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The spoon clinks in tandem with the rattle of the coffee machine shutting off. Swirls the brown delight of liquid into a whirlpool, swerving as it clicks against the rim of the cup. Just before the utensil finds itself deposited into the sink the mug is hovering over -- diluted water from the other discarded dishes and cups splashing as it clatters next to the drain, joining the others in their lonely parade.
Returned to his senses, hands now occupied with his spoon-free coffee, Shouta thinks.
He used to hate early mornings.
Early mornings host a whole barrage of things to fuss over, to fret and wonder aimlessly about.
Where's this, where's that, where did you put my hair spray, did you use my brush, it looks like you cleaned up a bit there handsome, does my outfit look okay, do I look alright?
All to which he simply responded with It's there, there's that, it's in the bottom shelf below the sink because you forgot it on the kitchen counter the other day, does it look like I used a brush, you always think I clean up, your outfit looks fine, you look more than alright, Hizashi, stop worrying, no one will bat an eye if a single strand is out of place, do you really have to go through all this effort, Your Fans Love You?
Rummaging through the rack, he robs it of another spoon. Leaves it on the counter for himself to find and misplace again later. He trails from room to room with his coffee, the barely-visible steam filling his nose and tastebuds like troops of soldiers called to war.
On days like these, it certainly feels that way. Like there's a civil war ongoing between his nerves, scars he's earned over the years lighting up like bonfires fueled by sunflower oil. Between the starburst of pale tissue on his elbow from USJ, the almost gill-like scars on his waist and torso from villain fights over a plethora of patrols, the translucent markings from scratches and healed-over wounds from stupid shit he's done and had to protect others from, the silver track trailing from the length of his index finger to his palm from the time he'd cut it open trying to cut cucumbers with Hizashi in the kitchen. The eyes he can no longer consider a pair, the left's twin lost to Shigaraki's last attempt on his life.
Between that and the many, many other injuries that've plagued his life and made residence on his body -- they light up his nerve endings in fireworks.
That, and his latest problem. The pressure in the atmosphere drops just enough, and Shouta will find his right leg wheezing to stay upright. What remains of it anyway.
He has no regrets for what he'd done to save his quirk back in the war. A different kind of remorse still lingers, because he knows fully well that if he had the chance for a do-over, he'd go about it like this: cut cleaner through the knee. Even if the doctors had claimed his case had been the 'best show of self-amputation' they'd ever seen done in the field.
Shouta sips at his coffee. Thinking about his leg can come later, when he eases the prosthetic back off; no use in crying over spoiled milk, Hizashi would say.
("If you ever have trouble with that nifty leg of yours, come to me, yeah? I'm no masseuse, but I've got magic hands, bay-bee!")
A scowl crosses his face when blistering hot goodness filters into his mouth, the add-on of caramel and honey spreading over his tongue in irony's best display of bittersweetness. He's always preferred his coffee on the cusp of too sweet and almost too much, wanting to be swallowed up in it. But it gets to a point where sometimes less is more.
Maybe he should just do what Hizashi does. Chug a black coffee and be done with it. An option he usually only goes for if he's short on time, and nowadays Shouta's newly freed up schedule means he has a surplus of it, which is why he'd strayed from his usual route of plain old joe, as the Americans call it.
Shouta had been spending these new blips of imposed 'freedom' experimenting with his taste. Books. Reading non-fiction he'd only usually read in the waiting rooms of hospitals. TV shows he'd normally scramble for the remote to turn off, he finds himself hovering over. Movies Shouta uses more white noise for his naps than anything are becoming almost interesting. Reality shows he finds himself commenting more on, his head on Hizashi's lap as they rake the contestants through the mud; Hizashi's wiry fingers digging into his leg, smoothing out the pain with a soft noise.
Often he's left trailing through the house during the weekend, when Hizashi's off for his extra shifts at the studio. Twiddling at his thumbs as he goes through student papers, less stricken and more open to errors. Mistakes he'd normally notch two whole points off for, he takes only a point. Texting Shinsou late at night when the kid's prone to another bout of insomnia, as always, messaging him an audio of 'Present Mic's Snoozeland Podcast' when even the book suggestions and EPUB files of combat tactics and nap-worthy physics chapters he sends over don't suffice as melatonin.
Shouta just prays the teenager won't eventually notice that Hizashi doesn't have that particular podcast available to the public. How it'll never show up on any one of Present Mic's forums as just something more niche, less out there. Or how Hizashi will slip up sometimes and nearly personally address Shinsou by name during his long rambles on quirks and topics he finds intriguing, saved only by the bell sound effect he edits in.
Though he figures the kid knows at this rate already, from the knowing narrowed purple eyes and huffed, barely hidden laughter when Shouta inquires how his sleep's been -- and the one time his mentee had mentioned something from the podcast to one of Shouta's other students, only to be met with confusion.
Midoriya was one such case where even peals of laughter had escaped Shouta, leaving him to duck behind the confines of his capture weapon. The green-haired teen had outright panicked, flailing like Hizashi would've when coming across a cockroach or centipede, and demanded to know where, exactly, Shinsou had heard it. He hadn't been there for the remainder of that conversation, leaving to oversee one of Yagi's Theory lectures for Class 1-B's supplemental lessons.
But if memory serves him right, Shinsou had muttered a fleeting Nevermind, it's Nothing, Mind Your Own Business.
Shouta sighs when he realizes he'd chuckled aloud while lost in the memory.
He should just go back to his roots. Chiyo would call him growing soft at this rate.
He's certainly heard enough of Hizashi's drunken rambling and his voice messages to know it might just be true.
Scratching at his scalp, sliding his free hand through the dry strands of black hair and coming away with a solidified piece of dandruff stuck under his fingernail, Shouta shrugs and walks away from the kitchen. Scrapes the clump off with a trip to the sink and a gush of water, because it's unsanitary. Padding back through the genkan, careful not to accidentally brush past the light switch with an elbow like he had the other night, he hopes for the chance to crawl back under the covers with the man who'd made him mind early mornings a little less.
Hope is brief. Just as it had back then, time warps into something grotesque, and Shouta finds himself in the bathroom, sitting on the bathroom stool Hizashi had bought after the hospital. Hosing his body down with the rain add-on the new showerhead they'd installed the other week has. Back when he'd lived in Naruhata, Shouta had opted for the most convenient hygiene products. Neglecting himself sometimes came naturally, so sometimes showers and days lapsed and the heroes on scene would have their noses puff up in sympathy, thinking he'd been thrown into a dumpster during his villain takedowns, when it'd really just been a case of Shouta forgetting. The bruises that supplemented his face were just circumstance. Occupational hazards of the job. Not a result of crashing between black plastic and barely ripened banana peels, no matter how hilarious Ms Joke and Hizashi respectively would find it.
He's pretty sure Hizashi has told a story from his underground days before on his radio show. Save for his identity as Eraserhead.
Not that it truly matters anyway, anymore. There's nothing left to compromise. Nothing worthwhile to lose, to take from him.
Tangerine fills his senses as his hand wraps around one of Hizashi's shower gels. He scrubs one of the more basic, unscented soaps into his skin right after he rubs the one with the fruity, floral scent around his armpits and everywhere else not attached to his leg, lips pulling tight upon seeing the dead skin cells that flake off around his stump. Shouta usually washes that part at night, believing it inconvenient to pamper himself in the mornings when he'd usually rush over to take attendance for his homeroom class, or trudge into the student dorms for an inspection, lest he find that Kaminari electrified the aircon again, leaving them to rely on Todoroki for cooling, or Ojirou smacking his tail into the wall just hard enough for Ashido to get startled and spritz acid.
Having seen it happen on occasion has never soothed Shouta's grumbles over his class, the lot eager to make him grow even more grey-hairs.
At the very least, weekends slow down the part of his brain that demands to rush. Insisting he take his time. Hizashi as well, just a little louder.
"Shou? You okay?"
Shouta blinks, not realizing he'd been hiking the pink sweatpants up his body in their bedroom. He'd just been taking a shower. Hadn't he?
However, the black towel he must've used earlier, stitched with the custom Eraserhead apparel Hizashi had ordered as a birthday gift 4 years ago, golden goggles present just below the golden cursive of his hero name, is now hooked onto one of the coat racks they keep on hand when he looks around. He must've drifted off.
He used to lose time like that a lot.
"Shouta, if ya don't answer, I'm gonna think you're a robber," Hizashi grumbles, wiping at his face. Glasses discarded, the thick, red-rimmed ones he wears solely at home and out with friends, Hizashi's vision teeters between unpractical and funny in the dim lighting of their room as he stares at Shouta.
The sun's just barely rising. For a moment, he wonders why Hizashi's still here, not dressed, and a sense of panic for his husband being late flips his stomach over.
That is to say, before the memory of Hizashi declaring 'I'm taking the next 2 days off' on Friday morning filters into his mind, and Shouta relaxes.
"I've robbed you of your heart already," he deadpans, knowing he can get away with jokes in the mornings. All because Hizashi won't see the flush in his cheeks, or the way comets sweep through his vision as Shouta looks at his husband. "I think that's about it for me. There's nothing else I value more."
Owning 20/20 vision, number now decorated and soured by a screwed-on depth perception that'll never return to as it was before everything, has never felt like a loss in Shouta's books. He would hate to blink and miss Hizashi sitting more upright, reclining back on his elbows even as a pillow with Present Mic's face on it falls onto the floor. Shouta makes sure not to let the blurriness swelling up in him stampede on that, overcompensating by widening his eye.
Hizashi recollects himself quickly. A laugh. "Yoouch! A career in poetry might be in the works for you, darling," he coos. Shouta hums. "Y'know, if you're up for it, I could get you your own segment on Hands Up. Go the whole nine yards with an interview from yours truly, display your newfound talent."
His husband stalls for a breath Shouta knows he doesn't really need. "Whaddya think? Wanna get with the big leagues like Kenji Miyazawa and Matsuo Bashō?"
For one insane, inane moment, Shouta almost considers it. He has no idea who any of those people are, but he does know he has enough time to kill and spare, and not enough tantos to throw at it. He already knows Hizashi's offer is serious; he doesn't suggest anything to do with his show unless he wants Shouta to participate in it. There'd been one time he'd called in, high on cough-drops, all to request a song from their wedding day.
"Bet the kiddos would love it," Hizashi adds, tempting him the same way he'd dangle a carrot toward a horse.
Now that gets him to tap out from his dry spell of lunacy.
Imagining his students listening to him over the radio waxing poetry sounds disgusting.
Upon shaking his head, muttering a quiet 'I'll pass,' Hizashi huffs. Taking it like a 'champ', as he always does with Shouta, tolerating anything and everything the sun shines on, rays of light sweeping through the curtains irritating Shouta's skin in warmth, his husband pats the side of the bed. Hand thumping twice.
An invitation. Shouta can recognize that. One he'll easily take.
Shrugging a loose graphic t-shirt on, some obscure text for a band he doesn't know at all, the hems covering the magenta pilling on the waistband of his pants -- Shouta makes his way over to the bed. Hizashi's hand eclipses his shoulder as Shouta crawls back in. Or tries to, anyway, just before he remembers he'd put his prosthetic back on after the shower. Tugging at the release latch, metal pin pulled out, he makes quick work of his prosthetic. Remaining just gentle enough to pull it out without inciting a trip to the Support Department later in the day. Power Loader's student, Hatsume Mei, would invoke hell on him if he had the appendage scratched again. The first time he'd limped into the room with crutches and exited with a scolding hurtful enough to strike even Nedzu in the heart was lesson enough.
"Wanna just hang around in bed for a few hours?" Hizashi's finger circles over his back and shoulders, almost shark-like with how entrancing it feels to Shouta. "We can laze around."
"Doesn't matter to me," he replies, because it really doesn't. Any time with Hizashi is a good time, even if it means Shouta has to get his ass back into gear and put his leg back on. "Anything's better than dealing with the brats," Shouta adds, not to be sentimental.
"Hey, cool your jets there, buckaroo, the little listeners--" His husband cuts himself off, the sound of him sniffing ringing out. Shouta can feel his hot breath against his neck. "Hey, wait. Did you use my shampoo again? And my shower gel?"
Hadn't he only used the gel?
"Don't leave it out where I can see it if you don't want me to use it," he mutters, instead of thinking about it too hard.
"No, no, listener." Shouta can already predict where this is going, as Hizashi escapes back to his broadcasting voice, almost rumbly with the hint of drowsiness yet breathless. "Don't mistake this alley cat for being grumped out over it! That's usually your thing anyway."
He snorts. "My thing?"
Hizashi barrels on.
"'m just surprised, is all. You smell... good. Really good." Hizashi shakes his head, tongue jutting out to lick at his bottom lip; a moist sheen accompanying it. "Man, you really have a way of making a man wonder if you're real sometimes."
He does not blush.
Shouta has to think about whether this is real or not some days, too.
"Sounds to me like Present Mic wants to monopolize his hygiene products," he drawls, wisely deciding not to comment on the last bit, if only for the eagerness showing in Hizashi's eyes. "Think they outlawed that a little while ago."
"The PMDA has nothing on me," Hizashi sniffles, just before he presses a kiss behind Shouta's ear. Shouta's skin tingles at the tickle of Hizashi's mustache. "And I just said you smell good, what gives?"
Shouta can think of a number of ways Hizashi gives. Gives and gives and gives and doesn't take, even when Shouta wants him to. Cheerfulness spills out of Hizashi like a well that hasn't seen water in decades.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, some people claim, but Shouta doesn't think it's entirely true. Absent or present, Shouta will miss his husband. Knows it for certain. When he's lowered into the ground someday, missing an eye and a leg and all the things that originally made him just Shouta, Shouta will know one thing, and one thing only, even as he crosses into an afterlife he doesn't fully believe in:
He'll miss early mornings with Hizashi.
"A lot," he replies. Nonsensically, because Hizashi only splutters in response, buffering, and Shouta already knows his answer makes no sense.
"Did you have coffee without me too? Sheeeeesh! You're really knocking it outta the ballpark here with all this effort -- next you'll tell me Shinsou's taking after ya too, and stopped falling asleep in class! Consider this city kitty super P.R.O.U.D of you!"
Shouta blinks languidly. "What's up with you and cats lately? You've been mentioning it a lot."
"...Oh. Hah. Caught me red-handed, did you?"
"Spill," he mutters, borrowing Hizashi's own weird way of demanding he be told more.
"Right, 'kay." An exasperated sigh. "Did I mention I saw this really cute one at the shelter the other day?"
"So this was your way of telling me you wanted to adopt a cat? Cute."