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It’s nearing the end of a Thursday afternoon when Shouta strides toward him in the living room like a man on a mission.
There’s no doubt what he wants.
"You're pretty,” he says, languid as he settles next to Hizashi on the couch.
The capture weapon’s still hanging from his neck -- though the ribbons aren’t as tightly strung, nor blooming with the same dull-grey malice one would acquire from wrangling hordes of chaotic students every day.
He must’ve just walked back from work.
Or taken a taxi, if the beep from their shared ride app half an hour ago was any indicator.
“My cooking doesn't come cheap, if that's what you're asking," Hizashi snickers, hand fleeing from his task of wiping down cat hair from his sweater.
Stubble nuzzles against his cheek as Shouta closes the distance, leaning forward; Hizashi can practically feel the wide-toothed grin.
"Shouta, that itches," he complains. Even the carbon fibers are attacking his neck.
He feels, rather than hears, the ensuing hum. Vibrations crackle against his eardrums like love. "Your cooking's shit. Don’t want it."
Scoffing, he isn't deterred away from sweater duty.
"This is the thanks I get for puttin' up with your beard burn?" he huffs. Not offended at all, he elects to add, finger still tracing worriedly over a dark stain, “And if you don't like it that much, then order take out. We’ve got big chump money, yeah? Might as well use it."
Splitting five jobs between them was a double-edged sword initially. It does great to soothe any financing issues, though.
The limelight comes with a hefty price on both ends.
A pause. "You're better at calling."
And you’re better at dodging doors when they open, but I don’t use that as an excuse when I find people’s questions unsavory, he wants to say.
“Suck it up, buttercup!”
Shouta pulls back. “I’ll have a jelly packet for dinner tonight,” the other threatens.
His fingers stop tracing fabric.
Green eyes glint dangerously. “You wouldn’t.”
“Chicken-flavoured,” his partner continues, as if he hadn’t uttered a singular word at all. “Your favourite. If you want, I’ll save you one of the grape-flavoured ones.”
“You bastard,” he curses, not seriously, though there’s no helping the shudder at just the mere image of the fruit. “Whatever will I do?”
There’s a gleam of even more teeth. “Suffer and die.”
It would be more menacing if Shouta weren’t planted in his lap right now. “I’m washing your capture scarf tonight,” Hizashi warns, tentative threat looming over the words. They remain firm. “I’ll mix it with my red shirts.”
Teeth nip at the edge of his jaw. “Forget it, you’re dying now.”
“Pink would look good on you,” he comments teasingly. There’s a montage of Shouta stumbling out of bed with his pink sweatpants after a long night of tossing and turning playing back in his head; he rolls it around like rewinding a cassette player.
“Breaking News, Popular Voice Hero Present Mic Found Dead at Age 31,” the teeth continue in their ministrations, surely painting what must be a bruise as they thrash against his throat. Under any other circumstances, no other hands but his own would touch such a sensitive place, vocal cords glittering protectively over his quirk; but Shouta is one such exception to the rule. “A shame, too. He was quite beautiful.”
Hizashi shakes with laughter. “You’re terrible at this.”
Shamelessness frolics in waves as he abandons working the mats out of his clothes and reaches up to ruffle Shouta’s hair. “Hey," Hizashi says, thought occurring to him. "I didn’t think you knew that much about the media.”
Shouta lifts away from him to scowl. “I don’t like them. Doesn’t mean I’m blind.”
“You paint a headline very nicely,” he points out.
A pause.
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” the other reasons out.
Hizashi shrugs. Reason or not, logic has always made it pointedly obvious that there’s many stories hiding behind the tongue in Shouta’s mouth; there’s plenty to say. Just not enough justification to say them.
Baritones low, dim eyes look at him questioningly, redirecting him. “Will you cook?”
.
.
.
“Why not,” he says.
Shouta eyes him warily. His lip juts out into a grimace. “You’re spiking it with spice, aren’t you.”
Hizashi sticks his tongue out. “Sucks to suck.”