Archive of Our Own

It was Shouta's first weekend as a retired pro hero. The curly haired man was pittering around the kitchen while the rest of the house slept. Hitoshi had finally managed to sleep through the night in his own room. Hizashi was undoubtedly starfishing across their bed in his absence.

Shouta took the plain flour and sugar from the freezer. Why the flour and sugar was kept in the freezer he didn't know, but he knew better than to question his husband's reasoning. His blonde was so much smarter than he let on. Opening the fridge to grab the tub of butter, the milk and a few eggs, he placed them onto the countertop while he found the vanilla extract.

Hizashi kept a very specific, very expensive, vanilla extract and it only ever got used for two things. Lemon Victoria sponge cake, also known as the recipe for their wedding cake, or pancakes. Finding the spoils of his lover's paycheck, Shouta placed the small glass jar onto the countertop, pulling the salt from the spice rack to sit beside it.

Opening a cupboard, he took down a plastic container of baking powder, settling it amongst the rest of the ingredients. Placing a frying pan onto the hob, the curly head opened the container of butter, using a spoon to scoop a glob of butter, flicking it onto the pan with a thwack. He’d turn the stove on in a bit to melt it but he knew he’d forget to grease the pan if he didn't do it first.

Very early into their relationship, Shouta had made Hizashi pancakes that were more ash and carbon than baked batter. Though he had improved his cooking and baking skills since then. He hoped.

Taking a metal mixing bowl and a whisk, he pried open the bag of all-purpose flour, tipping it into the bowl. He’d made pancakes enough times to be able to feel the right amount of ingredients for two people, so for three he just added a touch more. From what he’d gathered, Hitoshi didn't like things too sweet, so he’d portion off Hizashi’s mix to add a little more sugar to it.

Picking up the salt shaker that had seen Hizashi through his bachelor's degree, Shouta shook a few grains into the bowl. The only thing he measured was the baking powder. His hands had always been too shaky to be able to tip a similar amount into the bowl each time. The solution, a teaspoon. Not an actual measuring teaspoon, no, don't be ridiculous. An actual teaspoon used for tea.

Flicking open the cutlery drawer, he picked up a small spoon. Its handle is thin and engraved. Gorgeous swirling vines and tiny flowers in various states of bloom. His sister’s husband had gifted it to him and Hizashi for their wedding. He had welded it by hand.

Opening the tube of baking powder, Shouta held it over the bowl as he measured out two and a half teaspoons. He carefully placed the lightweight spoon down beside the bowl before using the whisk to mix the dry ingredients.

Grabbing another, smaller, metal bowl to pour the wet ingredients into. Cringing at the cold of the slimy egg white touching his fingers as he cracked open a few eggs. Holding the egg shells out in front of him like they were a biohazard as he unceremoniously tossed them into the bin, practically running over to the sink to wash his hands of the ungodly sensation of raw egg.

Scooping some butter into a microwaveable bowl, Shouta watched the butter melt as it spun on the glass dish in the warm glow of the microwave light. He wondered if it would feel nice to be microwaved. Then remembering that it made things hot and it would probably kill him.

Jamming the stop button on the microwave just before it hit one, so as not to wake the entire house, he extracted the dish of melted butter, mixing it into the egg, milk and vanilla concoction in the bowl. He whisked the light yellow liquid until small bubbles started to form at the edges of the bowl. Using his fist to make a well in the dry ingredients, he poured the pale liquid in, quickly whisking everything together until it was smooth.

Shouta turned on the stove. He began to push the butter about until it melted evenly across the surface of the pan. He turned to look at Hitoshi who had crept out of his room and was groggily making his way towards the kitchen island.

“Hi.” Shouta said softly, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Please.” Hitoshi wiped his nose with his wrist, blinking slowly.

Shouta lowered the flame on the stove before clicking on the kettle. Taking the cafetiere from its cupboard and measuring out the coffee grounds. He placed the mug that the kid seemed to have unconsciously claimed as his own in front of him. Laughing as the teen tried to drink a liquid that wasn't there yet.

The dark haired man tipped the boiling water into the cafetiere, placing its lid on but not pushing down on the press. Setting the fancy coffee making device on the kitchen island, he turned back around to the stove, turning up the heat before pouring some of the batter onto the hot pan.

“I’m making pancakes.” Shouta said over his shoulder, “Do you want three or five?”

“Can I have four?”

“No. That’s unlucky.”

“Since when were you superstitious? I thought you were all rational ‘n shit.” Hitoshi waved a hand in the air as he pressed down on the cafetiers plunger.

Shouta turned to face the teen, shaking jazz hands as he laughed, “Since the beginning of time.”

Hitoshi giggled quietly as he poured his mug of coffee. Standing up to grab Shouta’s mug from the mug tree, fulfilling an unsaid request as he pushed the full mug towards his mentor.

“Thank you, iris. That’s very kind of you to think of me.”

Hitoshi grumbled something incoherent, “Can I have three and see how I feel? I’ve not really had pancakes before. I’ve heard they’re sweet?”

“I’ll make three for you. They generally are sweet, but I make them with less sugar and it also depends what you put on them.”

Hitoshi hummed as he took a sip of coffee. Watching as Shouta grabbed a spatula to check if the underside of the pancake was cooked. Becoming mildly impressed as his mentor shook the pan a few times before flipping the not quite circular pancake. A few easy minutes passed as Shouta produced two more golden brown pancakes, adding them to the stack before handing the plate to Hitoshi.

“So,” The dark haired man started as he meandered over to the fridge, “there is the classic, lemon juice and sugar. Maple syrup. Golden syrup. Or, berries and fruit. If we have any in that is. Oh, and honey.”

“What’s the difference between the syrups?”

“Maple syrup is less viscous and tastes like a nutty-caramel. Golden syrup is just straight sugar. It's usually used to make caramel or in some types of biscuits.”

“What do you have?”

“Me? Usually just honey.” Shouta pulled the honey and a punnet of imported strawberries from the fridge, “The berries are expensive, not that we can't afford them so don't worry about eating them. I’m bad at remembering that Hizashi and I are middle class now. I used to only get to eat berries at Hizashi’s family house when we were younger.”

Shouta placed the jar of honey in front of Hitoshi, pulling out a cutting board to carve the tops of the strawberries. He carefully split the strawberries into quarters. Placing some into a bowl for his husband later. Hizashi had to get the strawberry for his blonde hair from somewhere.

Pulling Hitoshi’s plate towards himself, he pushed some of the quartered berries onto the kid’s pancakes. Watching the red juice stain the fluffy batter as the teen opened the honey jar, plunging his knife into the amber liquid. Dozens of air bubbles formed and became trapped within the viscous liquid as he drizzled it onto his food.

Shouta turned back to the stove, scooping out another hunk of butter to coat the pan once again before starting to make his own pancakes. Pouring the batter. Spreading it into the best circle he could. Sighing at his failure. Sipping the coffee his so- Hitoshi had poured for him. Checking if the underside was cooked, flipping it, waiting again before plating. Repeat.

Taking his own stack of fluffy pancakes to the kitchen island, the ebony haired man sat down next to Hitoshi, drizzling honey over his food before starting to tear apart his creations. Cutlery scratched against porcelain. Content hums and happy jigs teenager and adult alike.

Shouta picked up the cafetiere, tipping some more of the rich liquid into Hitoshi’s mug before topping off his own. “So, Hizashi and I can foster you properly now.”

Hitoshi choked on the strawberry he was in the middle of swallowing. Holding a finger up to his mentor, asking him to wait so he could respond. Finally swallowing the offending berry, he exclaimed quietly, “What!”

“This doesn't have to be a temporary thing. We want you here.” Shouta didn't look at the kid, knowing he was probably on the receiving end of a disbelieving look. “We’ve been wanting you here for months.”

“You shouldn't want me. You don't have to take me. I’m a problem child. I’m difficult. Why on earth would you want a force of chaos in your home?”

“I already have a force of chaos in my house. He is called my husband.” Shouta put down his cutlery, turning to face the kid. “Hitoshi. We are under no obligation to foster you. We have chosen to do this because we care about you, want to protect you and want you in our lives.”

“I don't understand…” Hitoshi whispered, purple eyes brimmed with tears.

“We won't force you to stay with us. But all you have to do is agree and we will never let you go.”

Shouta wrapped his arms around the teen as soon as the tears began to fall from his eyes. Calloused thumbs gently wiping away the translucent tracks that ran down Hitoshi’s cheeks. Rocking them both, albeit precariously, on the stools of the kitchen island as he shushed the boy in his arms. Looking down as he felt the vibration of words against his chest.

“Say again?” Shouta asked,

“I’d like to stay… please?”

“Welcome to your home, Hitoshi.”

The door to the couple’s bedroom opened as Hizashi appeared, squinting at the hugging pair despite the fact he was wearing his glasses.

“Is this good,” the blonde looks at his watch, “nine am crying or bad nine am crying. Because if it's bad nine am crying that’s my job.”

Shouta turns to look at his lover, “He wants to stay. We can finalise the paperwork today.”

‘I told you he’d want to stay.’

‘This is the only time you’ve ever been right.’

Hizashi signed a sarcastically drawn out, ‘Sure.’

—

Hitoshi walked into the living area to find one of his new official foster fathers sitting on the floor of the living room with various bits of fragile yellowed paper surrounding him. An open packet that had pairs and pairs of long needle looking things that varied in thickness. Bushels of yarn in various colours and textures strewn across the carpet. It almost looked like something that would happen in a cult.

“What is all of this?” Hitoshi asked, leaning against the edge of one of the sofas.

“Sweater patterns.” Shouta responded bluntly, obviously lost in thought as he flicked through the papers.

“Why?”

“For you.”

Hitoshi squinted at his mentor. Convinced he’d misheard him. People never made him things. Let alone went through this level of effort to find the right pattern for him.

“You’re grown. I’ll teach you to look after it. It should last you years.” Shouta said.

He beckoned Hitoshi to come sit beside him on the floor. Handing him a small booklet with various designs drawn in black ink. A flimsy, mass produced thing it was. It looked like it was from another century.

“Flick through that one and see if there’s anything you like. We’ll get the train to the shops later.”

“What for?” Hitoshi allowed the fragile pages to flutter about three-quarters of the way in before looking at the designs.

“The yarn. I’ll need to check if the one you pick will work with the pattern or not.”

The teen turned over one of the yellowed pages, noting the way the morning light made it possible to see through the paper to the designs on the other side. He traced his fingers over a turtle neck design. Wondering how the fishtail looking details that run down the front of it would feel under his fingers. Looking further forward in the book, the back of a boyfriend sweater that had a pie-like lattice on the back panel. The sleeves of fisherman’s sweater that had rope looking accents on the sleeve that were more likely just clever fiber work.

Hitoshi tapped Shouta’s right thigh. Confused as the skin made a dull plastic noise. Turning his head to look at the source of said dull plastic noise then flushing with embarrassment as he remembered his mentor had his prosthesis on. The curly haired man said nothing of Hitoshi’s lapse in his memory, only making a soft noise that meant: what?

The purple head showed his foster father the elements of the designs he liked. Being met with a purposeful silence as Shouta pushed himself onto his hands and knees to find a specific book. The man returned to sit next to him, an even more fragile looking pattern book in his hand. Its edges filled with colourful tabs that had faded from sunlight.

Shouta felt a bittersweet wave of nostalgia rush through him as he brushed the plastic tabs that adorned the book's pages against his hand. A shiver racking his body as a gentle weight perched on his right shoulder. He coaxed the book to fall open in his palm. Its spine was so cracked from use that it fell open to the page he was looking for.

The only purple tab.

A cardigan he’d made just once before for his sister. He made it for her so he could practice making sweaters before he made the burnt orange one he’d made for Hizashi. It had taken him months. The yarn was so crinkled from the constant knitting and frogging.

He’d used this soft, pale yellow yarn. It made his sister glow. Oh how she’d rushed to pull her long dark hair into a fishtail braid to match the clunky ones he’d knitted into the fabric. When she ignored the thumb hole that was definitely not in the design. How her spindly fingers had traced the cord-like texture then ran down the sleeves. When she’d embroidered a cherry and pie-holes into the lattice that covered the back of the cardigan.

Shouta handed the decaying book to Hitoshi. Eagerly watching as his face lit up upon looking over the design.

“I like this one.” Hitoshi smiled with the radiance of a thousand suns.

“Yeah? Let’s hope I make it better this time.”

“You’ve made it before?”

“For my sister. You two are so alike in so many ways.” Shouta laughed, “It’s almost jarring sometimes.”

Hitoshi noticed the way his foster father’s laughter faded off in an odd way. A sort of sad Hitoshi wasn't familiar with but had seen in Shouta before when he’d first shown up at the bar he was illegally working at.

“I hope I can introduce you two some day. You’d get on so well.”

“I’d like that.”

Shouta takes the book back off Hitoshi, running a hand over the page as he takes a deep breath, “Why don't you go get ready while I tidy up?”

“Yeah, okay. You don't need help or anything?”

“No, I’m good kiddo.”

Hitoshi took the man’s word for it. Leaving him surrounded by dozens of booklets and skeins of yarn as he went to go get his belongings in order.

Shouta sighed as he flicked through the other designs in the book. There were so many orange and yellow tabs. Things he’d planned to make for Hizashi and had never found the time to. While his time as a hero had him in hospital a few times, those few times were never really long enough to make something as demanding as a sweater.

The only reason he’d even finished Hizashi’s sweater was because the blonde had landed himself in hospital after nearly dying. Time never moved any slower than when Shouta had been convinced he was going to lose his best friend and boyfriend. With only the mental challenge of changing stitches to keep him sane as doctors and nurses fluttered in and out of the room.

He quickly gathered up his years worth of resources. Leaving his packet of knitting needles out on the coffee table before slotting a few books onto an empty spot on one of their bookshelves. He had more time on his hands as of late and UA conveniently needed someone to run the textile crafts club. Nedzu was a morally grey mastermind and Shouta was convinced he had evidence to prove it.

Tucking his yarn back into the plastic shopping bag he kept it in. He stashed the bag in front of the bookshelf to put it back into his wardrobe later. Picking up his measuring tape from the floor, he coiled it idly in his hands into a neat spool, placing it down with the sticky-tabbed booklet. Hitoshi scurried back into the living area, looking like an excited pre-schooler on their first day of classes, clutching the straps of his backpack.

“You might want to take that off for a minute.” Shouta gestured to his backpack. “I need to calculate how many skeins of wool to buy. Which means measuring you.”

Hitoshi shrugged his backpack off onto the sofa. Turning to stand stiffly in front of his mentor. Arms tense at his sides. The raven haired man gestured for him to turn around.

“Gonna’ measure your shoulders first.” Shouta said before warning, “I’m going to touch you now. That okay?”

“Yeah.”

Shouta pulled a length of his measuring tape out of its neat spool. Holding it against his foster son’s shoulder. Flipping the tape between inches and centimeters before making a note of both on his phone.

“Point to where your hip bone is for me. I’d rather not have to poke you to find it.”

Hitoshi laughed as he felt for the top of his hip bone. “Here.”

A warm finger pushed against his as it took his place. Pressing lightly against the sharp bone as it held down the end of the measuring tape. Another bout of typing sounding behind him. A hand caught his wrist, gently pulling his arm to be level with his shoulder as Shouta took another measurement before lowering it down to his side for yet another measurement.

“Turn around."

Hitoshit turned to face his foster father.

“Arms up to a ‘T’. Both.”

Hitoshi lifted his arms. Wriggling away from the arms that lightly brushed his side as Shouta ran the tape around his back and chest.

“83.4cm, so 83cm, which is 32.6 inches for bust.” Shouta muttered. Throwing his measuring tape over his neck as he typed the measurements. “Hitoshi… are you ticklish?”

“No.” The purple haired boy denied slightly too quickly.

“Lies.”

Shouta’s curls lifted weakly around his face as he commanded his measuring tape to hold Hitoshi hostage. An almost evil grin spread on his face as his student realised he could manipulate more than just a capture cloth.

Not an ounce of remorse for his actions filled him as he brushed a hand against the teen’s side. A shriek that faded into a giggle sounding through the apartment. A flicker of pale yellow barely noticeable in Hitoshi’s eyes. His hair bristled as his quirk tried to activate.

He released Hitoshi from his measuring tape. Flicking his hand in a swiping gesture to guide it back around his neck.

“You can do that with anything?” Hitoshi pointed to his own neck.

“You can too. That’s why I approved for you to learn how to use the capture cloth. You’ve also got a minor telekinetic gravity field thing from your quirk.”

“I what!?”

“Yeah. You probably haven't noticed but your hair. It bristles. Your clothes start to wave despite the fact there’s no wind. I used to be able to use my field without having to activate my quirk but since y’know”, he points to his residual eye, "I've lost the passive ability to use it.”

“You think I might be able to do that too?”

“Depends. You need a proper quirk analysis. I think it’s possible.”

“Does Midoriya not count for quirk analysis?”

“Is he a doctor?”

“No…”

“‘Zashi and I can take you for one soon. Promise.” Shouta rolls up his measuring tape, stuffing it into his pocket. “Until then, it's good to know both you and Hizashi are ticklish as hell.”

Hitoshi buried his face in his hands as he groaned. Only one other person knew he was ticklish. Now he supposed it would be three. He wasn't really complaining though. He’d just learned an amazing piece of blackmail about his blonde foster father.

“Grab your bag.” Shouta picks up the tattered booklet before talking in stiff English, “‘Get the chicks and kick it’ as Hizashi says. Despite the fact he married a man and therefore has no ‘chicks’.”

The teen laughed. Shouta and Hizashi were so different in their home than they were at UA. Yes, Hizashi was still loud but it was a different kind of loud. Yes, Shouta was still awkward but it was a different kind of awkward. They were just so… kind? Endearing? He’d even go so far as to say loving. Not just of each other, but also of Hitoshi.

“If he has no chicks does that make you his side piece?”

Shouta hummed thoughtfully. A lopsided grin pulled at his mouth as he seemed to remember something, “Isn't it obvious? I'm his trophy wife. I’m blatantly more good-looking than he is.” He flicked a lock of curls off his shoulder with a hand, flashing his most self deprecating smile at Hitoshi as he did.

Shouta covered his face with the book as he sniggered. Flushing up to his ears as he practically ran towards the genkan. Embarrassed by his own joke. Hurriedly tugging on his trainers as Hitoshi sat down beside him to do the same. Being laughed at again by the teen as he struggled to get his shoe onto his prosthetic foot. Jokingly elbowing the kid in reprimand as he stood up to grab his satchel.

“C’mon,” Shouta opened the front door, house keys in hand, “we’ve got a train to catch.”

“Hizashi was right.” Hitoshi said as he slipped out the door, already starting down the corridor.

“What about?”

“That you fluster easily.”

The uneven footsteps behind Hitoshi stopped. Causing him to turn around to meet his mentor's unimpressed dead stare. Barely disguising a snort. Turning back around but waiting for Shouta to reach him before starting to walk again.

“That man, I swear. He’s going to- wait. Was he the one who told you I don't like the dark?”

Hitoshi side-eyed his mentor.

“That’s all the answer I need. Tell anyone and-”

“I’m dead? He said that too.” Hitoshi snickered.

Shouta pulled open the door of the apartment complex, holding it for Hitoshi to pass through before making sure it shut as they left. The pair walked in relative silence towards the bus stop. Enjoying the crisp air of the late winter. They took a seat at the bus shelter. Somehow, despite being slightly taller than the teen, the curly haired man was still able to swing his left leg idly.

Taking his phone from his pocket, Shouta navigated to his notes, opening the one with Hitoshi’s measurements. Placing his phone down on his thigh, he flicked through to the sweater pattern, silently handing it to Hitoshi, muttering for him to hold it open for him.

The muscles around his residual eye twitched as he squinted to read the tiny faded writing. Cursing as he opened his satchel to find his reading glasses missing. He briefly met his foster kid’s eye, immediately turning away.

Hizashi would normally help him read small print if he’d forgotten his glasses at home. Shame made him breathe faster. His heart rate rose as he pointed to the text.

“C- Woul- Can you read that for me?” Shouta stuttered, “I forgot my glasses.”

“Of course.”

Shouta didn't sigh with relief very often, but this seemed to be one of those times.

Hitoshi read the line in the chart Shouta had been pointing to. Watching him type numbers into the calculator on his phone. Noting down something before pointing to the next box, asking him to clarify the column and row before reading the words and numbers to him.

The text was like nothing he’d ever read before. It made no sense to Hitoshi. Zero sense. It was like an entirely different language that only Shouta seemed to know. It was like magic.

Shouta looked up from his phone to the road in front of them. Listening for something. Motioning for Hitoshi to stand as he hailed the bus.

The teen scrambled onto his feet, tugging his student pass out of his bag he followed his foster father onto the bus. Tapping his student card as they said quiet ‘hellos’ to the bus conductor. Hitoshi watched as Shouta seemed to hesitate beside the priority seating section.

The dark haired man was very obviously looking at the empty seats. His right hand was clenching and unclenching at his side. His head moved to look towards the back of the bus. It was surprisingly empty for a Saturday.

“C’mon. Sit.” Hitoshi gave Shouta a gentle push on the arm, “You’re old.”

“Excuse you. I’m only thirty-eig- nine.”

“I will announce to this entire bus that you were a pro-hero until two weeks ago if you don't sit down.” Hitoshi threatened.

“Like hell you would. You’re just as socially anxious as me or Hizashi.”

“MY GOODNESS-”

Hitoshi’s voice turned staticky as Shouta glared at him. Left eye flickering a strong bright red. A warm hand on his wrist pulling him down onto the seats with him.

“Shut your mouth.” The curly haired man pointed a finger at the teen as he blinked, hair falling back around his face. “Open the book and pick up where we were. I’m almost done.”

“I can't do that with my mouth shut.” Hitoshi stuck his tongue out before opening the booklet.

Shouta had Hitoshi read two more boxes of information to him. Each box resulted in a number that meant something. And all those important numbers that Shouta had calculated allowed him to estimate the number of skeins he needed, but also how many would go into each part of the garment. Additionally, they told him the number of rows and stitches.

“Numbers say seven skeins.” Shouta looked at Hitoshi, “I say eight for luck.”

Shouta extended a hand for the booklet, taking the feathery pages from the teen so as to tuck it safely into his satchel.

“Thank you for being my glasses.” The dark haired man muttered quietly, as though it were wrong he needed help. “I know it’s tedious.”

“It’s fine. Hizashi would have helped you if he was here. I’m just filling in.”

Hitoshi said that as if that’s what any other human would do for him. As if Hizashi wasn't special. As if this meant Hitoshi wasn't special. Like people like his husband and kid weren't hard to come by. Who was unjudgmental and understanding these days? Very few people.

“Still. Thank you, Hitoshi. You’re a good kid.” Shouta slowly lifted a hand to scruffle the kid’s nest of purple waves.

“I- uh-”

“You are.”

Shouta pushed up from the seat, pressing the ‘next stop’ button as he did. The teen followed, offering a hand to his mentor when he stumbled from a sharp tap of the bus’ breaks. Wincing as he heard the man’s hips crack as he found his footing by the exit doors.

The bus slowed to a stop. The mechanical doors opened swiftly, a gust of crisp winter air whipped them both in the face as they stepped off the bus. The pair walked in relative silence to the train station. Tapping their respective passes before pausing at the bottom of the stairs.

Hitoshi had come to realise that one of Shouta’s biggest all time haters, were stairs. The curly head had admitted to him that no matter how much he trained and practiced going up and down stairs, he just couldn't do it like he used to. Each step up was his left leg followed by his prosthetic onto the same step. Each step down was his prosthetic then his left leg on the same step.

He was beyond apprehensive to trust his prosthetic. It was apparent even when he stood from sitting that he favoured his left leg rather than distributing his weight evenly. It made it all the more clear why Shouta favoured his crutches within the house.

His mentor glared briefly at the stairs before walking over to the right side of the staircase. Gripping the handrail with contempt as he began ascending. Hitoshi climbed the stairs to the left of his foster father. Offering his hand to him again even though he knew it would get batted away.

As they reached the top step up to the train platform, the station jingle played over the speakers, announcing where the arriving train was headed. Hitoshi pointed at the train with a raised eyebrow. Shouta nodded before beckoning him to follow to a specific carriage.

The doors to the train swooshed open. A handful of people hurried out. A few double-takes as they saw metal glinting in the cold daylight. Looking away quickly as they looked up to meet the dead glare of Shouta’s seeing eye. The black and white swirl of his uncovered residual eye was always just off-putting enough to make people not ask questions.

Hitoshi and Shouta stepped onto the train. The carriage was quiet. A few people dotted in seats as they headed about their days. Taking hold of his mentor’s arm, the teen pulled the man over to a pair of empty seats. Practically yanking him to sit.

“We’re literally on this train for two stops. It’s not necessary to sit.” Shouta stated.

“There are six people, excluding us in this carriage, there are spare seats. We’re not inconveniencing anyone.” Hitoshi reprimanded. “Also, Hizashi said you shouldn't be on your leg as much as you are and that you shouldn't be standing on public transport. It’s not safe.”

“That doesn't change the fact that it feels wrong, Hitoshi. I know what I’m supposed to do. It's just hard to let myself sometimes.”

Shouta rubbed at his arms over the sleeves of his loose jumper. Taking a deep breath as he convinced himself he wasn't actively being stalked by a tiger but was actually just sitting down on a train. He listened to the train rumbling on its tracks and the breath of the teen beside him.

Carting a hand into his hair as he pulled it back into a scraggly low bun. A few of the shorter coils at the front of his hairline escaping the wrath of the hair tie. Curls hung by his ears in addition to one particularly annoying strand of hair from his widow's peak.

If anyone in the train carriage stared at Hitoshi and Shouta too long, they might become convinced they were related, maybe even father and son. Same hairline. Similar heights. The same droop of their eyelids that made them look eternally tired, mostly because they were. That same eerie smile that was only endearing to a select few.

But too much was different for that to be possible. Hitoshi’s hands were smaller. His fingers were daintier than Shouta’s scarred ones. He had a smaller fame than his mentor. His shoulders and back are less broad. Shouta already had incredibly strong legs just from genetics, but add hero training to the mix and Hitoshi’s legs were like twigs. His other dad claims that’s due to his previous malnourishment, but Hitoshi was sceptical about that theory to say the least.

Shouta and Hitoshi alight at their stop. They do battle with the stairs and make their way across the road to the shopping centre. The teen glances around at their surroundings as they step onto escalators. Dozens of people, hordes even, roam around the mall aimlessly.

“I’m not going to rush you in the actual craft store, but I don't like shopping malls much so we will be getting out of the building decently fast once we are done.” Shouta says over his shoulder.

“Noted.”

They stepped off the escalator onto the third floor of the building. Hitoshi followed behind his foster father, looking at the store fronts as they walked. It was quieter on this floor. Less people.

Rounding a corner, Hitoshi realized why the floor was quieter. Almost the entire level was a craft store. A craft store that looked to only have about twelve souls in it including the staff.

Shouta raised a hand to wave at one of the cashiers who recognised him. He was probably a regular face here. The cashier slipped out from behind their till, glancing at Hitoshi before returning their gaze to his mentor.

“Why isn't mister Mic with you today?” The cashier asked.

They were a Present Mic fan it seemed.

“He’s recording advertisements at the studio.” Shouta said stiffly, like it was a practiced line.

“That’s a shame.” They pouted, “Who’s this?”

“My kid.”

“You have a kid?”

“Yeah.” Shouta slung an arm over Hitoshi’s shoulders, silently urging him to walk towards the back of the store, “C’mon Hitoshi, let's go pick out yarn.”

Once hidden in the literal isles of yarn, Hitoshi turned to look at his mentor.

He whisper shouted, “What the fuck was that!? Why are they calling Hizashi ‘mister Mic’?”

“They’re a fan of the radio show. Hizashi always talks to them while I shop. And they call him ‘mister Mic’ because they don't know his real name.”

“Why did you lie to them? Hizashi’s grading papers.”

“It’s just what he asked me to say whenever a fan asks. Any other questions?”

“Yes. Why was it ‘mister Mic’ and not ‘your husband’.”

“It’s not public knowledge that Hizashi is married.”

“I’m sorry- what?”

“Class-2A knows. People from UA and work know but they’re all sworn to secrecy.”

“Why?” Hitoshi asked, with a confusion so sincere.

“Hitoshi. People are homophobic. It’s Japan. We got married in America. In all technicality, we are not recognised as legally married here and the tabloids will use that against Hizashi. I’ve seen it.” Shouta sighed, “They tried to out him as gay but couldn't find any solid evidence, since from the right angle, with my hair, I look like a woman.”

“I forget the general public are stupid and blindly cruel.”

“You’ll do well not to forget it in the future. Never trust the press, always have a lawyer present and an audio tape of what you say.”

“And the ‘kid’ thing? What does that mean?”

“Since the day I started training you, you became ‘my kid’, Hitoshi. It’s much easier to call you mine than explain to a random person, who I owe nothing to, that I'm your foster father. Especially when neither me or Hizashi intend to give you up.” Shouta ran a hand over a skein of wool, “Any wool from this aisle should work. Go look. I’ll be here.”

“I-, uh.” Hitoshi wiped at his nose, internally blaming the cold weather for his watering eyes.

Shouta glanced at him. Slight panic entered his form as he realized the teen was on the verge of tears. Opting to silently open his arms towards the boy. A mop of purple waves crashing into him. Small sniffles and tears were rubbed onto his jumper as Hitoshi dried his face on his mentor’s shoulder.

“Good tears?” Shouta was praying this was a ‘good tears’ situation.

Hitoshi’s voice cracked as he responded, nodding rapidly against his foster fathers chest, “Yeah.”

Shouta hugged the kid a little tighter. Gently stroking the top of his head as he swayed them side to side. Humming along to the song playing over the speaker system. Undoubtedly tuned to the PYHU radio frequency. The curly haired man pressed his face against the side of Hitoshi’s head. Close enough to a kiss.

The teen started to pull out of the hug. Shouta let him, his almost crushing arms loosening to squeeze the kids shoulders as still glassy eyes looked up at him. Releasing Hitoshi from his grasp entirely, he dug briefly in his pocket to find a clean tissue, offering it to the purple haired boy who took it with reluctance. His bottom jip jutted out in a pout that seemed to be unanimous whenever he cried.

Hitoshi turned away from his mentor as he wiped his eyes. Glancing over his shoulder awkwardly as he blew his nose before pocketing the tissue. Shouta’s arm came to rest over his shoulders as they started to meander up and down the aisle. Stopping wherever a certain colour caught Hitoshi’s eye.

The teen lifted a hand to feel the texture of the wool. Rolling a strand of soft fibers between his index and thumb. It felt similar to the yarn Hizashi’s sweater was composed of. Though, a little less fluffy.

Shouta reached a hand across to pick up one of the skeins of yarn before rolling up his sleeve to feel it against his arm. A content noise that the fibers weren't too coarse. He was the one that would be handling it the most until he’d finished knitting it. He lifted the ball of yarn up to Hitoshi’s face, gently rubbing it against his cheek before putting it back onto the shelf.

Shouta tapped Hitoshi’s arm three times.

“Yes?”

“Do you have a favorite colour?”

“Yellow.”

“What kind of yellow?”

“Bright yellow. Like, sunflower yellow but less orange.”

“D’you wanna’ know something funny?” Shouta asked,

“Sure.”

“That’s the exact colour that will look good on you. I was going to suggest it.”

“Actually?”

Shouta nodded, “Colour wheel,” tapping his head with his free hand, “I’ve had it memorised for years.”

Shouta broke away from Hitoshi. Walking towards the far end of the aisle. He paused in front of one of the shelves before turning on his heel to look at the opposite shelf. His hand immediately gravitated towards the shade of yellow he’d imagined. He waved a hand at Hitoshi to come over without looking up from the skein in his hand as he looked at the dye lot.

“Stand under the light.” Shouta pointed up at the long fluorescent light that lined the aisle.

Hitoshi took a couple steps back to stand under the light. Relinquishing his arm to his mentor’s outstretched hand as the yarn was held up next to his arm. His arm fell back to his side as warm fingers tilted his head back to face forward. Shouta’s dark eye flitting about as it took in the colour against his skin.

“I thought you were far sighted? How can you see if this is good?”

“It’s colours not words.” Shouta said, “Speaking of words. Can you read the dye lot to me? My arms aren't long enough to read it.”

“Uh- this?” Hitoshi pointed,

“Yep.”

“WD21.”

“Do you like the colour?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Can you find seven more of those please?”

“Okay.”

Hitoshi handed the bright yarn back to his foster father. Quickly stacking the balls of yarn in his arms as he located them. The teen smiled when he glanced at Shotua. His scruffy chin tucked over the pile of yarn to keep it from falling.

Once all eight skeins had been procured, Shouta led Hitoshi to his second favourite aisle in the store. The buttons. The pattern called for chunky buttons. Ideally a wood or something just as ludicrously bright as the yarn.

Hitoshi looked at the vast variety of buttons with complete shock. Who knew there were so many buttons in the world. He flitted up and down the aisle, pulling various packs of buttons off their rungs as he held them up to the yarn and subsequently to his mentor for approval. Though, Shouta didn't seem convinced by most of Hitoshi’s picks.

The dark haired man shuffled closer to the rungs, poking two separate packages of buttons. “Either of these would look good.”

Hitoshi pulled a package of large oak buttons and a set of pale blue resin buttons. The teen presented them to his foster father. Pushing himself up onto his toes to look at the buttons against the yarn for himself.

“Do you have a preference?” Shouta asked,

“I like the blue, but I think the wood looks better.”

“Agreed. Grab another pack.”

Hitoshi put back the blue buttons, replacing them with another pack of the oak ones. He fell into step beside his mentor as they slowly walked to the self-checkouts. The purple haired boy helped his mentor to scan the barcodes of the yarn and the buttons. Pulling a plastic bag from his backpack to pack the spoils of their crusade into.

Shouta paid for the yarn and buttons. He glanced around the front of the store before basically sprinting out the front entrance. Neither he nor Hitoshi wanted to have to deal with the superfan cashier again. The pair descended the escalators into the pit of hell, worming their way towards the taxi stand and car pickup point.

Hizashi had been summoned via promise of ice-cream on the way home. The blonde had obviously decided to ignore the fact he was the only one who could drive and the money for said ice-cream would come out of he and Shouta’s shared bank account. Shouta’s car beeped brightly as Hizashi swung it into the rank. A heavy bass and tick-y snare bled from the car's open windows.

“Get in nerds,” Hizashi yelled over the music, “we’re going for ice-cream.”

—

Shouta had been ardently working, maybe a little obsessively, on Hitoshi’s cardigan for the last month. It should be done before the end of March. Meaning it would still be cold enough to warrant wearing a sweater without looking like a complete madman.

Needless to say, his becoming the supervising teacher for the textile crafts club at UA had definitely helped. He’d even taken to working on the jumper during the time he’d usually take his naps during the school day. Retiring from hero work definitely had its perks. A son, in all technicality, and sleeping like a normal human being. Or as normally as an insomniac with years of a messed up sleep schedule under his belt could.

Nemuri was the first of the teaching staff besides Nedzu to find out that Hizashi and Shouta had taken Hitoshi in. She was the first to connect the dots about the sweater and Hitoshi, to which she promptly used that information to bully Shouta into letting her come over and chat while he knitted.

The teen had been bewildered by Kayama’s presence at first but quickly realised she was not everything she was on her hero suit tin. She was playful and silly. Did she make dirty jokes more frequently than either of his foster fathers? Yes, obviously she can't be so far removed from her persona. But she never made Hitoshi uncomfortable.

However, he did think it was weird that Midnight would fake flirt with Hizashi but never Shouta. And that Hizashi would also fake flirt back despite being snuggled up right against his husband. Hitoshi quickly learned that Kayama doesn't flirt with Shouta because he’s an oblivious idiot and when he’s not being oblivious, it makes him incredibly flustered and uncomfortable. Hizashi on the other hand, could not care less.

Nemuri had left a couple hours ago from her weekly visit to the Aizawa-Yamada household and Hizashi wasn’t due back from the radio station for another two hours or so. Shouta was being watched from a distance as his steadying fingers quickly worked a new row of stitches onto what would create the right arm of Hitoshi’s cardigan. Hitoshi was leant against the kitchen island. A punnet of blackberries in his hand. A recently discovered favourite food of his.

“Hitoshi, you like classical literature, right?” Shouta asks from the sofa.

“I do.” Hitoshi tosses another berry into his mouth, “Why?”

“Have you read any Dazai?”

“No. He’s on my list though.”

Shouta finishes the row he was working on, peering over his reading glasses to look at Hitoshi, “Go in our bedroom and on my nightstand, the one on the left of the bed by the bathroom, there is a bag from the bookstore. Grab it and bring it here for me?”

“One second.”

Hitoshi closes the plastic punnet, putting it back into the fridge for later. He walks over to the mostly shut over door of his foster fathers’ bedroom. Stilling as he places his hand on the handle. Craining his neck to look at Shouta for further confirmation that it was okay to go in.

“It’s just a room. Go. It’s okay.”

Hitoshi pushes open the door, scurrying as he tries not to look around too much. Only noting the fact that Kitty and Tage, the weighted cat plushies, were cuddling on the duvet. He picks up the crinkly opaque white plastic bag that had the local bookstores name plastered across it in dark blue.

Shutting the door back over, he approaches his foster father. Placing the bag down beside the blanket that the man was currently swathed in. Taking a seat to the left of him after the couch was patted in invitation.

“Open it.” Shouta placed his knitting down to give Hitoshi his attention.

Hitoshi pulled the bag onto his lap, taking a few skinny brightly coloured novels from it, “You bought me his books?”

“I bought you clean, like unmarked, copies of my favourites. Mine have writing all over them. I don't think you’d like reading them very much with all the graphite and pen,” Shouta pauses, waving a hand vaguely, “and crisis.”

“I- uh. Thank you. This is very nice.”

Hitoshi opens the pale blue cover of the top book, running his hand over the cream coloured pages.

“It’s so smooth.” He observes.

“New books are the best. They smell good too.” Shouta affirms, “Start with the one below that one. Pink and black cover. Yeah, that's the one.”

“And you have your own copies of these?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ve written on them?”

Shouta’s left eye squints behind his glasses, “Yes.”

“Can I see?”

Shouta inhales suddenly. A few hard blinks as he stares into Hitoshi’s soul. Probably determining his fate for asking such an invasive question.

“Third shelf by the wedding picture.” Shouta instructs.

Hitoshi falters for a moment. He thought the answer would be a flat out ‘no’. Placing his short stack of fresh books onto the coffee table beside the yarn dispenser, that was coloured to be a tabby cat on its back, he stood from the sofa. Walking over to the taller bookshelf in the apartment, Hitoshi looked briefly at the picture of his fathers’ on their wedding day, each in and or on their respective supercar or sportbike, before finding the familiar but faded copy of the pink and black book.

The teen carefully takes the book from the shelf, holding the worn paper cover in his hands. It was littered with dents and scrapes. Its pages are adorned with sticky tabs much like the pattern book. Its spine was creased to hell and back. He flicked open the pages, noting the slow creep of yellow that highlighted the book’s age.

Hitoshi tucked himself back onto the sofa next to his mentor, who had resumed his knitting, as he opened the book to its front pages. Tracing a finger over an orange glitter pen drawing that had been etched into the book.

“Was this Hizashi’s doing?” Hitoshi asks,

“Neon orange is my favorite colour.” Shouta responds sarcastically,

“So it was him. What is your favourite colour?”

“Hot pink.”

“Actually?”

“That a problem?”

“No.” Hitoshi rubbed the back of his head with his wrist, “Just thought it was black.”

“Black is my second favourite. Followed by red. Not just any red. Bright cherry red.”

Hitoshi hums at this information.

Looking back down at the book in his hands, he turns a few pages to the beginning of the book, looking at the neat black pen that littered the margins. Some smudged scrawls of graphite and a calm, and very informative dark blue pen that answered the desperate cries of the pencil. This was so much more personal than just sharing a copy of a book.

“The black pen is from when I first read it. I was fifteen. The pencil is from when I was about your age, so seventeen, eighteen and nineteen? I read it a lot in those years. The navy pen is from when I was twenty, a couple months after Hizashi and I got married. I haven't felt the need to write in it since, but I have re-read it a lot.”

“Were you not okay when you were seventeen?” Hitoshi broaches carefully, “Your handwriting never looks this bad.”

“I was kicked out and technically homeless, you know about that. One of my best friends died. And Hizashi tried- almost died in a separate… incident. So in short no. I wasn't doing the best.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s the past, kiddo. You can't change it. I'm just thankful most of the people I care about are alive.”

“Most?”

“Most.” Shouta nods, mouth pressed into a flat line. “That includes you now. So you’ve got to live and make the most of life. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Hitoshi smiles weakly as he shuts the tattered book, placing it down carefully on the coffee table before grabbing his own copy of the novel. “I can do that.”

Hitoshi pulls his legs up onto the sofa, wedging himself against Shouta’s left side and the sofa’s back rest. A noise of complaint from the curly haired man as he steals the edge of the blanket that he had tucked under his leg. Resting his wrists against his knees the teen gently turns the pages of the book. Taking a breath as he settles into his comfy reading spot.

A couple hours go by and Shouta has finished sewing the sleeves to the rest of the cardigan. Meaning it was wearable but not done. He needed to sew on the buttons and add a bit of embroidery that he hadn't told the teen about yet.

Hitoshi was about three quarters into the book, not having moved from his spot against the dark haired man’s side. He had been holding back tears for the last half an hour. This book was so fucking tragic. No wonder people were sad after reading this.

The protagonist has just given up. He’s not even trying. He’s just observing everything go wrong around him. Knowing he could stop it but isn't going to because he doesn't believe he can. It's mortifying. Infuriating. Hitoshi wants to shake the protagonist. He wants to convince him everything will be okay and he just has to get out of his head. He wants to hug him and make him believe in himself.

Hitoshi jumps slightly as he’s drawn out of his outrage induced focus as a warm hand taps his arm.

“You okay, iris? You’re crying.” Shouta observes, finding a tissue for him.

“Uh- I. I want him to be okay.” Hitoshi frowns. Eyebrows creased as he stifles a half-soaked sob.

“You and Hizashi have very similar reactions to this book.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“What- how did you react to it?”

Shouta pulls a tissue from his pocket, twisting to gently wipe at Hitoshi’s cheeks and eyes. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“I already think that.” Hitoshi laughs wetly.

“I was happy. I finally felt seen.”

“You felt like he feels? Not human? An observer?”

Shouta nods as he continues to dry his son's face. “I’ve never felt quite human. Some of its trauma. Some of it's because of the fact I’m autistic. Some of it is because of my sexuality. It’s quite the lethal cocktail of things actually.”

“I thought you were gay?” Hitoshi squints at him, confused.

“Not quite. I’m acesexual and demi-romantic, if labels are what you need to comprehend it. But in short: I was only ever meant to fall in love with one person who I connected with on a deep level and I did.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Are we glossing over the autism?”

“Just because I now have a label for the way you behave doesn't mean it changes how I see you.” Hitoshi smushes his face into Shouta’s shoulder before muttering, “That’s stupid.”

“You’re the best kid we could have asked for.” Shouta wraps his arms around Hitoshi, pulling him closer, “I hope you know that.”

An indifferent hum.

“Agree or I will tickle you.” Shouta’s hand found Hitoshi’s waist. Pressing his palm flat against the fabric of his hoodie as a warning.

“Fine.”

“Fine what?”

“I am the best kid in the world.”

“I wouldn't go that far.” Shouta jokes.

Hitoshi turns around to hug his foster father properly. A dopey smile creeps onto his face as he buries his face in the crease of Shouta’s neck. Leaving his book abandoned with the silver wire bookmark in its pages, he quickly drifted off into unconsciousness against his dad.

Wrapped in his warm arms. A blanket draped over them. Fingers carting through his hair. Kind.

—

Hizashi came home to his husband carrying their passed out teenager from the living room to the kids bedroom. Hitoshi was completely dead to the world. Limbs in all directions looking like Juilet in Romeo’s arms after she had ‘died’. His husband's favourite blanket draped over his legs.

“Hi starling.” Hizashi whispered as he put his bag down on the kitchen island.

“Hi songbird. How was your day?” Shouta asked quietly over the sleeping teen.

“Good. Do you want some help?”

“Please.”

The blonde extended his arms to take Hitoshi from his lover. Cooing softly at the boy who was snoring lightly. Hizashi walked towards the teens bedroom, waiting for Shouta to open the door and pull back the bedsheets before carefully lowering the teen onto his bed.

The couple took their turns placing a kiss on Hitoshi's forehead after pulling the blankets up around him. Each making sure he was sufficiently tucked in before heading back into the living space. Leaving the teen’s door slightly ajar.

“Why is he so tired?” Hizashi asks,

“He read his first Dazai.”

“No. Shouta you didn’t.” Hizashi gaped at his husband, “How dare you start him on the saddest of his books.”

“It’s good.” Shouta justified, as if that made it okay, “He was more angry and frustrated than sad. At least from what he told me.”

“And here I was, ready to come home and kiss my husband into oblivion, just to find out he’s made our sweet little iris upset. What am I to do with you?”

Shouta pouts, his seeing eye searching his husbands, “So no kisses?”

“Always kisses.”

Hizashi laughs as he pulls Shouta close. A hand reaching to pull the hair tie that held his lover’s curls back free. Burying his hands into his spouse's dark locks as he pressed a plethora of soft kisses to his husbands lips. Both of them giggling as their noses bumped awkwardly.

Shouta wrapped his arms around Hizashi’s shoulders, hugging him tightly. “I missed you.”

“I was only gone six hours.”

“Six hours too long.”

“Sap.”

Hizashi had to slap a hand over his own mouth to stop the screech of surprise that left him as Shouta’s hands found his sides. Pleas that bubbled through body shaking giggles. A short reprimand of tickles for calling his husband soft for him. Which he was. Though Shouta would never admit that.

Wretching himself from his lover’s cruel –playful– grasp, the flaxen haired man leant against the kitchen island to catch his breath. Hands raised in surrender. Glancing to look at the grin that was plastered onto Shouta’s face. Smug motherfucker.

Hizashi watched as Shouta hobbled over towards the sofa, picking up his most recent craft obsession. Their foster son’s cardigan. It had gained its sleeves since the blonde had last seen it.

The dark haired man laid the bright yellow sweater on the kitchen island. A patch of binka was pinned just below the cuff of the right sleeve and on the left side of the front of the cardigan. Right over where Hitoshi’s heart would be.

Hizashi followed where his husband was pointing. Picking up the right cuff to look at the embroidery. A vibrant purple iris. A marigold that glittered with gold. The small blooms of pink spray roses. The iris sat in between the other two flowers. Protected by them, but not enough that its own growth would be hindered by them. To grow alongside them.

“Shouta.” Hizashi pressed a hand to his mouth. “This is so sweet. It's beautiful.”

“I was wondering if you wanted to do a stitch on this one.” Shouta points to the half complete marigold on the other patch of binka.

Hizashi’s face crumples. Nodding furiously as he wipes at his quickly dampening eyes. “Show me how?”

“Always.”

Shouta pulls out two of the tall chairs. Once Hizashi is settled on his own seat, the curly haired man drags his chair closer. Their thighs touch as Shouta drapes the bright yellow cardigan over their legs.

Taking his glasses from off his head and placing them onto his nose, the ebony haired man lifts the left panel up slightly. He carefully pulls his embroidery needle from the loose bit of binka. A thick thread of ripe orange still threaded though its eye.

Hizashi leans closer to his husband’s hands. Taking off his glasses so as to actually see what was happening. Watching as Shouta pushed the needle through the binka and yarn with a clinical precision. The way he slowly pulled the thread though so as not to damage the shape of the yarn while completing the stitch.

Shouta glanced at his lover from the corner of his left eye. Lifting his hands towards the blonde slightly as an invitation. Speaking beside his ear as he guided him through the motions of a handful of stitches.

Hizashi's hands shook with determination as he begged his fine motor skills to not freak out. A warm feeling spread over his chest as a few bright orange stitches were added to the jumper. One was slightly crooked. Hizashi looked at his husband with a frown.

“It's okay.” Shouta shushed, “It’s actually good that there’s a mistake in it.”

“It is?” Hizashi wasn't sure if his lover was making things up to make him feel better or not.

“Yeah. Your sweater has a mistake in it. Keeps you safe from the artist's curse.”

“And that curse is?”

“If you are gifting something you made to someone you care about, if it is perfect, they will leave you. If it has an imperfection, they will stay.” Shouta adds the few final stitches to the marigold.

“Oh god, I'm gonna cry again. Why are you so adorable?”

“I’m just keeping you guys safe. I love Hitoshi. I love you.”

“I love you too. And our little one.”

“Hizashi, he’s seventeen.”

“He can be little.” Hizashi protests.

“Alright lover. He’s our little one.”