand fumbles for another pen-- it’s pink, this time, likely a byproduct of one of Hizashi’s piss poor attempts to make students feel more at ease with a less frightening colour, Shouta hasn’t got a clue on how the pen even crept to his side of the bed in the first place -- and quickly goes back over his lesson plans.

There’s much to do, after all, and he’s not one to procrastinate.

A slow whistle leaves his throat as he thinks.

Lately, he’s found himself at a crossroads when it comes to his approach to lectures. Normally, he’d be opposed to change; why fix something if it’s not broken, is his motto; but Class 1-A is anything but normal.

They’ve all gone through so much within the past few months alone, facing villain attack after villain attack, trauma after trauma, and they were all still just first-years. Kids who’d never even stepped foot on their future path to heroism had already slipped on blood.

Making a quick decision, he decides to focus on changing the curriculum up later. He’s at a loss on what exactly to change at the moment, plus, he’d rather have a second opinion on whatever ‘torment’ the UA staff will poke fun at him for dishing out in the first place. He’s sadistic in his line of work, sure, but not cruel. Especially not to this group of kids. Hizashi can help him out with this if the man so wishes later. If he’s not too tired from his radio show, that is.

He reaches for a paper. Grading would likely fare better. Efficient and cut-throat, he goes through it, marking ticks off as he goes.

Ashido’s paper was decent this time around, he thinks.

She landed a 78%.

All she needed to do next was just to apply more of the concepts they’d learned in class lately instead of generalizing her commentary on it -- in addition to that, describing Ectoplasm’s clones as ‘yucky ghost fluid’ was nothing but disturbing, and Shouta isn’t sure about whether or not he should scribble a comment to have her see him after class tomorrow, or make the rational decision and just leave it well enough alone, for solely his sake -- but the discussion on page 4 fit his usual standard of excellence. He isn’t paid enough to deal with anything more.

Ashido’s good at it.

Shouta flicks to another student’s work.

Ojirou. Smart kid. Most underestimate the teen, but Shouta knows better. 84%. He just made a few mistakes here and there. The focus on his martial arts training has been nothing but impressive, too. Shouta files it away in his head to dredge up later, to breach the topic of adding more quirkless training to the curriculum in the oncoming weeks.

Midoriya shows promise for it, too, and something in Shouta’s chest tells him (without a trace of doubt) that the green haired, bone-breaking brat will take to it like a fish to water. Kami knows Recovery Girl could do with one day of not banging her head against a wall when Midoriya inevitably comes stumbling back in. Kami knows he could do with not having to sign yet another permission slip to trudge back into the medbay, nor have to call Inko Midoriya ever again. Having to comfort that woman crying over the phone was one of the most horrifying experiences of his heroics career, and he’s underground.

How does someone dispel that many tears?

At least he knows where Midoriya’s crying stems from, now-- Hizashi would have a field day with that one. He’ll be grateful to the kid, though, somewhat, to be able to disprove his husband’s running theory on how Midoriya’s secondary quirk is crying.

Shouta hums. Never mind that.

In retrospect, he would also like to see how everyone else copes with access to their quirks cut off.

Especially if they have to manually think on not using it themselves; his eyes have gotten… weaker, after all, and Erasure’s not a root they can so easily dig up to use all the time.

Still, he’s sure he could just bring a few bottles of eyedrops over just in case they need to.

He always does anyway. This is no different.

Flipping through more students’ papers, he makes vague notes on the phone sitting stiff beside him on their bed. It lights up easily as his fingers flick the app over to his lesson plans and documentation.

(The side bar informs him with a mute flash of 2:04 AM that he should likely speed the process of grading up, lest Hizashi return home from the radio station around 5 only to find Shouta completely conked out for the day.

They’ve got a date night tomorrow-- tonight, he realizes, and Shouta would rather eat one of All Might’s many hair strands than miss that by giving into the alluring temptation of sleep.

Hell, he’d do it in front of all the staff members and his students combined if he had to.

They haven’t had much time together lately.).

Clicking ensues as Shouta rapidly types out the plan for Monday’s lesson, inserting the students’ scores at a monotonous pace on the latest assignment as he goes.

Mineta’s paper-- the Erasure hero suppresses a sigh when he reads over who the boy’s chosen for his hero commentary assessment. Dipping his head, he reaches over to mark the assessment with a pink 88.57% percent.

While the kid’s vaguely lewd comments spliced here and there are horrific, the discussion of Mt. Lady’s quirk and the blatant dismissal of conspiracy theories online arguing that her quirk wasn’t gigantification but rather shrinkification are, rather, somewhat well structured in its format. He can’t fault the kid beyond the typical points taken off for such obscene discrepancies.

Besides, Shouta’s already well aware of the schemes Nezu has spanned out for the kid if such behaviours continue.

Running a hand over his face, he lets out a sigh into the quiet. Yet another one of his regrets; not expelling Mineta sooner. At the very least, no one will be able to argue the case of favoritism when Shinsou (and Shouta understands without a shadow of a doubt that it’s not a question of ‘if’, but ‘when’, if pride has anything to say on it) eventually makes it into the hero course.

There won’t be a spot left ripe for the taking just yet.

He wouldn’t pave out a path that easy for the sleep-deprived teenager under his wing. Fledglings need support and a nest to fly. He’ll pave out the idea of an air space to fly in.

However, sometimes, fledglings also need the push. Mineta and Shinsou both need a push for different reasons entirely-- though Shinsou might not even need it at all. His mentee’s very self-motivated.

He’s proud of the kid.

Shouta reaches for another paper. Kirishima’s this time. He flips it over. The first sentence looks promising. He would say he’s proud of Shinsou more, but Shouta has the vague feeling that the teenager would look at him like he’d just grown a second, third head-- maybe he would’ve, in that case.

He hums, reading on. Crosses a tick for the wrong spelling. He only removes half a point, as the meaning holds in context. What Kirishima is trying to point out here is both explicit and implicit enough to warrant earning another tick. A good one this time.

Shaking his head, he wonders when the students managed to wriggle his way into his heart. Soften it enough to the point where he’s no longer instinctively reaching for the bad, searching immediately for a silver lining.

When had it started? He tips his head over. Settles the paper down for a brief moment as he huffs, bending lazily over at the waist from the mattress to reach over into his bag.

Was it when Hizashi teased him about not expelling any of them by week 1, when he realized he hadn’t expelled any of them by week 2, or when USJ--

USJ. Shouta stills in place when Asui’s paper makes it into his hands.

Something catches in his throat.

USJ.

Expelling them? Expelling them?

They nearly died during their first few weeks in school. Why would he expel any of them now? If he hadn’t played his cards right, hadn’t intercepted and launched right into action when he did, things could’ve been so much worse. Expulsion doesn’t matter.

His students could’ve all died that day. Expelling them from the start would’ve been freedom from the suggestion of that fate, but even then it seems far too laughable now. There’s no way in hell that he’ll simply let any of them slip through his grasp without a fight.

Hands flash in his head. Lips framing dry laughter and a snicker to ‘leave UA with a present’. He recalls the exact moment the horror building up in his wheezy chest, when green hair and terrified, wide eyes filled his bloodied vision entirely. Submerged him in what could very well be one of his student’s last looks before she disintegrated right in front of his very eyes.

He’d seen the forecast. It was a sunny day that time. They’d all filed into the bus to USJ under his command.

There’s a thump as a pen drops onto the sheets.

Shouta can’t think back to a single moment in his career when his eyes had ever been that open.

His eyes fall back to the paper. Asui nearly died that day.

She didn’t because of you, the Erasure hero reminds himself shakily. Because of your quick thinking. You would’ve died that day for them, too, if you had to. In her place. An equitable trade.

Yagi hadn’t come until much later-- the buffoon had all but pulled the world onto his shoulders just that morning, leaving him with less time to even function as All Might, when he should’ve been there to protect her, protect all of the kids.

But he wasn’t there.

Shouta had thankfully chosen to take up the reigns by then, let Thirteen handle the students while he dealt with the villains.

There’s a twitch in his lip as a hand reaches to pick the pen back up. A pink line marks the fabric sheets from where it’d scattered onto their bed. Hizashi would nitpick that later. He shakes his head. It’ll be tossed into the washing machine when he’s done. And even if it can’t be washed off, he’s been meaning to buy the both of them new sheets anyway, as Hizashi’s been--

Shouta cuts himself off. He turns back to the paper, but finds that his vision’s far too blurry to focus on it all too much, to his utter disbelief.

It still doesn’t stop him from guessing, though. Is that Midoriya’s name scribbled onto the top? The kid Yagi has proven to be terrible at not showing a fondness for?

Yagi.

He grits his teeth. It’s not Yagi’s fault. As much as the him of before would like to claim it is, they all have a role to play in this-- especially the villains.

He’s not an idiot.

Just because Yagi decided to meddle in the city, going around saving people and earning himself another spot on those tabloids when really, any other hero in the surrounding area could’ve played the part, not force the Number 1 Hero of all things to intervene; well, it doesn’t mean he’s wrong. It just means he chose wrong for what he knew at the time. Yagi operated under the assumption he could be everywhere all at once all the time. Much like any other misguided hero.

Hell, even he leans on that path himself, somedays. There are times when Aizawa Shouta has to step out and Eraserhead has to come crumbling back in, even when he’s cognizant of the fact that unlike Hizashi and Present Mic, they’re one in the same.

No mirror to look through.

But Aizawa Shouta is no Eraserhead. Just as Eraserhead is no Number 1 Hero.

Hunched at his desk, though, eyes blood-shot and dim, he can see the exact moment as another part of him mouths a grim sneer of, ‘she almost died to them because of you.’

And Yagi had saved no less than 20 people just that morning alone.

He would’ve saved her faster if he’d just been there.

Had you been any slower…

He spares a passing glance at his phone.

-

A few days later one morning, Hizashi will spot the new reminder beeping up, just as he pushes himself up by his elbows and groans. Tilt his head at the flash of light. Peer down.

There’ll be a note to make Shinsou’s training sessions longer, a long list of hashtags that the blond won’t think too much about, but it’ll be on his mind hours later nonetheless as he curls up next to Shouta.

‘Add a focus on agility,’ he would’ve seen written. Squinting his eyes, he'd also see: ‘His response times are slower than when I was his age.’

Hizashi would snort to himself-- of course Shouta would compare the kid to himself. Hizashi’s not blind to the similarities between the two, nor the rumors from his GEN ED homeroom and other heroics students alike claiming that Shinsou’s secretly his husband’s love child. He’s sure he would know if the purple haired teen was. Maybe the colour came from Hizashi?

He would laugh it off as another notification comes in.

‘Maintaining speed with the capture weapon is vital.’

Huh. ‘Vital’.

Though Shouta’s already been running that poor kid ragged with his training, Shinsou’s blatant and not so hidden adoration of Eraserhead means he’d carve up the moon if Shouta asked him to. The little listener will definitely enjoy the lessons.

Hizashi would wonder though, briefly, for the epicenter of a second, if something might be wrong.

Shouta’s hot breath would huff against his neck, grumbling something sweet and without meaning; tug him closer. 

It'd be enough to make him shrug it off. Ignore the sinking feeling in his chest, because Shouta's arm would loop over the small of his back, and it'd be enough. Dizzying.

A muffled skittish laugh would not leave his throat then. 

Shouta would tell him, right?

—

ERASERHEAD is not a persona. Anyone who’s crossed paths with the hero before would throw hands on even the notion that it is, the mere idea that he could be anything but who he is seen to be.

Aizawa Shouta is an asshole through and through, they’d say. He’s efficient. Gets the job done when he’s out as Eraserhead. Local precincts he tends to frequent around Mustafu outside of U.A’s many corridors tend to share the same appreciative sentiment; he’s valuable, a great asset to any heroics team if not for the way he prefers to work alone.

He looks homeless. He’s mostly polite. His hero costume’s too simple. Scruffy.

His hair’s much too long for his work; it’s too revealing of his quirk when it lifts up. It’s just because he can’t be bothered to cut it, they say.

He’s too lazy otherwise. He can do his job despite that.

He’s bad on a team. He can cooperate well with others.

But he’s an asshole.

Fans would think so as well, ironically enough, if he had any, but the whole point of his job is to ensure that nobody’s peering at Aizawa Shouta-- just Eraserhead. Villains should shudder when they hear his name, nor know what to do when they see sight of him coming. He’s meant to be nothing and come across as nothing. His quirk’s not meant to be known; merely catch them off guard. Capture as he goes.

He doesn’t mind being an asshole. 

The commission scrubs the internet anytime even a clip of him pops up. On his behalf. As much as hatred pools in his chest anytime he has to go meet up with one of their coordinators, there’s a small part of him that remains grateful and uneasy at how fast it happens.

If Hizashi hadn’t titled him with the code name ‘Eraserhead’ all those years ago, he’s sure he’d name whoever’s heading up the job on the censorship front the same exact way.

Not that he’d be creative enough to do so anyway. There’s a reason Hizashi had to stop him from just naming himself ‘Shouta’.

But still, they’re scarily efficient. Much like him. They work well in sync together, even if Shouta more often than not has his head turned away as he focuses on hero work, and the Commission has their hands full with the administrative part to things: the well oiled cog and machine, their only priority erasing Shouta away from the eyes of the world above.

Hizashi nags him about it often. It’s less so ‘nagging’ and more so teasing, with the way he insists that Eraserhead would be marketable, that is, if he ever decided to dip a finger into the spotlight Hizashi’s been dancing his whole career under. Claims they’d be able to make a fortune, what with Hizashi being automatically privy to Eraserhead’s special autographs first.

(He's never understood the sentiment. With their five jobs combined, Hizashi providing most of the footwork, they do well enough already.)

He makes jokes about having Shouta under his thumb already, brushing up against the nape of his neck and murmuring against his ear. Having a reputation to keep up -- even in the safety of their two bedroom apartment -- he more often than not, reaches for his husband’s knuckles, greets it with a lulled kiss, and ever so gently shoves his husband away anytime the man even dares it.

It’s true. Maybe. Maybe Shouta would be popular if he so wished it. He wonders it often. If he operated not under the watchful eye of the moon and the criminals that gather under the husk of its light, but of flashing cameras and sun and the vultures that call themselves journalists swooping in from the storm of the media, and, ever so suddenly, he realizes there’s a reason he doesn’t wish to join Hizashi in that way.

Spending time in the light sounds far more nauseating than it should be. He doesn’t need to be known. He doesn’t need to be popular to be known. Hizashi, Nemuri, Tensei-- his students, the staff-- they all know him the way he doesn’t need to be known. It should be suitable enough for him. They all know Eraserhead and Aizawa Shouta both, know they’re one in the same.

He just wonders why he can’t place the two together. Shouta’s not even got an inch of a clue on why (really, how) Midoriya even pieced him as Eraserhead from the very first test. When some days as he traces the crescent scar under his eye (something he didn’t have that day, he knows all too well, but recognition is but a foe regardless), looking at his reflection in the dull, artificial lighting, there’s this itching, nagging feeling that something is different beneath those black bangs of his. That it's not Shouta looking back. Just someone else.

Shouta wonders it while resting beside Hizashi some nights, his husband’s wiry fingers caressing the edges of his jaw like he’s a fragile package meant to be cared for.

Not something that’s already been broken time and time again.

He and his body have already dealt with so much shit that his mind can’t even fathom, comprehend why Hizashi has stayed for this long and not slammed the door on his way out already-- he hasn’t even left the room. Shouta keeps waiting for the heel of a foot to drop, and it never does.

Present Mic comes to Hizashi easily. The more eccentric and hyper fixated, loud bits of his husband’s personality are amplified to a tee within the hero. But it’s authentic.

He doesn’t come across as nothing like Eraserhead, Aizawa-sensei, and Shouta do.

How can he stand Shouta? Who can’t even keep up with the act he never intended to partake in in the first place? Who has to act not as a loving partner to Present Mic, but the wind in his sails. Have Present Mic remain the annoying buddy of a hero who cozies up to Eraserhead and is simply tolerated?

Another thing to add to the long, trash heap of regrets that’s gathered within him over the years, he thinks. In the distance, Shouta reaches for something different. Another future. Maybe.

One in which his quirk isn’t anything like this one: benign and yet simultaneously too useful to lose if he dies.

Something similar to Hizashi’s underestimated but deeply powerful quirk, all for the sake of being able to love Hizashi in the light that he deserves to shine in, because even if Shouta hates admitting it on a good day-- dragging both Present Mic and Hizashi down by the weight of the dark he stirs in is not something he would wish on anyone.

Especially not them both.

—

“Shouta,” Nemuri drawls out sweetly from beside him.

Long fingernails scrape against his desk like static, forceful amidst Hizashi’s broadcasted laughter in the distance, the blond gesticulating rapidly as he and All Might are engaged in verbal ping-pong from the other side of the room.

He looks over to his papers, sipping his coffee slow and paced as his fingers type out his sign-in code.

Or, trying to, anyway. His eyebrows waggle in stifled surprise when his mouth meets not bitter liquid, the kind that always manages to power him through the day, but the remnants of sugar not mixed in properly through the solution.

His nose scrunches up in disgust. Having the coffee be cold would’ve been better. At least he could reheat it then. 

Stifling a sigh, he scans over the text without reading any of it.

When had he managed to find enough time to finish the coffee at all?

Midnight comes into his vision as she leans forward, leering over him like a predator with prey spilling out its jaw. A visceral image he wouldn't necessarily agree with outside of work, if only for the privilege of knowing the woman beyond her 'on' day parading around as The R-Rated Hero.

“What? Coffee not good enough for your standards? The bar’s in hell, you know,” she whistles out, voice low. “Not that Mic minds…”

He chooses to ignore whatever that means. It’s for the best.

“No,” he answers calmly, clearing his throat. “I forgot to refill my coffee.”

There’s a look.

Shouta raises a brow. “What is it,” he says dryly, when Nemuri doesn’t respond, and the same look remains planted steadfast on her face.

They only raise higher as she whips around. The pro hero makes it over to her desk in what seems like an instant, hand reaching out to pull her drawer open. She begins to rifle with a loud clatter through her desk drawers.

“Don’t try to imitate Mic,” he comments mildly. “I won’t hesitate to erase you either, even without my quirk.”

The only indication of her having heard is a mild chuckle. The kind likely not meant to be heard in the first place, given how quiet she is.

It makes him think back to a time when he wouldn’t have heard it before. Wouldn’t have bothered to strain his ears for it. In all his shameful, shameful honesty, he would admit that he’d never really bothered to get close to her the same way Hizashi or Oboro had, but in a way, she’d always been like an… older sibling to them. An older sister.

He wonders why she even bothers.

Like a bullet out of Snipe’s gun, as fleetly as she’d twisted around to look for whatever goddamn thing she deemed more important than responding to him, she seems to find what she’s looking for.

She all but stomps over back to his desk.

A Present Mic themed coaster makes it onto his table. His mouth doesn’t drop.

Then, a coffee ensues.

That’s when he allows it to drop, because, where the hell did she manage to get that from?

He passes a glance into the opposite direction, into the doors of the staff kitchen.

There’s some parts scattered around the counter, striking a stark contrast of metal against marble. Panels of something he vaguely recognizes to be from the capsule container -- or, what’s left of the capsule container, he corrects, scowling wryly upon setting his sights at the discarded pieces -- are left in disarray, like an afterthought.

He startles. That is to say, well.

The coffee machine is shattered beyond viable repair.

A sure fire result from Kan and Snipe’s recent ‘tussle’ over which one of their quirks was stronger; blood or bullets, they argued, and the answer’s obvious to Shouta as a hand passes, a ghost over his chest as he thinks back to a hand, blood, and the putrid smell of dirt working its way into his nostrils as he heaved into the ground.

Shouta tugs at his fingernail. Anchors himself back in the present with nothing more than gritted teeth.

It is not the time, nor place, and certainly not the company. Even if she bothers him relentlessly, he won’t bother her with this.

He refocuses.

He was thinking of getting Yaoyorozu to take a look at it just this afternoon. For extra credit. Nezu, the rat(?) that he is, likely has the manual stuffed in his office somewhere, and that girl’s abilities range from a blessing to a blessing when she knows exactly what she’s making.

The coffee warms even hotter in his hand, snapping him back to the moment, back to the familiar sweet scent, reminding him that this should be impossible.

“Midnight,” Shouta splutters off after just a moment, recalibrating himself. Correct that. That’s too impersonal.

He shakes his head.

“Nemuri,” the Erasure Hero chooses warningly. His eyes cross over the merch once more. That’s definitely not public.

Eyeing the Present Mic merch, anyone walking past could see how Eraserhead ‘blanched’, face paling despite himself. “When did you--”

“Shouta,” Nemuri cuts in cheerfully. “You’re welcome.”

He hates her a lot. He hates every friend he has. He hates them so, so much, he realizes in horror.

The sound of Hizashi’s voice spiked, making his head turn. The triumphant look adorned on his face like a crown, wrapping itself around the curves of his green eyes, blond mustache and perpetual pout in his lip hidden away by Present Mic’s grin, seemed to make even All Might slightly startled. It only spiked his subsequent terror.

He coughs, blunt as a knife, as his fingers brush over the edge of the coaster, ignoring Nemuri’s curious gaze.

He should really talk to her more.

“The students have told me about how much they’ve enjoyed your lessons recently,” he mutters out, face curling in amusement. “Are you handing out coffees to everyone?”

The feeling of something missing tugs at the back of his mind as she breaks out into boisterous, irritating laughter.

—

“Don’t call me unless someone’s dying,” he recalls grumbling out one particularly humid day, sweat clinging uncomfortably to the nape of his neck. He remembers watching idly as his students passed around the singular number containing his number on it, how Midoriya excitedly scribbled it down into multiple books the first instant he managed to get his hands on the page (leaving Shouta tilting his head impatiently in bemused wonder, and other students pestering for the green-haired boy to get a move).

He remembers how Urakaka beamed and thanked him profusely for it (he doesn’t know why, it was only sensible. He’s their teacher, after all), and most especially, the way Aoyama commented on how the last digits of his number looked ‘very fashionable, oui’. Whatever that meant.

It’d been a logical choice. After everything they’d all gone through? It made sense for them to have an easy way to reach him. He doesn’t regret it one bit.

However, Shouta only wishes he’d added something more to it. Some other condition that didn’t require one of them launching headfirst into the grave to call him over. Because even while he’d prefer to be left alone on his best days, he’d still prefer to be called when it happens to be one of his students’ worst. Always.

“Call me only if someone’s dying or injured,” he should’ve said that day instead. It would’ve certainly solved a lot of issues from the get-go.

Shouta would not be participating in this dumpster fire of a day in its aftermath if he’d just added those three simple words.

Why the hell did he even hand out his work number of all things, anyway? He should’ve just given into his pride and privacy and handed out his personal one; it would’ve bugged he and Hizashi both immensely, for sure, but at least they would’ve been bugged faster. Hizashi would certainly be leagues better at knowing what to say.

“Shouta-ojisan,” Iida interrupts. Shouta’s eyes widen. He scans over their audience, pupils darting rapidly -- and is left guiltily relieved when the only one still present is Kaminari. The teenager definitely overused his quirk during Yagi’s heroics exercise; the blonde’s sticking his thumbs up repeatedly in a back and forth motion, wheying.

No one else is here. He’s not sure how he’d forgotten. They already took Midoriya and Bakugou to the infirmary.

Grateful for the lack of an audience, he tilts his head at the Class President curiously, motioning him to elaborate.
When nothing of such grace comes, an audible sigh leaves his throat. The kid cannot be this dense. He points his index finger in a ‘come-hither’ motion.

Iida swallows tightly under Shouta’s gaze, stepping closer to his teacher. “Shouta-ojisan?”

He’s not getting the point.

He shakes his head. “Eraserhead or Sensei is what you should be calling me out here.”

Iida tenses immediately, startled. On assumption of their shared history, he’d likely assumed he could get away with it when they were ‘alone’. Bad assumption. It’s still better to be careful.

“Oh my goodness! I apologize, Sh-- Eraserhead,” he says sheepishly, bowing his head down. The motion could be described as a motor engine revving up. Figures. “I figured that as everyone else had already vacated, that it would be okay to… Kaminari’s not come to his self just yet, after all, and I just-- I’m used to you being over at our house, is all.”

He raises a brow. Iida’s stuttering far too much. The kid’s picked up a bad habit from Midoriya. Another is about to make an appearance, and perhaps more of an appearance in the future, if he doesn’t derail it now.

‘I’m used to you being over at our house,’ a part of Shouta mouths to itself in horror, shaking its head the same way a show horse tied to a pole would.

“Well,” he tests out slowly, fingers on his chin as he thinks on what would be best to say. He decidedly does not shuffle awkwardly on his feet. It’s been years since he’s done that, and years since he’s been a teenager still learning how to walk like a hero in the halls of UA. “It’s not like I’m mad.”

Shouta watches tensely as Iida’s shoulders visibly relax the instant the words come out of his sensei’s mouth.

He wants to scream, listen to what I’m saying before you relax on me, I’m not done speaking yet, but he’s never been the type to yell, so he settles for something calmer. “Just don’t make it a habit,” he points out, “Or else your… peers, won’t be as kind as Kaminari over there is.”

He gestures to the blond boy with a wary look. His eyes are still distant with the spell of quirk overuse, having fried his brains out. Shouta would be ever grateful if the kid would stop pushing past his voltage limits. He doesn't need side effects from said overuse spilling in later on top of everything else today.

Nor does he need the needless praddling of Iida’s classmates hassling them both about what their relationship ‘really is’. Kami help him if they ever find out about how their stoic teacher Eraserhead is married to loud-mouthed Present Mic.

Shouta cringes at the mere thought.

“Right, sir,” the class president murmurs. His head snaps back to the boy, to Tensei’s brother. The tone of his voice makes something in Shouta’s chest erupt with the need to reach out. He regrets something. He’s not sure of what yet. “I understand.”

Everything in Shouta’s body that screams at him to do so is pushed down.

“Aizawa-sensei!”

And with that, Eraserhead’s attention’s dragged back away, too, Kirishima’s voice rocking Shouta back into his senses.

—

“You know,” Shouta sighs, rolling his shoulders with a yawn as he halts in place. “We might just need to add something to your current curriculum. Seems like we’ve sidestepped on a few important things if you’re this easy to spot, kid.”

Shinsou startles from where he’d tucked himself into the wall. He blinks rapidly as he steps out of the dark, chuckle managing to sound both hesitant and serene as the kid’s hand rubs the nape of his neck, staring warily at him.

He should teach that tell out of Shinsou, too.

“S’not like I was trying to hide from you,” he mumbles.

He raises a brow.

“I could tell,” Shouta rolls a hand out in front of him, shuffling his index finger into the open space where his neck and scarf didn’t meet. He tucks it back to settle neatly over the lower half of his face.

The warmth that rolls over him from the carbon fibers is chest lightening, oddly enough.

It makes sense. Exposure is not something he’d claim to ever be fond of.

Even with the kid as his sole audience.

He hums. “It’d have been an issue if I hadn’t known it was you who was 'trying' to hide away, after all.”

“Why?” Shinsou steps forward, back slouched. “Is it because I scared you, Eraserhead?”

Rolling his eyes, he shifts his body to make room for Shinsou, eyeing the boy knowingly.

It’s all a coy act; Shinsou never makes insulting comments on ‘Eraserhead’ anyhow.

In a way, it's simply Shinsou’s way of telling people he cares for them.

Very Bakugou-like, he’d snort, save for the pigtail-pulling aggression from the latter, and the more 'eager to get a reaction' sentiment from the former.

Hizashi had pointed it out himself once it’d happened more than enough times to make Shouta question whether mentoring Shinsou had some merit to it or not, given that the boy was awfully snarky with him, and the blond had cheerfully informed him he’d ‘been the exact same way’ as a child.

The rumors about Shinsou being his supposed ‘biological love child’ were not helping. Even more so from Hizashi, his partner, the man who was supposed to defend him in the first place, knowing fully well Shouta would never step a single romantic inch into a woman’s place.

Shinsou rambles on. “Or is it because you would’ve beaten my ass? You look tense.”

“Are you going to take a walk with me or not?” he questions dryly, palming his temple.

He makes sure to tone his voice up at the end of it. From the start, the teen had not been much too comfortable asking questions outside of training sessions. All due to the nature of his quirk.

Shinsou had had to be eased into it gradually. Much like how Shouta had to be eased into holding himself back from committing parental homocide; unlike Shinsou, however, that was not gradual. Had rationality not been a vice, Shouta would’ve driven it home into their minds.

It would’ve been glorious.

It would’ve been illogical.

But it would’ve been glorious.

If Shouta hadn’t already kicked their asses when he’d made the home call, that is.

“Uh…”

Ah.

He forces a look of indifference, twisting around quickly enough to spark a knot of whiplash.

Shouta waves a hand back lazily. “Nevermind, then.”

Shame.

Truthfully, he’d been ever curious to know why exactly Shinsou sought him out in the first place; when push comes to shove, you don’t exactly bury yourself away in the shadows, eyeing your mentor. A mentor who just so happens to specialize in underground heroics, of all professions.

You wouldn’t exactly approach them had you not originally come with a proposition or inquiry in tow.

Intent collapses otherwise without self reliance to boot. Shouta’s rather keen to instill that trait in Shinsou yet, and thus, ensures his walking away is at a snail’s pace. Staring dead into someone else’s back, even if it’s someone like ‘Eraserhead’, of all people, tends to make for poor company and rather good reflection.

“Wait,” he can hear behind him.

Really good reflection, then.

“Wait, hold on. Sensei. Aizawa-sensei.”

Body not turning, his head veers to the side as he halts, eyeing the teen beneath his bangs.

“Yes?”

Even subjecting himself as much as he has to the force of Hizashi’s quirk during their sparring sessions isn’t enough to prevent him from hearing what happens next.

The way that Shinsou’s breath hitches, rubbing coarsely into his neck without much regard for what skin might lie behind it. There’s a distant skepticism probing the back of his mind, wondering if this might just be high time to neglect his role as just ‘Shinsou’s mentor’ and drag the kid off to the infirmary. Recovery Girl’s complaints be damned.

“I can walk with you,” the purple-haired teen insists after a moment.

He pauses. “I was just…”

“Just…?” Shouta prompts, brows furrowing blithely when the teen doesn't elaborate.

“…Yeah,” Shinsou finishes lamely.

He pries his hands forward to clasp them together, not too dissimilar to the way Hizashi claps his hands after finishing a set.

Shouta thinks he can understand.

He shifts slightly away from the kid, making room just as he did before.

“Best we get going then,” he huffs, then fumbles a hand into his pocket for his phone. He checks the lock screen warily. 8:23 pm. 8:24 pm, it says a second later.

Shouta turns it back over.

“What’s the verdict?”

Good, a question.

“It’s not too late,” he admits.

Shouta ponders it. He’ll be heading off to patrol from 11. Hizashi will stride back home after his show ends around 5 am and, with Shouta’s interference, be hopefully conked out enough until noon.

If Hizashi complains, well, it’s his fault for making ‘Mini-Mic” (the wretched name he’d given to the damn Present Mic branded alarm) horribly easy to throw across the room.

8:24 pm, he thinks again, shaking his head.

Shinsou should be crawling back into bed from, the very least, 11 pm at minimum.

Even if they technically don’t have training until 4 pm, it would make for a very poor habit if the kid’s insomnia held any more prevalence in his life besides the late nights. Purposely blowing off sleep was not much better than your mind throwing you on the bus and forcing you out of the realm anyhow. He would know.

“But don’t even think this means I’ll bench you tomorrow for ‘insufficient sleep if you end up crashing later,” Shouta adds, grinning. “I won’t hesitate to put you down if needbe, even if you are my student.”

Shinsou breathes out a laugh. In lieu of an answer, he opts to trudge forward, falling into place against Shouta’s side.

Like a missing corner piece to a puzzle, Hizashi would say.

Shouta notably ignores what the feeling stirring in his chest at that particular thought might entail.

Instead, he stalks silently forward, footsteps muted as Shinsou’s own propel the kid forward. It is significantly less quieter than Shouta’s own.

It’s fine.

It’s fine. Shouta surveys their surroundings discreetly regardless, admonishing the fact that it never hurts to be too careful.

Even in the safety of UA’s net, the wriggling perception of having eyes set on him has never really gone AWOL. No matter how many times Hizashi or the other staff have covertly tried letting him know that it's fine. Covertly being as strong a word as it is. Even being the virtuoso, apt pro heroes they are, there’s a reason he’s a pro hero, too.

Even if that idea seems laughable when he thinks back to every visible mark on his body.

Looking back at Shinsou now, though, still tense beside him, stumbling onto that path of thinking doesn’t seem so healthy in retrospect. Especially not when considering this is one of his only (which would be only, if not for his insolent class of hellions that insisted otherwise) fans, chiding what would be the kid’s hero seems like a rather tasteless decision.

They walk together like an odd pair. Quiet through the halls. Out of the corner of his eye, there’s a flash of red as one of the school’s many bot cameras locks sensors onto them. Just as Shinsou stiffens upon setting sight on it, the red hue peters off into a dogmatic grin as it recognizes Shouta. The two settle more calmly after that.

After a while more of walking, his patience fractures ever so slightly.

“Why were you stalking me?” he probes.

The time’s crawled from 8:32 to 8:45, and while his patience for the kid is infinite on his best days, he’d rather have more room for discussion than not.

That, and he’d rather not have to fling himself over to the local precinct via capture weapon hours later, all in the name of explaining exactly why he dipped from the routine patrol he took every Friday.

Insisting that “My charge needed me” wasn’t exactly…

Well. Now that he thinks on it, that might actually be an acceptable excuse. If he were a slacker, Shouta would be ecstatic to stumble upon such a thing.  While “My husband needs me," wouldn't exactly be met with nothing more than a sympathetic look, acknowledging that a child -- your child -- needed you, certainly heeded much more height on its pedestal. Thus having the ability to tear you out of many an annoying situation. It would be situationally useful.

Shinsou is not your charge. Snap out of it, Eraser.

“It’s not really stalking if you found me out immediately,” Shinsou counters bitterly.

Before Shouta can respond with even a nod -- or hell, just to be spiteful, roll his eyes in the same spin Shinsou does after he twitches his wrist in the capture weapon wrong, the kid seems to hard pivot.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the purple-haired teen fisting his hands into the lapels of his uniform.

Guess this is serious, then.

Shouta readies himself for the onslaught.

Knowing Shinsou's experiences first-hand; knowing how he was one step away from being shoved into a closet and forgotten about, and hadn't even thought to speak up until the bruises on his throat yellowed and pulsed; Shouta knows fully well that anything can happen.

Being an underground hero means he’s seen many things in his life. Heard many things. Has had more blood spill on him than the usual limelight hero could even tolerate, couldn’t even fathom witnessing without the guise of a public villain fight beforehand.

He is still not prepared for the words that follow.

“Have you ever… liked, someone?”

Remarkably enough, he manages to not widen his eyes. Just shuts his jaw tight. Just firmly enough to not imitate the bloody feats of Yagi and surely frighten the kid beyond belief. He’s sure that even if he hadn’t enough mind to close it, muteness would not be an inaccurate title to describe it.

Shinsou shakes his head with a laugh, mistaking Shouta’s silence as word for ‘conversation-over’.

“Sorry," he murmurs. “I should've known you were above it. I’m just being stupid.”

“Sorry, Shou,” Hizashi huffs, head falling forward with a shaky laugh. Shouta stills from where he’d been working on one of their homework assignments. He doesn’t move.“I’m just being stupid. Shoulda known you weren’t one for romance."

Shinsou mutters out, “We can just go back to before I brought this up, sensei. I apologize. It was irrational."

“Don’t mind me,” he says, closing his eyes shut. With his eyes closed, the blond doesn’t notice how Shouta shuffles on closer, foot catching on the tread of papers as he reaches out with an outstretched hand. Hizashi tenses at the feeling of fingers tracing the edge of his jaw.

“We can go back to before I opened my big mouth," he can hear himself whimper quietly. Shouta is still so, so quiet. "I don't want to lose you, man."

“You’re not being stupid,” he manages to grit out after a moment, twisting around. Wide eyes look back at him.

Breathing in a weary sigh, he steps forward. He hopes the irritation at his words being parroted at him -- particularly in a rather poor facsimile of what they’re meant to be used for, given that no, Shinsou was not being irrational right this very moment -- isn’t too visible. It would derive from the point.

Shouta thinks back to the ring hung loosely on his neck. Hidden behind even his jumpsuit. “And who says I’m above it?”

The teen blinks. “Huh?”

“Huuh?’ Hizashi mouths, lips falling into an ‘O’ as he feels warmth bloom at the tip of his jaw. Just as Shouta closes the distance. “You’re--?”

It’s not like he hadn’t expected that reaction. Not being one to wear anything on his sleeve makes for soothing times without much interrogation on his personal life. Regretting that is a simple task when faced with someone he looks out for, however; he’s not too fond of explaining it.

“Nevermind,” he sighs.

Propping his hands forward, Shouta’s hands gesture to the open space around them. Among the walls rest portraits; tasteful caricatures of hero-hopefuls who have long since thrown up their graduation caps high up in the air. Under their gaze, nothing seems much too daunting. The knowledge that most of those students are no longer just ‘hopefuls’ is enough to compel him onward, he supposes.

“I’m just stating the obvious,” he clarifies, after a moment of silence. Shinsou doesn’t respond. “It’s fine. You hear me?”

Shinsou nods.

He gestures more loosely.

“We’re not in a minefield, kid,” he drawls, tossing a finger out with a puff. “You don’t have to clam up on me.”

Looking at Shinsou’s hopeful face now, well.

It makes him want to pry his hands away from his mouth.

Be more open.

“Yeah?”

Shouta’s lips thin wryly. “Yeah.”

—

“Shou, you evil, evil bastard!”

He leans back against the couch cushions with a sigh, pressing his hands to his face. Hizashi’s voice is undoubtedly tinged with some force from his quirk as he comes rushing into the living room, boots clacking as the blond stomps his way towards Shouta, clearly a man with a mission. Shouta doesn’t bother even entertaining the idea of erasing his quirk. If Hizashi wants to take a crack at shattering one of their many windows, he has the freedom to. They’ve been soundproofed for a reason.

“What’d I do this time?” he drawls out, doing his best to sound bored. Hizashi doesn’t actually sound angry.

Hizashi stutters to a stop, disbelieving and joking all at once. “It’s what you DIDN’T do, you dumbass!”

Shouta’s brows furrow, haloing his eyes in a dark shadow. His palms fall flat to his lap as he thinks on what he possibly couldn’t have done.

There’s many things he’s never been able to do over the years. Many things he’s come to accept never being able to do.

Hell, there’s plenty he hasn’t done this week. Has he even managed to get around to grading Class 1-A’s ‘Ethics on Handling Villains Sustainably’ paper yet?

Or overview the footage of Nemuri’s Sex Ed class, see what sparse reactions there were, see who’s ready for another conversation, or who has to be pushed into going to another session?

Has Nezu finally decided to kick Mineta to the curb and not tell him beforehand?

Or, the secret fourth option.

Eyes widening, he blurts out a hurried comment of, “Did I forget one of our date nights?”

Hizashi stares into him. “…No,” he laughs slowly, to Shouta’s relief.

He then finger guns, to Shouta’s dismay. How he fell head over heels for a man who finger guns unironically is beneath him. “Love how that was your first reaction though, babe,” the blond continues.

Oh. Case in point. Shouta ignores the fluttering in his chest, watching as Hizashi’s eyes quickly veer down to his own disheveled state, then scoff.

“‘I’m, ah, gonna change first before we really dig into it, yeah? Be right back,’ Hizashi says, swerving toward the hallway to ditch his speaker.

He hears the heavy thud of boots hitting the floor and a sharp, relieved sigh ringing out. He hopes the speaker hasn't bruised Hizashi’s collarbone too badly; if it has, he’ll have to ease his fingers over the ache later.

The apartment goes quiet, save for the rhythm of Hizashi’s footsteps retreating to the bedroom.

In the meanwhile, he lets himself fall prey to the soft couch cushions once more, fluttering his eyes shut as black hair swallows up the cotton.

He thinks back on it. What did he miss?

If he is lucky, it’s nothing to do with Hizashi.

Shouta’s never lucky. It probably does have something to do with his husband if Hizashi’s this hard pressed on it.

When Hizashi comes back in, hair now pulled downwards and changed into comfier clothes -- from how long it must’ve taken him, Shouta assumes he’d managed to work in a shower, too, hopefully -- he opens his eyes, eager to conquer the opportunity before it slips away yet again.

“Hizashi.”

“Yeah?”

“What were you saying earlier?”

The man has the gall to appear bewildered. “What?”

Shouta glares at him, arms crossing over his chest. He despises this push and pull of not knowing. Hizashi knows he despises this push and pull. “You called me an ‘evil, evil bastard’. I just want to know what I did.”

It must occur to Hizashi finally, then, because as if a light bulb switched on, Hizashi’s eyes glint with familiarity. He slaps his knee hard enough to bruise, cutting the resounding sound into a laugh as he goes, “Oh! That! Right. Yeah,”, green gleaming with a certain eagerness.

Shouta rolls his eyes. ‘Dumb, oblivious blond’ wasn’t on their marriage certificate, last time he checked. Hizashi’s far from meeting the stereotype either. Top of UA’s 1-A, 2-A, and 3-A wasn’t for nothing, after all.

“Then what is it,” he grits out, eyes shutting into a grimace. His hope’s all but dissipated now, with each passing second that Hizashi doesn’t just confess on what Shouta ‘hasn’t done’.

He can already envision the loud smile gathering at the corners of Hizashi’s mouth. Dim eyes quickly open to see if the dimples he likes poking at have appeared yet-- and when those same eyes make contact with affectionate, green ones, his theory is quickly confirmed.

Hizashi harrumphs, placing his hands on either side of his hips. His fingers waggle as he crosses the border separating them both, plopping into Shouta’s lap with a hard ‘oof!’, knees placed on either side of Shouta’s legs as his toes wriggle into the cracks of the couch.

“You’re going to hurt yourself one of these days,” Shouta says absentmindedly, glaring at the spot Hizashi just left. Right before his eyes rise back to where Hizashi has taken himself to.

Hizashi ignores him. “You know, if you reaaally want to know, you’ve gotta guess, no?” he whispers into Shouta’s ear, before leaning back and sticking his tongue out cheekily. Shouta can see the glint of his piercing catch in the light.

Shouta grumbles beneath him. Two can play at that game.

“You’re heavy,” he mutters idly. The mutter quickly falls to a relieved sigh as he’s soon occupied by the feeling of Hizashi’s arms as they wrap around him, fingers tracing over the nape of his neck. “Just tell me already.”

“It’s no fun if you don’t guess first,” his husband chides him. Hizashi lifts one hand away from where he’d been abusing Shouta’s shoulder as a stand -- to boop at Shouta’s nose.

He stiffens, then, and Hizashi’s laughter quickly bursts out into the room’s air--but he can feel the exact moment when green eyes reevaluate his expression, the Erasure hero’s attention dragged back when Hizashi’s careful hands leer over his jaw and tilt him back forward with the drag of a finger.

“It’s nothing serious,” Hizashi quickly assures, looking more serious than ever.

God, Shouta loves this man.

Shouta tilts his head. His own hand gently pries Hizashi’s off his chin, right as he pretends to think.

Nothing bad, huh? He should be fine to continue with business as usual, then.

“Did I forget your coffee order, then?”

No, he hadn’t. He remembers ordering a caramel with 4 shots of espresso that same morning while on his way to UA. It’s an order etched into his mind, he thinks; even if he begged someone with an amnesiac quirk (rare as it is already) to wipe it, it would be there to stay. It’s a permanent resident in his books. Not too dissimilar to the jagged reminder on his elbow.

His chest feels tight all of a sudden.

“Listeners, you’ve heard it here,” Hizashi tuts, wagging a finger. Shouta feels Hizashi shift closer, as if trying to align himself properly with his body. It’s fine, he reassures himself. You’re fine. “Aizawa-Yamada Shouta thinks it would be something as simple as missing a coffee order! Can you believe him?!”

There’s a lump in his throat. He clears it with a cough, turning to the side as he does so. Hizashi hates germs. “Did I forget to take out the trash?”

“Nope.”

“Did I forget to take one of your bentos today?”

“Noooooope,” Hizashi pops the ‘p’ as he drawls it out, rolling the letter in his tongue. “Well. Sorta. But that’s never been a problem, Shouta. You always forget anyway.”

He rolls his eyes. “Did I forget to greet you today?” he guesses, for what’s hopefully the last time.

Hizashi lets out an amused sigh. It does scream ‘finality’. Guess the game’s over.

“You didn’t deny our relationship when the students asked about it today,” he says softly.

Shouta looks away. He flushes deeply, taking the opportunity to dip his head against his chest to curtain himself in his long black hair. It’s inconvenient at best on some days, illogical when villains discover his tell about his quirk, great for Hizashi to toy with the strands of on others, but on days like these where he doesn’t have his capture weapon to tuck his chin into? It makes for a great shield.

He doesn’t know why Hizashi’s taking something like that so seriously. Ambiguity is better than outright denial.

What can he even say to his students?

That, what?

He’s married to their English teacher and can’t even admit it outright? Despite knowing it'd likely be fine? What's there to fear?

It's not fear.

“Shouta.”

He shakes his head stiffly, burrowing his nose deeper into his shirt. It’s Hizashi’s, he notes, the shirt much too bright of a red to be from his side of their wardrobe.

The scent of his husband’s cologne is enough to startle him.

What can he say to Hizashi now besides “I apologize” or, “are you embarrassed of me?”

Neither sound enough like him to justify letting those, of all things, to be spoken aloud. And even if it did, it would still not be suitable.

“Did you not want me to,” he decides instead, quiet. It’s not phrased like a question.

He’s learned a lot from Shinsou over the past few months, and though it’s a horrible, horrible thing, knowing Shinsou learned it from years of holding his questions back due to people’s fears over his quirk, it makes for a good defence, too. Shouta understands the sentiment. The appeal. Why Shinsou’s most common retreat is this.

At the very least, he’s not a shitty mentor. He’s noticed things.

But with every silent second that passes now, he knows how this must look to Hizashi. To the man he proposed to all those years ago. He is surely painting a picture of a pathetic partner, and he’s never been a great artist.

Shouta hates this. He’s sure that Hizashi must hate it too--

“Shouta.”

He looks up.

A swoosh of cold air greets his cheek as he’s suddenly hurled forward, chapped lips smashing into his partner’s.

Whatever protest might have escaped his throat is swallowed by caramel and the odd scent of leather. For a frantic, horrific second, Shouta freezes up-- a motion that makes Hizashi hesitate himself, and that in itself is wrong. He hesitated before they got together, and who knows where they might’ve ended up if he hadn’t pulled his head out of his ass when Hizashi confessed? The next decision is rational. He all but surrenders into it, hands coming up to clutch desperately at the fabric of Hizashi’s shirt. 

It’s satin, white. 

Black and blonde hair swallow them in the darkness like a chasmic prism. Shouta’s eyes quickly fall shut as he loses himself in the feeling, words he wants to say stuck on the tip of his tongue, catching feathers in the dreamcatcher of his throat with a muffled, pleased sigh. 

Time seems to come to a stop from all around them. It reminds him of when Hizashi closes off his shows after a long night of tunes and fun ranting, when Shouta’s got his head tucked around paperwork or maybe locked himself in the bathroom with nothing but a radio and bandages to deal himself over-- but he can’t dwell too much on that line of thinking as Hizashi’s fingers wrap around his scalp and close him in even further, an electric eel wrapping its slender body around a scarred shark.

Shouta's own arms and fingers fall to clasp around the blond's neck easily, then down his back; he makes sure not to brush against the sensitive scar tissue.

It remains like that for a while.

He’s not sure if it’s seconds, minutes, hours.

When Shouta does eventually gather enough of his wits to clench his fists and shove Hizashi off with a light push, all he knows is that there’s something coursing through his veins, and it’s not just his blood.

It all leaves him breathless. Confused.

“What was that for?” he huffs, turning away, heart still hammering a storm within the confines of his chest. If he didn’t know any better, he’d argue that he and Hizashi somehow swapped quirks.

He wonders ever so briefly that, instead of targeting quirks, if Erasure could be repurposed to target his own nervous system.

“You idiot,” the other man declares with a profound sigh, wiping his lip with his sleeve.

He doesn’t answer the question, and Shouta forgets the idea of Erasure immediately, choosing instead to glare at the man without it. However, that quickly falls flat as the look steels out into something soft, tunnel visioning onto the endearing look the blond is clearly trying to drown Shouta with-- an expression so openly sincere and so Hizashi it makes the hero’s ribs ache.

“I don’t mind anything you do. Never have, baby. Never will.”

The Erasure hero’s fists clench until the knuckles pale a moonish white.

Drown unintentionally, of course, he scoffs internally. Everything Hizashi does to tide him over is accidental, and that is precisely what drives him mad.

Shouta’s cheeks flush even hotter. How the hell does a hero like Endeavour deal with this much heat on a daily basis? He's losing his mind just from his blood pooling to his face; how does that pitiful excuse for a father even handle purposefully gearing his look with his fire quirk?

“I was just surprised,” Hizashi whistles on, when Shouta doesn’t do anything but just stare.

He exhales.

“You called me evil,” he accuses baselessly.

It’s not a real front to stand on. He knows.

“I was joking.”

Shouta feels Hizashi’s head drop to his shoulder. He takes the liberty to lean back against the couch cushions again, neck already feeling something fierce from how long he’d simply been leaning forward. His husband’s breath is like a furnace at his neck.

Normally he’d despise such warmth, but from Hizashi? He’d bear anything.

His hands, calloused and bruised from the late night of patrolling before, reach to loop themselves into Hizashi’s hair and pet at the loose strands.

Squelch. He makes a disgusted face as his fingers slide into something that’s definitely not just hair. “Did you or did you not… wash your hair when you got here?”

The loud swallow from Hizashi speaks enough volumes to draw out a sigh. He’s not too sure who it comes from.

“Who’s the idiot now,” Shouta says, snarkily enough to sound fond. “Monday with the students is already going to be hell, and you’re already making the start of my weekend worse.”

“Hey! Shouta!”

He shakes his head, tugging gently at a golden strand. Lifting it up for both of them to see, he watches the gold curl twirl around his finger, head tilting narrowed at Hizashi. “This is disgusting. How can I play with your hair now, Mic?”

The blond man gawks, protesting. His nose scrunches up.

“My hair’s not disgusting, you worrywart,” he protests, “And it’s not just to play with! Wasn’t there also a rule on no hero names at home either?!”

“I don’t know, Hizashi.” He pretends to think hard, rolling his eyes. “Maybe it’s because your hair’s still full of Mic’s hair gel, and not my husband’s.”

The passive-aggressiveness he’d intended to flush out in his tone is all but swallowed by the smile that eats away at him.

That, and the fact that Shouta’s fingers keep combing through the disgusting hair regardless.

The consequent, noisy laughter erupting from Hizashi makes his body tremor something dull in the pink of the room, but he’s happy.

—

AIZAWA SHOUTA holds many regrets. There’s many things he’s wanted to change. To redo. To rewind back into the past to carve his nails into and dig out.

He won’t ever let his relationship be one of them. Even if it's not certain, he'll do his damn well best to try anyway.

After all, he can rationalize everything that Hizashi orbits and more, he thinks.

It's logical.