Chapter Text
There was nothing special about the photo Nemuri had sent the group chat in her drunken haze. Nothing unique or interesting, nothing overly dynamic or appealing, nothing that should have held Shouta's attention for more than a few seconds. Yet, it had.
Shouta's tired eyes narrowed as he scanned every inch of the image.
Tensei’s face was only half in frame, Nemuri’s arm was bent at an awkward, uncomfortable-looking, angle, and Shouta’s own face was hard to make out in the dim lighting of the run down bar they had been drinking at.
The shakiness of Nemuri’s drunken hands obscured the finer details of the long night; the weak lights absorbed the electric atmosphere that had been.
The photo felt intimate, secluded--personal.
It captured the memory of the night rather than the actual event itself--it was fuzzy in its recollection, just as Shouta knew the night would one day become in his own mind.
But none of that was why Shouta’s eyes lingered on the blurred pixels.
He rolled over on the couch as a shiver ran down his spine. His phone clattered to the ground, hitting the hardwood flooring in the small space that existed between it and the ugly rug Hizashi had bought for their apartment.
His eyes moved to the covered lump in the middle of the rug before looking away.
It was cold in the apartment. The distance between him and warmth had never seemed so large before.
He closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath in.
He knew why the picture bothered him—why it lingered in his mind—why he had been unable to look away from it.
Slowly, Shouta pressed his hands against the worn down fabric of the couch and pushed. He sat up before dragging his hands over his face. His fingers pressed firmly against his closed eyes, before he settled them in his lap.
Hizashi had been mid-laugh when the photo was taken.
He reached down and picked up his discarded phone, taking his time to unlock it and reopen the group chat.
Hizashi’s body had been angled toward Shouta’s. The other man seemed so open--so bubbly--so cheerful.
Shouta’s fingers lingered over the photo for a brief moment. He looked up at the lump then back at the photo Nemuri sent.
Shouta doubted anyone else would notice. He doubted anyone else would care that much. To most, it would simply be nothing more than a photo of friends--but Shouta knew.
He zoomed in--Hizashi’s hand-
He placed his phone back on the ground and sighed.
Hizashi didn’t touch him anymore.
Present Mic did, Shouta thought begrudgingly. But Hizashi, Hizashi hadn’t touched him since-
It was Shouta’s fault.
He knew it was his fault.
He just-
Shouta stood. His body ached--the uncomfortable angle he slept at lingered in his bones. The gentle aches were annoying reminders that he was getting older--it was becoming rare that he woke up without pain wrapped around his bones like a wet blanket.
He looked over at Hizashi.
The other man had insisted Shouta take the couch--annoyingly chivalrous even when incapacitated--while he took the floor. Neither of them would have made it to their respective rooms--they had barely made it into the apartment. Their bodies were starting to betray their age, no longer could either of them handle the abuse of a long night out with friends as they once had been able to.
Shouta moved quietly across the rug before he dropped down next to Hizashi.
“Hey,” Shouta muttered, his fingers pushed into Hizashi’s uncovered forearm.
Hizashi’s eyebrows came together; he did not wake.
“Hizashi,” he tried again, more force behind his touch as he pushed deeper into the soft skin of Hizashi's uncovered arm.
Hizashi shook his head and turned slightly.
He was lying on his right side, his body was facing the couch--facing Shouta--his hands were interlocked, shoved beneath his neck. His body was tense underneath the fuzzy orange blanket. His posture was rigid and painful.
Shouta frowned.
He knew Hizashi didn’t sleep well anymore.
He knew Hizashi was prone to nightmares.
He knew that sometimes, when things got real bad, Hizashi would sleep in the hallway outside of Shouta’s room.
Shouta eyes locked onto Hizashi’s hands. He hesitated for a moment before reaching out. His fingers wrapped around Hizashi’s left wrist and he pulled softly.
“Hizashi-”
The other man pulled his arm back. Shouta let go without a fight. He watched as Hizashi’s face scrunched up before relaxing once more. The other man curled further into himself as a shiver racked his body.
Shouta looked down at the hand that had touched Hizashi’s wrist.
He didn’t know the last time he had touched Hizashi. He didn’t know the last time it had been him that initiated physical contact between the two of them.
It would have been before-
Before -
Shouta clenched his hand into a fist.
Hizashi had always been better about adapting.
Or, Shouta thought as he unclenched his fist, better at pretending.
He hadn’t realized until recently that there was a part of him that was waiting for things to return back to the way they had once been. He knew that would never happen, a piece of them was gone--and it would never come back--but it had been Shouta that snuffed out the embers.
He would never forget the broken expression that flashed on Hizashi’s face during Oboro’s funeral. He would never forget how his words collided into the other man with such force that Hizashi had stumbled back, looking both ashamed and hurt, nearly tripping over himself in an effort to give Shouta space.
Don’t touch me, Yamada.
The brief expression of hurt had been replaced with a blank expression and a muttered apology with a promise to not touch him again.
I'm- Shouta - I won't do it again. I'm sorry.
Hizashi had pulled away that day.
The distance never lessened. Not even after all the years that had passed.
Hizashi still wouldn’t touch him. When he was Present Mic, the other man would sometimes offer up a supportive pat or extend his hand to help Eraserhead up, but-
He--Hizashi--wouldn’t touch him.
Shouta knew there were times when Hizashi wanted to. He had caught it more than once--each time he prayed that Hizashi would finally close the gap, but it never happened. Hizashi would catch himself and retreat--laughing away the awkwardness of the moment and moving on as though it was to be expected. But he never noticed how tightly Hizashi held himself when the two were near each other, how restrained the other man was with his movements, with his body, compared to when they were younger until now.
Every touch since that day all those years ago, had been calculated on Hizashi’s end.
Shouta remembered the few times Hizashi had reached out in the months following Oboro’s funeral. How Hizashi would jolt as though thrown back into his body and then pull away. There was always a half-formed excuse and a quiet apology that Shouta never cared to pay much attention to--he hadn’t cared back then about-
He hadn’t cared about anything.
His grief had blinded him.
Shouta placed his hand on Hizashi’s left forearm. His flesh was cold despite the heavy blanket draped over his curled frame.
Before-
Shouta pulled his hand away.
Before Oboro-
Before Oboro passed, the three of them would nap together in the small dorm room bed.
Classes were tiring—hero work even more so, especially when they had started figuring everything out.
Shouta bit back a broken laugh.
Hizashi was the one manhandled into the middle most days. Oboro always fretted over how cold the other man got and how it seemed he never could get warm enough.
Shouta’s eyes lingered on the spot his hand had just touched.
Maybe Oboro had a reason to be concerned.
Shouta pulled his eyes away from Hizashi’s uncovered flesh, back to his face.
Even in his sleep, Hizashi looked exhausted. Worn-out. Beaten down.
Slowly, Shouta moved into a laying position. His hand reached out once more, his fingers graced the skin of Hizashi’s arms.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered out loud.
He pulled his hand back quickly when he felt tears begin to prick his eyes.
He had fucked up.
He knew he had fucked up.
There was no waiting for things to go back to normal--there was no normal for things to return to anyway.
His eyes snapped back to Hizashi as the man began to move, a small noise of distress fell from Hizashi’s lips. Shouta watched as he rolled over, Hizashi’s long blonde hair now inches away from where Shouta’s hand had just been. He curled into himself once more.
Shouta frowned.
He didn’t know why he felt compelled to do what he did next, but-
But it didn’t matter.
Some things, logic couldn’t explain.
He knew he could lie to himself and insist he was only worried about Hizashi being cold. He could argue that he was the one that was cold. The orange fuzzy blanket was the only one left out in the living room, therefore it was logical that they would end up sharing it in the cool apartment.
But he didn't feel like lying to himself anymore.
Shouta moved closer to Hizashi and gently draped his arm around Hizashi's waist, pulling him close against his chest.
He wanted Hizashi to reach out once more and not pull away. He wanted the two of them to make it past Shouta's angry words--words he found he no longer meant. He wanted Hizashi—his Hizashi—back.
It wasn’t Hizashi’s responsibility to fix what had been broken. Shouta knew that.
All Shouta could do was pray that the other man would at least be willing to meet him half way.