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“I don’t want your love,” the last word is bitten out with a harsh, wet kiss to Shouta’s temple, to which the receiver hisses and whines in confusion, “I don’t want your hate,” and this time, it’s met with a hushed fervour, sotto voce; breathed into his ear in the name of religious rhetoric; a priest on his last breath and a churchgoer on his last day in town, “I don’t need anything at all,” and Hizashi fists for the black strands as if it’s oxygen and he a man on his last lung, forcing them along like a poorly made oar and a boat further into him with a startling laugh. “And I don’t need you.”
Shouta’s trembling finger pokes into his chest as if to say liar.
He breathes in a huff. Laughs even louder.
Because ‘loud’ is all he can strive for at the moment, all he realistically knows how to reach for without spilling into his lungs and soaking his cheeks even more wet with their grime.
Quirk-training had never proven so useful until now.
“Why can’t I just do this?” he cries out, curling into himself. His fingers retreat from the abyss. All it does is plunge him even further into it. “I want you gone.”
Shouta stiffens against him.
Hizashi pauses, lets the words linger. Diffuse into the air, spill into the floor like blood and stain the purple knit rug they bought together with a vengeance.
“And I want you with me,” he says eventually. “Always.”
Shouta’s body slumps forward along with the rest of his hair. They’re unmarred by Hizashi’s bandaged fingers, this time, scalp clean as he lets his head collapse onto Hizashi’s shoulder. Tension seeps out of him in droves.
“…I want you too,” the other agrees after a moment.
You’ve been deceived, Hizashi wants to tell him. I’ve deceived you.
But he can’t. Kind words form more and get spoken more even in the mist of Shouta’s quiet, when he so wishes it, it seems. He can hear more whispers, more sweet nothings said forward and over and over and over again.
Shouta never does this.
Hizashi has never felt more queasy in his life.
To his relief, the fog swallowing his head and chest gets the memo quickly. It bows its head whole as it stirs back to life. Makes its presence known, and, as merciful, and mean as it is, tilts its body downward.
An apology.
Shaking his head, he whispers out, “No, you don’t.”