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Waking up is never how they depict it in the movies.
Granted, most things never go play-by-play from movie scripts in the first place, a fact Hizashi knows lamentably well from first-hand experience. There’s no steady stream of sunlight shafts stretching across the room. They have black-out curtains for two reasons: 1) While he’s somewhat of a better sleeper, Shouta is notorious for waking up at even the slightest shift of light trailing into a room, with his underground work, and 2) Even if Hizashi himself is a morning person, daylight is miserable when you’re still groggy from a strung out night of radio.
Would it kill his husband not to wake him up with an attack of cold feet to the ankle?
Arm still hooked over Shouta’s waist, he props himself up with his other elbow, blinking back dazedly when it hits the pillow. Which is, wet. For some reason. There’s a good chance he might’ve hit the headboard in his ‘haste’ upwards, but maybe that’s just Morning Hizashi talking.
Yawn aside, he casts a glance down to find his traitorous husband still turned over, luscious hair fanning out the pillow his head is curved into.
From here, it looks positively delectable.
Stunning. Marvelous. As his partner always is. Thank god he’d prodded Shouta into the bathroom to try his hair mask the other night. While the public may not agree, his husband’s appearance being the way it is, there’s no arguing against him being beautiful. Especially when he tries-- god, when he tries-
“I can hear you, y’know,” his husband grumbles out, unmoving, startling Hizashi.
Hizashi lets out a low laugh. Had he been mumbling? Probably. Bad habit of his. He really needs to break it; what if he babbles to a villain?
“I know,” he lies, because Shouta will detect it anyway if he cranks up the pitch, even without Tsukauchi’s quirk, “G'morning, sleepyhead. Guess what? You woke me up with a case of cold feet. Yuck," and he bites out the last word teasingly.
The sheets shift as Shouta turns over. Dim eyes blink back at him wearily, stubble having multiplied , though the scar under his eye looks somewhat shinier, too, like his hair.
With his glasses off, even the stretched underscarring blends in for Hizashi. In the dark, the effect is-- hah, so much worse. Hizashi will put them on later.
He throws one of his feet over Shouta’s thigh and wiggles his toes in demonstration. Harrumphs.
Unsurprisingly, like a plant shying away from the dark, Shouta curves away from his counterattack. “S’not my fault you’re like a heater,” Shouta complains, contradictingly still sounding oddly pleased with himself as he looks Hizashi up and down.
A lightbulb flicks on in his mind.
Extricating his arm from being draped around Shouta’s waist -- an action to which makes the other tense, something that makes Hizashi tense and want to reach back when Shouta’s other arm pop out from under him as if grabbing for Hizashi, but doesn’t happen anyway as Shouta quickly retreats -- he pushes himself up.
Within a matter of seconds, his feet are on the floor, and the purple sheets have shifted.
“D'you want coffee?” he decides to ask, throwing out a finger gun.
Grimacing is some of Shouta’s best work in the industry of utter dejection so far. “Yes,” he rasps out.
Though he makes a motion to sit upright, back now against the headboard, his husband doesn’t show any signs of leaving the bed anytime soon, blinking slowly.
Having it be Saturday is a relief. Hizashi thinks this as he shuffles off toward the kitchen. The radio show had ended around 5 am, so it’d taken roughly half an hour or so to head home. Driving had been a breeze.
Walking in to find Shouta already passed out on top of the sheets with the radio still playing on their night stand was a fun sight.
Or at least, he’d thought so. One crawl into the bed later, Hizashi had been stunned to find out that Shouta had waited up for him, even after his own patrol had ended at 3 am, and hadn’t been asleep at all. As soon as he’d padded out of the bathroom, hair down and a towel draped across his shoulders, Shouta had lifted his head up and demanded -- as insisting as a person in desperate need of sleep can be -- he come to bed.
Suffice to say, denying Aizawa Shouta was a road he’d only find himself paving out in hell.
The coffee mixer, on the other hand, is a devil. He doesn’t know why they still have it. It wizzes and groans and creaks like a senile wisecracker on his last leg. Which, conceivably and inconveniently, also rings true for the machine. It’s barely held up as it is by the jumble of panels and wire. Its only grace being that it’s the equivalent of a sentimental portrait of their UA days; one which Shouta has yet to abandon, as it ‘still functions’.
Functioning is a loose term. Very loose. Hizashi’s mouth falls open when water spurts onto his face. Then shuts, because water dripping down your face is bound to fall into any open spaces, nor is it very pleasant, and he’s not fond of… consuming whatever filtered liquid just came out of it.
He’s going to throw out this coffee machine out someday. Goddamnit.
Divorce will be on the rocks if he has to grab his keys and groove back to their local café-- well, maybe not. He likes their marriage as is.
Though he will say supporting the local economy by buying such a mundane thing as coffee is nice and all -- they have all the money in the world for such a fine dig -- he’s still not too keen on making it one step out the door if he isn’t booking it for UA afterwards. ‘Hizashi time’ is limited enough, and he’d rather not push it by striding out to the same shop he goes to as Present Mic. It’d be a hard bargain snapping him out of the gig then. They never recognize him with his hair down, but, same deal.
Somehow, miraculously, he stumbles out of the kitchen and back into their bedroom with two coffees secured.
(And a jelly packet, just to be safe.)
The whole water shtick had been a non-issue, having procured a tissue from the other bathroom along the hallway -- the one not in their bedroom -- after scrubbing his face down with some face wash. Still gross, but, non-issue. So when he goes back to Shouta, hands full with coffee and a small breakfast tray, his face is clean, and Shouta’s snaps up to him from where he must’ve been sat staring off into space.
“Hey astronaut,” he chimes out. Enticingly, chancing a smile, he sits at the edge of the bed before setting down the tray next to Shouta.
Shouta stares at the jelly packet for a full three seconds. Then looks back up to him, eyes heavy set with something intense. “I love you.”
Loving Shouta, apparently, is the hardest thing ever.
"Good morning to you too," he stammers, then clears his throat, because Hizashi Yamada does not stutter. He bangs his chest. Blows Shouta a kiss. “I brought you the lychee one.”
Bringing the jelly packet to his mouth, tossing the cap aside -- will they have to fish for that later, where did that land? -- Shouta fixes him a questioning look.
Hey, Hizashi thinks, is that not his favourite anymore?
“Why didn’t you bring yourself one?”
Ah. Hizashi pauses, considering it. “You don’t mind me diggin’ into your stash?”
It’s not like he wants one. Texture is a huge no-go in his books. Reminds him of slime. And slime, just… well, it reminds him of hospital food. He and Shouta both have had enough adventures in such places to know the cuisine well, time-old scars and injuries to boot, but only one of them has taste simultaneously picky and atrocious enough to offend the likes of divine gods.
Which is to say, certainly not Hizashi.
However, Shouta tends to be a bit protective over his jelly pouch stash. Very cute. Very horrifying if you’re Snipe and accidentally have your hands wander too far into the commune fridge-- that had certainly been a day to remember. So of course he’s going to wonder.
Shouta raises a brow. “We’ve been married for 6 years.”
Oh. Right. Hizashi leans back and laughs.
A pillow falls off the bed, and Shouta grumbles out a complaint about having to reach down for it, but Hizashi waves him off and reassures that he’ll go back for it later.
Then for good measure, he laughs some more, lightly, because even if they have soundproofed walls and windows, as much as he and the neighbours love it, he’d rather not rattle their flat.
Easing out of it, breath slowly catching up to him, the ring on his neck jitters as he suddenly sits upright. He stretches out his arms and yawns.
“Drink your coffee before it gets cold,” Shouta reminds him, sour look underscored by the nudging of said coffee towards him. Hizashi nods and throws a thumbs up in appreciation. Though his husband rolls his eyes, it’s clearly not meant seriously. “And get yourself some breakfast,” and he pauses. “I know you hate jelly.”
The code in Hizashi’s brain stutters on a line. “Then why’d you--”
Mouth snapping shut, he shakes his head, and deigns to wrap his hand around the handle of his drink and bring it to his mouth. While it’s much less warmer than before, the remaining steam is soothing against his chapped lips.
“Right,” he murmurs. Places the coffee down on Shouta’s tray.
Afterwards, shuffling further onto the mattress beside Shouta by lifting his feet off the floor and clambering in, he settles against the headboard with a huff. “Cool.”
Shouta snorts.
“Cool?” he asks.
Man, his voice does sound killer in the mornings. How’d Hizashi land him?
“Cool,” he grins.
Still sleepy, Shouta grins back with all his teeth.
Well, Brain Hizashi thinks, that answers that. You landed on a planet, prickly hot and icy cold and all warm and fuzzy and all yours. What a lucky guy.
Hizashi reaches out to take his hand. Because he’s even luckier, Shouta takes it back within seconds.
"Can we please throw out the coffee machine."
"Ever heard of 'don't fix what isn't broken'?"
"That only applies if it ISN'T broken!"
"Oh yeah? Then why's it standing in front of us, not broken?"
"It's-- jesus, okay. Fine. You wanna dance? Let's dance, baby. I'm telling all your students you wear pink sweatpants to bed."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, yes, I would dare. It's your reputation or the machine, Shouta, make your choice! Everything's on the line!"
"...Tell them at the end of the day. I don't want them speculating in the rest of their classes about our love life. They need to focus."
"....Jeez, babe. You've got your priorities screwed on all wrong."