Work Text:
Aizawa Shota is fifteen when he first meets you.
He doesn’t think much of it—comfortable with keeping his head down, shoulders heavy with Hizashi’s own slumping around it. Neither does he mind the new addition of a lighter, chattier voice conversing with Shirakumo in the brightly-lit hallways of UA. To him, it’s just another day. Another boring high school day that will pass like any other with lunches spent cramped in between his rather boisterous friends, or so he thinks. Because he’s pretty sure Hizashi doesn’t smell like a field of flowers, a light touch of violets mixed with lilacs, and he’s even more certain Shirakumo isn’t the one peeking at him through the dark curtain of hair he sports.
“Hi,” you beam at him, smiling, your eyes pulled at the corners.
All too sudden, the usual clamor of the cafeteria fades as Shota is glued to his seat, the sound of your voice being the only one he can hear. Perplexed, Shota squirms uncomfortably. It grants him the sight of your grin growing wider like you’d expected that reaction from him.
You offer him your name, the syllables echoing pleasantly at the back of his head.
Shota swallows; his throat feeling dry. Itching to grab his bottled water, you’re on it before he can say anything. Arm outstretched and still smiling up at him, he finds it nearly impossible to look away from you. Could it be your Quirk? Rooting him in place? He hasn’t seen you before in the Hero Course; surely someone with a mind—control type quirk or other manipulation quirk would have caught his attention. Briefly, he considers using his Quirk to pull from your grasp, but just before the thought could translate into an action, Shota slumps.
The cafeteria noise rings back again, and his friends are laughing at his confuzzled look.
“Pretty cool, right?” Shirakumo boasts, bumping shoulders with you. The action prompts Shota’s brows to rise. It isn’t like Shirakumo to be so… easygoing with the ladies. “It’s her Quirk. ‘Called Listen. ”
“I knew we were going to get along!”
It’s Hizashi this time, his voice as loud as ever, but Shota is used to it. He takes his eyes off of his friends crowding your space (which makes him question just who you are, and how is it you’ve already charmed his friends as if you’ve all been childhood friends. And yet, he still does not have the littlest clue who might you be,) Shota is again stunned. Throat growing drier by the realization your eyes are on him instead.
“I’m sorry if that was rude. I don’t normally go around using my Quirk on others, but I’ve been calling you the past minute and it was so hard to get your attention,” nudging to the bottled water you’d handed him a while ago, Shota takes it as a cue to drink—finding it much, much easier to do anything else than be subjected to that Quirk of yours again.
He has to admit, though—“What exactly does your Quirk do?” his interest is piqued, and the words are tumbling out of his mouth before he can register. “I couldn’t hear anything else but you. Which… is something, I suppose. Hizashi’s pretty damn loud.”
“I heard that!” Proven right, you flinch at the unintentional yelp coming from the blond.
“My Quirk is pretty straightforward. When I’m speaking to someone, I can be the only one they can hear for at least three minutes. Everything else becomes background noise. Depending on my focus, you can hear a little bit more clarity of what’s going on around you, but if I’m extra determined, I’ll be the center of your attention until my time is up.”
Shota snorts. He’s not the type to think people’s Quirks always suited their personality, but he could see it in you. He could see it in the way you smile—big, teeth flashing, and all too confident—as if having his attention the way you wanted pleased you.
The thought sends a rush of warmth to his cheeks.
He drinks again, turning away from you after a brief introduction that Shirakumo forced out of him. “Don’t be rude,” he said, and so he’s offering you his name under his breath, that bright smile only ever growing wider.
You like attention, Shota notes, and if he’s going to be honest? It makes him a bit nervous.
Shota isn’t the best at reading people, but you’re so transparent it’s hard not to know what you’re thinking. You walk proudly every day with your heart in your sleeve. Unafraid of the potential you might be criticized, stepped on, or worse, had your feelings played with. It’s a trait he’s decided he found most bothersome—more for your sake than his—which says a lot since he’s believed what he can’t stomach most is your mouth.
He is sixteen, walking side by side with you after class, chin tucked against his collar while you talked his ear off.
You do like attention, or maybe you just like people listening to you. He finds it odd, considering you don’t need to try much to get people’s attention. More specifically his, as he’s been the primary giver of what you like most despite his internal conflict with it.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he keeps his mouth shut and carefully watches you from the side of his eye. You’re waving your hands in the air as you recount how you and Shirakumo met from when you were still learning how to walk, to becoming closer friends in middle school, and dreamt of entering UA together. There’s no sadness in your voice as you tell him about having to be separated from Shirakumo, ending up in the general course instead.
“I’m not from the Hero Course. It’s really not that helpful against Villains, especially because my Quirk isn’t exactly manipulative . But I heard your Quirk was pretty cool, Aizawa! Shirakumo told me all about it!”
Oh, god, this.
Listening to your drone on and on was one thing, but having the spotlight turned to him is an entirely different thing. He almost thinks the former is tolerable. Anything but having to open his mouth around you and have to use the energy to talk. But you’re beaming at him—as you always are—eager and patiently waiting for a response. He couldn’t disappoint now, could he? And that alone makes him scowl, because when has he ever (started) caring about your opinion?
Shota accepts defeat.
“It’s not that great,” he kicks a rock before him, your eyes following it bounce from the pavement. “I can just… temporarily stop people from using their Quirks.”
“From looking at them, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s so cool,” you whisper under your breath, shaking your head as you peer up at the blue sky. “Imagine that, facing off against the strongest villains but as soon as you’re there, they’re just helpless. Unable to do anything. I think being able to stop someone from dealing great destruction is a greater feat than matching their level in terms of strength.”
His ears redden at the awe in your voice. “I wouldn’t overestimate it.”
“I still think it’s awesome,” you shrug, then turn to him with a smile that couldn’t be meaning well. “Oh, and thank you for never using your Quirk on me.”
“That’s stupid. Why would I use my Quirk on you?”
“Oh, you know. Sometimes when you’re not paying attention to me, I end up using my Quirk on you and you get surprised each time,” you laugh, and Shota ducks his head further into his collar. Embarrassed at the reminder he’ll be wide-eyed when he hears nothing but your voice again. “Seriously, though, I hope you don’t mind if I do that. I mostly do it because you look so cute when you’re caught off guard—”
“—I’m not cute. ”
“You are!”
He kicks the rock harder. “I don’t ever want to walk home with you again. You’re annoying.”
“And yet you still never ask me to shut up.”
“Because that’s rude. ”
“It is,” you agree, half-jogging to catch up to a flustered Shota speeding away. “Or maybe you do actually like listening to me talk.”
“I—I’m just not much of a talker.”
Great. Now, he’s stuttering, too.
“You are a great listener. A very cute one, as well.”
He doesn’t need to look at you to know you’re grinning ear to ear again. He could clearly picture your expression already just by the sound of your voice, and Shota picks up his pace. Uncaring that you’re left behind. The sound of your laughter echoes down the sidewalk as he goes, and now he’s sure you don’t mind being left behind, as well. You know he’ll always just be within reach, and it’s a fact Shota shamefully admits to himself when your floral cologne wafts his senses once more.
Only this time, you’re no longer teasing him. A smile is still ghosting along your lips, but you share no words. You exchange silence comfortably.
Shota’s nails dig deep into his palms as he uses all his strength to fight the smile threatening to mirror yours.
As the months pass and semesters go by, the mill of students from the Hero Course constantly bruised and sleep deprived, the General Course doesn’t fare better. You’re cranky from the amount of exams you need to take. Muttering about how you just want to take a break from it all—muttering it to him that Shota learns you don’t just like attention.
You like his attention, and only his.
It starts off subtle; so subtle he doesn’t notice it at first. But when you spend most of your time doing more observing than participating, listening more than talking, he’s bound to pick up on the smallest of signs.
At first it’s the nonchalant manner of you slipping in the rest of your lunch to his plate. You never break conversation with Shirakumo as your chopstick drops sausages, chopped carrots, whatever it is you think he might like. When lunch break is over, a barrel of questions about his Hero training ensues.
How was class today, Shouta? Have you been honing your Quirk better? Do you think maybe you could show me sometime when you’re in action? Are there any Heroes you look up to? How were the exams? Would you like to schedule a study session together?
After that comes the change of commutes. You’re neighbors with Shirakumo, so it’s a given that both of you will be sighted walking to and fro school. But then Shirakumo and Hizashi are always coming up with excuses on why they have to stay behind— supplement exams, a teacher called for them, they need to submit an assignment way past the deadline —and all these excuses somehow result into Shota shouldering the responsibility of ensuring your safety on the way home.
You start taking Shota’s way home—the longer route—but you brush it off. “We kill two birds with one stone,” you’d say, until the days stretch out longer than that.
“Actually, I don’t want to go home yet,” you’d tell him as you stop in your tracks, and Shota raises his brows in question. “It’s been a long day, and if I go home, I’d just have to study again. I was thinking maybe we could stop by a cafe first, have some coffee? There’s this cute cat cafe I found that I think you’ll really love—” and he ends up going. Shota never says it out loud, often masking his true emotions with a grumble of annoyance, but he enjoys it. His heart flutters when you leave your phone at the table as you run off to the counter to order drinks. He’s frozen to the spot with three cats hoarding his attention, the two chunkier ones already fast asleep on his lap that you volunteer to go instead.
And that’s when he sees the location of the cafe flashing on your phone.
It’s no coincidence at all. He’s not stupid.
In the drop down bar of your recent search history, Shota reads ‘first date spots’, ‘cat cafes in musutafu’, and ‘pick up lines to make your crush like you.’ With the evidence so clearly presented to him, it’s hard not to blush, much less keep a straight face or have a decent conversation with you like he knows nothing when you return with the drinks in your arms.
“Thank you for waiting!” you plop down next to him, the heady scent of lilacs blanketing blending with the aroma of coffee and feline scent.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles, cursing himself inwardly when his voice cracks. If you’re amused, you do a horrible job of hiding it, and his blush deepens. “It’s fine, ” he repeats, voice firmer this time as he pointedly looks away at the device. “You should be more careful next time.”
“Careful with?”
“Leaving your belongings unattended. You left your phone here.”
“Oh! Well, yeah, but… you’re at the table, so I wasn’t worried.”
Shota narrows his eyes at you. “Not worried I’d peek at your phone?”
You laugh at the seriousness in his voice, head thrown back as you clutch at your stomach. Again, Shota will never admit it—how pretty he found you just like this, surrounded by feline creatures, and a pair of cat ears placed on top of your hair bobbing at your actions.
“Oh, Aizawa,” you wipe at your tears once you’ve calmed down, and Shota scowls at your teasing grin. “I’d only be worried if I was hiding something in my phone— which is probably something you do —but I’m not. So no, I’m good.”
“I don’t hide anything on my phone.”
That’s a lie, of course. He’s spent nights staring at the cursor blinking back at him as he rolls around his bed, gnawing at his nails as he contemplates whether he should text you or not. He never does send the text, but the thought of you seeing your contact is at the top of his list with a draft of ‘ what are you doing? ’ would be the end of him.
The end.
“Hmm,” you sip your drink, clearly not believing his statement. “Sure, Aizawa. If you say so. Not that you have to worry, since I’m a good friend and I’ll never snoop through your phone if you ever leave it unattended.”
His scowl deepens. Surely you didn’t know, but then again, it’s hard to decipher when your jokes are just that, or if you use the mirth to hide something else.
Whatever it may be, there’s only one thing blaring signals in his mind: distract you from the situation at hand.
“ Shota, ” he breathes out after a moment, and your fingers over the mug pause. You’re looking at him again, a smile he knows would blind him about to grace in one, two, three —he pointedly stares out the window instead. “Just call me Shota.”
He starts to ponder then, if the permission he gave you to address him by his first name had been the beginning of… well, beginning of everything. The beginning of a promise there’d be more. When your subtlety slowly transformed to that of boldness—as if you hadn’t been bold from the beginning.
But double that, and Shota is fumbling now more than ever.
You’re coming onto him strongly—having placed yourself beside him each time the four of you share lunch at the rooftop. Shota stills when your thighs brush, neither of you pulling away. He figures he should—your skin is bare from your skirt riding up, and your socks do little to hide the flesh peeking out to entice him. Shutting his eyes, Shota takes a deep breath and wills all nerves in his body to cooperate and look away. Count Hizashi’s lashes. Illustrate the curls of Shirakumo’s hair into a different figure. And stop— don’t fucking count the stripes of blue and red in your socks. Don’t pay attention to the goosebumps rising at the softness of your thigh when Shota’s hand travels to your sides, attempting to steady his slouch against the metal nets and absolutely not because his fingers wanted to leave a ghostly touch to your knee.
He must be a masochist, Shota decides. No sane man would put long enough with this—the longing stares he pretends he doesn’t receive, the not so-subtle brushing of your knuckles together when you’re walking together, the drifting of your curious eyes down to his lips, tongue wetting your bottom ones—and Shota… he’s insane.
He must be.
Still stubborn as ever, he does nothing. You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t want to assume there’s a hidden meaning behind your glances. He pretends to be unaware of it all even when the day comes that your absence is a stark silence for your group, Shota eyeing your empty spot beside him longingly.
Perhaps he’s not as subtle himself, because Shirakumo is scoffing beside him through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “You know, if you like ‘em that much, you should just man up and say so.”
“Hear hear!” exclaims Hizashi with a lazy grin. “As much as I enjoy you two acting like a bunch of idiots, you’ve gotten past the point of it being comical.”
Shota slinks back to his capture weapon, a long stream of cloth that provides refuge to the oncoming accusations of his friends. “I don’t know what you guys are talking about. It’s not—We’re not anything like that. We’re just friends.”
Yes. Friends is what he tells himself, deludes himself, because friends definitely end up at their friend’s doorstep that same day, barely protected by the umbrella hanging overhead as Shota hesitates whether he should knock.
You’d been sick, according to Shirakumo. It’s just a cold, not worrisome enough yet Shota’s feet are taking him to your place before he realizes it.
Thankfully, you save him the pain of overthinking when the door flies open. You’re standing there, dressed in wrinkled pajamas and the dent of a pillow in your cheek as if you’ve just rolled out of bed, face scrunched— if only slightly sheen with sweat from your fever, eyes glossy and nose stuffed. You’re transparent as usual—the glass see through from your eyes and he can tell—he’s the last person you expected to visit.
Grimacing, Shota rubs the back of his head. Perhaps he should not have come.
“I… heard you were sick, and it just occurred to me now I didn’t even bring you food. I… kinda forgot.”
“That’s okay,” your voice is nasally, thick with cold, yet the fever does nothing to sway your enthusiasm as you duck under the umbrella with him. In this proximity, Shota fumbles to keep the umbrella protecting you both from the rain. He presses himself to you, hip to hip, until you’re twisting and your chests are touching, lips barely a breath away from each other and—Shota inhales sharply. He can’t tell if it's the rain that turns his entire body cold, but then warmth is enveloping him as he feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist.
“Thank you for coming, Shota. I appreciate it.”
“I—” He blinks back once, twice. You don’t disappear before him. Your smile doesn’t diminish, and you’re real —pressing up to him, hugging him, and all he could do is stumble forward to dip the umbrella your way. Here, the rain drips down to the back of his collar, and he tries his best to hide his discomfort at the biting cold. “Would you like to have dinner somewhere? Ah, wait, you’re sick. I don’t think that’d be a good idea—”
You steal the umbrella from him.
Readjusting it, you stand next to him, cramped yet comfortable. Neither of you gets wet. Your smile is different this time—face hidden by the umbrella and only he can see. It’s not a smile you’d give to anybody, not the usual friendly smile plastered, but a private one—a sincere, small one that spoke the thick words left unsaid in the air.
Given courage by your affections, Shota dares to place a hand at the small of your back. It closes the distance between you further, and he waits with bated breath.
You don’t pull away.
“I’d love to have dinner, Shota. Lead the way.”
Never has it crossed Shota’s mind that he would ever lead the way. Preferring to slink back into the shadows, where it’s quiet and it’s comfortable, he is now slowly crawling out of the darkness and embracing the light that comes with being with you. It starts off slow—the clouds parting for the small streaks of sunshine to beat down at your backs. It’s still too early for an actual dinner; he did just skip school, but it’s way beyond lunch and he’d be lying if he said he knows where he’s going.
After weaving through the crowd, you find a small booth with an elderly man crouched over pans. Shota raises the red cloth acting as the door, following behind you as you pick a table and you scan the menu. Roasted chicken, black bean soup, and dry ramen—an odd choice of meal with its flavors overwhelming him.
He can feel your gaze even with his outgrown bangs. Scrutinizing him, gauging for an approval—Shota fights back a cough. It’s not his favorite, but he’s seen the way you close your eyes appreciatively over the meal.
“I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite,” he confesses, “But I think the soup is good.”
Your smile is small, eyes crinkling as you cradle the warm bowl of broth. In the blinking, cheap fluorescent lights, you’re bathed in swathes of white and yellow—like a halo floating over your head that Shota wouldn’t have questioned if you actually were an angel.
Speaking softly, careful of the hoarseness in your throat, Shota leans forward to listen.
“My mother used to cook this meal for me each time we had something grand to celebrate. My primary school graduation, when I won a relay race with Shirakumo during a sports festival, when I got admitted into UA…” trailing off, your hands slither into his. Soft fingers interweaving with his slightly rougher, calloused hands, Shota watches your joint hands with unmasked wonder. “Each time I have this meal, I know it’s because I have something good to treasure in my life—a memory worth remembering.”
“Did something good happen today?”
He already knows the answer. You know he knows, but you also know he wants to hear it come from you and you giggle, bringing your joined palms up to your lips.
“You happened to me,” lips leaving a butterfly kiss to his bruised knuckles, Shota begins to understand. He begins to listen —to the sound of your voice, the frantic beating of his heart in his uniform damp with sweat and rain, and the sound of your soft sigh as you smooth your cheek over his warm hands.
“You…”
“I like you, Shota.”
He knows. God, he’s always known. But his heart has been nagging at him with anxiety, with uncertainty, with the insecurities that come with being a young boy in his teenage years as he experiences his collection of firsts with a girl he adores, yet finds it challenging to express properly. But he wants to try; wants to swallow those doubts and do his best. Because he’s known from the minute he could listen to no one’s voice but yours—he’s known you’d steal his heart one way or another.
And he didn’t want to have it returned.
Chest constricting under the fabric, Shota closes his eyes and reciprocates the kiss you leave at your hands. “I know,” he murmurs, and he hopes— prays —you understand what he means.
The words he can’t utter out loud. He’s so young, so unsure of himself, full of mismatched assumptions and prone to making the wrong decisions, but he’s letting you know that he knows. He’s aware of your precious feelings, and Shota is acknowledging it. Taking your sweet words into the safety of his palm, he tucks it somewhere deep so as to not let it go. And when you smile, stifle a giddy giggle at the pulse point of his wrist, Shota had wished he could freeze time and remain in this memory forever.
Of being young, of being shy to hold hands when his palms are sweaty—only to be reassured by you tugging him closer. He wishes he could stay this way of being innocent, partially protected from the ruins of the world, where he didn’t have to experience the loss and would never have to know what mourning meant.
Aizawa Shota is seventeen when he receives his first love confession, and his first kiss. Under a persimmon tree in your neighborhood, you seal your whispered confession among his lips. Palms sliding from his chest and up to his neck, Shota’s pulse rings loud at his ears. He’s sweaty, smells of broth and tastes like chicken, and he’s certain his uniform is sticking at his skin. He’s not the most appealing—not the most beautiful boy with his overgrown bangs poking your nose and tickling you, but it makes you smile through the kiss. You’re smiling, and you’re pulling him by the collar just as he feels the first swipe of your tongue on his lips.
His knees nearly buckle under him.
He trembles, nervously carding his hands through your hair as he kisses you back. Through the uncertainties, one thing is crystal clear to him—Aizawa Shota is falling for you.
Such is the experience of being young, of being innocent. But time stops for no one, and soon being seventeen transforms into more than just rescue practices, lunch breaks spent in your lap as you rake your fingers over his scalp, and falling in love becomes something more than just a fairytale. Like all else with you and him, the words hang in the air. Like a cord waiting to be cut, or a kite waiting to be brought back down to the ground—that’s what it feels like. Shota’s footsteps grow lighter with each passing day. The sun is a little warmer, his cheeks a little redder than usual when you steal kisses as the pedestrian lights turn red.
Throughout all that, there’s a question left unanswered, begging “ what are we ?”
You’re more than friends, that he knows. Friends don’t go around walking hand in hand to school, braving the teasing that ‘quiet little Shota has game, after all.’ He merely scoffs at it. All the credit goes to you—his… his more-than-a-friend, yet not quite girlfriend. His palms grow sweaty at the churning thought there might be a line to be crossed before that, but would you even want to? You seemed content enough with what you had, mindlessly scribbling your notes as Shota inches before you, unable to get enough of your scent. It comes naturally to you—your right arm extending, offering a space to be shared, and when Shota is finally pressed up to you, tired eyes glazing over your messy handwriting, your pen stops over the pages.
“Shota,” he hums, and you twist to face him. “Would you… like to become something more?”
“More?”
“Yeah. You know, make it official. You’ll be my boyfriend, I’ll be your girlfriend. We’ll go out on more dates, spend a lot of time together, and—” your brows furrow, but just as the crease of worry appears, it’s gone the next. “—and we’ll figure out the rest as we go.”
He likes the idea of that—figuring it out as you go. Kissing your knuckles as a response, he immortalizes the image of you smiling beside him, face bathed by the sunlight streaming through your room. I love you, another kiss, let’s figure it out as we go.
And figure it out you did.
There’s one important thing he’s learned as he dips a hesitant toe in the waters of falling in love, and it’s called compromise. Compromise is when you meet him halfway, in between patrols with a snack for him and Shirakumo. Compromise is when he meets you halfway, exhausted and muscles weary from hero training, an apology fluttering from his lips for arriving at the date seven minutes late. But most of all, he learns the importance of forgiveness —a seemingly important quality, a necessary foundation when you’re dating someone who risks every second of their life to protect the people of Japan.
You’re understanding as ever, never batting an eye when Shota’s hands land on his knees. You’re hunched over your notes, eyes tired yet widening as you take him in. He must’ve ran to meet you here in the library. You’d had plans for a study date, which he promptly cancels as soon as he was swathed in an assist mission, but he finds you still at the same spot even after you’d acknowledged the ruined plans.
He pictures you thumbing your phone back in your pocket at the apologies of his texts. Shota’s heart aches, and he bows, ashamed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Shota, seriously, you don’t need to apologize so much. I understand.”
“Just because you understand, it doesn’t mean I should have so much to apologize about,” he says, eyes glossing over the seat you’ve saved for him. Switching your bag to your lap, you pat your side and he slinks back to the empty space, lip jutted out in worry. “This is the third time I’ve canceled on you.”
“ Rescheduled, love. We rescheduled, and it’s fine. ”
Is it, truly ? Concern is present all over his features, the dark circles and redness in his eyes increasing with each day. If you noticed, you don’t say much about it. Opting to wipe the worry with your thumb instead as your palms splay over his cheeks, Shota takes a deep breath. He knows, he knows that you know, but he feels the need to say it one more time.
“It’ll only get harder from here on. I can’t—I can’t promise it’ll ever get easier for you. For us. ”
Your smile quells his worries.
“Nothing ever comes without a price, does it? You just have to find those worth making sacrifices for,” you always had a response for everything; way too wise for someone your age. Or perhaps it was your optimism—a brightness that never dimmed in his ever-growing weariness and restlessness. “We’re young, Shota. We don’t have to take this as seriously, especially when you have a great goal ahead of you. You’re going to be a hero, and as for me? I’ll be there for you every step of the way. Whether you get injured, or feel lost, I promise you’ll always have a home to return to.”
“But what if…” he licks his lips, feeling his throat dry. “What if we’re not so young anymore? What if being a hero means bigger responsibilities, and—”
“We’ll figure it out as we go.”
It’s a promise, and that’s something he envies about you the most. The reassurance, the confidence. When you’re a hero, and the possibility always lingers that each day might be your last, a concept such as permanence seems far and beyond him. He wonders if that’s what you’re giving him, reassuring him of, but then there’s the flicker of anxiety in your eyes that tells him it’s real. The hardships are real, the future is unguaranteed, and neither of you actually know what welcomes you at the end of the tunnel.
However, there is a promise— you have promised, and Shota nods as the rampaging voices in his head dwindle to nothing.
“We’ll figure it out as we go.”
There is nothing to figure out, nothing to navigate in the midst of destruction.
Like your presence in his life—which he warmly welcomes—Shota is thrown into more situations that reminds him of how helpless he can be. How little control he has of the world around him, how the eagerness to help people could not always be enough. It’s a restless, gnawing thought he’d have to stomach eventually, but nobody had warned him it would hit him like a barrelling truck when the reality—the cruelty of the world—has finally knocked at his door.
All the confidence, the soft whispers you would give him before your fingers slip from each other at the end of every school day, the promise of figuring it out has slowly disappeared.
Instead, screams resonate in his head.
Even with his eyes closed, Shota can still see the defenseless children wailing for help. Tears stained their cheeks, throats hoarse from the endless screaming.
It all happened too fast.
What was supposed to be a regular day of patrolling with Shirakumo, the two of them sharing the homemade onigiri you’d given, had quickly been upended by the attack of a Villain. The two of them rush to evacuate, saving everyone they could. Shota still remembers how his foot remains rooted to the ground. Unwilling to close his eyes as he follows the Villain’s every move despite the discomfort, the stinging pain of having not blinked for minutes. But he persists, as that’s all he could have done at that moment—and he thinks about it for the years to come— could he have done more?
Perhaps if he did, he wouldn’t have had to lose Shirakumo. His best friend, the bright and bubbly boy with whom he promised to open a hero agency with someday.
He wouldn’t have had to lose himself.
He wouldn’t have had to watch, a scream lodged in his throat as Shirakumo is crushed under layers of debris. The clouds had saved the children, but Shota’s attention wanes, his concern for the survivors dissipating as he rushes forward. The Villain has been apprehended, but it’s too late. Shirakumo is gone, and Shota—
Shota is forced to grow up.
“He hasn’t come to school in days. ‘Heard he hasn’t left his room either, barely eating the food his mother brings.”
Hizashi is outside his door, his presence a constant in the past few days. Shota’s back is pressed against the door, feeling it vibrate with each shaky exhale, his fingers tangled in his greasy, unwashed hair. Faintly, he could feel his stomach flatten. Days of refusing to eat, days of having barely slept —too afraid of the nightmares and the screaming —Shota shuts his eyes.
It’s much easier to drown everything out.
A soft knock briefly pulls him out of his thoughts. He can hear the shuffling of sock–padded feet outside. He’s ready to tell his mother off, or Hizashi, that he doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t want to be bothered—but a softer, sweeter voice filters through.
“Shota, it’s me. Can I please come in?”
His nails dig into the heel of his palm. Conflicted, Shota is torn between feeling relieved that you’re here, that you’re safe, to the harrowing persistence of your coaxing that he refuses to beckon to.
“Will you please let me in, love? I just want to talk.”
“He might not want to talk,” quips Hizashi, sounding beyond exhausted. Shota doesn’t blame him.
He hears you shuffle again, followed by a small thud. He pictures you leaning against the door outside, a palm placed flat on the surface as if you know he’s just within reach—that you can still pull him to you before it’s too late. And it’s convincing; he almost opens the door when he hears the crack in your voice.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry —he begs quietly.
If he hears you cry, he might truly rip the door open. Being strong for him was one thing, but he is weak for you, and he needs time.
He does not want to open the door.
“—It’s not healthy for you to stay cooped there forever, Shota. I know it’s hard, and you’re probably blaming yourself for it, but we’re here for you. I’m here. You don’t have to go through this alone so baby, please, will you please just open the door?”
Shota’s lips pursed, his lower trembling as he fights back an onslaught of tears.
“I told you he won’t respond. Maybe we should just give him another day.”
“We have to try, Hizashi. I’m worried for him.”
“Just go,” he croaks out after a pregnant pause, the heels of his palm digging into his heavy eyelids. “Please. Leave me alone.”
He’s unaware how broken he sounds at the moment. It falls deaf to his ears the way he slurs over his words, choked into a sob. All he knows is that everything is heavy. His shoulders carry the burden of his friend’s death, unable to accept that he’ll no longer see Shirakumo’s sunshine smile, or, or hear him laugh. He’ll never be able to thank him that he’d met you, and Shota’s shaky arms are caging him as the tears blur his vision. His knees tremble from where they’re bent before him, like an animal cornering himself.
It’s pathetic to be this weak. How can he be a Hero when he couldn’t even save those precious to him?
His mind treads down a dangerous path until the door is wrenched open, sending him into a clumsy stumble forwards. “Absolutely not,” you argue, and it’s then your wandering gaze searches for him in the darkness. When you spot him, curled up on himself with an expression so defeated, he can hear your heart crack at the sight. Through the darkness, you reach out for him— pull me out of this darkness, he cries, end this misery for me.
“ Shota. ”
Take my hand while it’s not too late. Give me another chance. Yet, the words that fall from his lips are different. Swatting your hand away, Shota hisses. “I said go , didn’t I?”
A hard look passes your pretty features.
“I’m not leaving you alone. Please, at least—at least have something to drink. I’ll leave you alone after that,” you bargain, “You can’t lock yourself up here forever, Shota. And you can’t—you can’t keep blaming yourself for his death. He wouldn’t want that. It’s not your fault—”
The world falls silent around him.
He sees no one but you, smells nothing but you, hears no one but you —not even the ringing of his heart in his ears, the staggered breaths he takes. Shota knows you’re using your damned Quirk on him. Beckoning him to come out of the hole he’s dug himself, offering him a reprieve from his own despair. It’s a chance for salvation, of forgiveness. He reads you like a fucking book right there—your intention to save him, and he wants to be saved, but he is a Hero. He’s supposed to be saving people, he could have saved Shirakumo if he’d only been strong enough—
Shota didn’t need saving.
Hair rising from above his shoulders, his red eyes gleam like rubies in the darkness of his room. Your voice disappears. You take a step back with disbelief written all over your face, and Shota is up to his feet the next instant. He shoves you out his room, out of his life, and when he slams the door at your face, it comes with a tone of finality.
Aizawa Shota is eighteen years old when he watches you walk away.
He supposes he should have seen it coming—the cracks in your relationship only growing bigger the more he pushed you away. It’s a small price to pay for the sake of his own weakness, his lack of credibility. Perhaps he’s not that great of a hero as you believed him to be. He’d lost his best friend at his own hands, and now watching you fall apart by his own doing.
Just as he’s fallen for you, your heartbreak doesn’t come suddenly. It starts off slow like a record, like a bus trip with no actual destination. The hurt only grows as he brushes you off and makes up half-lies about having to spend the whole day honing his Quirk, focusing on growing stronger, on becoming better.
He hoped you could understand. His need to be a Hero that never had to lose someone again, but his own goals are what led him here, back again under that persimmon tree where you first kissed him. Only this time, there are no more shy hands reaching for each other. No more smiling in between kisses, or longing glances after months of foolishly wanting the attention of one another only for it to be given unconditionally, unequivocally, and undivided from the moment he’d laid eyes on you.
Sighing, you lean against the tree. It’s coming—he awaits it—the end of it all, the long-due goodbye’s, but you don’t bid him that. You only stare at him with what he could make out to be longing. Longing for who he used to be, longing for the times you’d spent together when Shota didn’t feel so old.
“Congratulations,” you speak up after a long while, breaths coming out in cold puffs against the winter air. “For getting your Hero License—you deserve it. I know how hard you worked for it.”
Shota barely conceals the guilt. Of course you knew—you always were the receiving end of the beginning of his absence, a cold seeping so deep into his bones that he’s sure wouldn’t thaw even with your kindness. But he doesn’t say that, nodding as he turns away from you. “Thank you,” is all he offers. He wants to apologize—for not being there for you, for not taking your hand when you offered it to him. For leaving you in the dark, for letting you watch him become someone he can barely recognize.
Until finally, finally it comes.
He didn’t expect the goodbye to hurt as much as it did, his sore eyes widening when he felt the warmth of your lips moving against his. There’s another trail of hotness that startles him from the biting cold. It takes him a while to realize it’s tears, you’re crying, and the wetness is evident as he brushes a thumb against your cheek.
He allows himself to be selfish one last time.
Closing his eyes, he pushes back into the kiss hungrily. He savors your taste, inhales your scent like a greedy man because he knows, he knows this is more than an ‘ I love you ’ kiss. It’s the last one he’ll ever share with you, the kiss holding a finality like it did when he slammed the door at you that wretched day. And whatever he can’t say out loud, he smooths over your mouth. Whispers of apologies partnered with his own set of tears, Shota’s trembling fingers cup your face. Nothing about it is sweet. It’s only bitter, salty with your tears, heavy with his shortcomings, and you respond with love as you always did—pushing him against the tree and wrapping your arms around his neck to hold him one last time.
And when you pull away, your foreheads pressed together, Shota wishes he never opened his eyes.
You’re trembling like an abandoned child beneath him, vulnerable with all your pain—that he caused—in front of him. Even after everything he’s done, after everything he’s chosen not to do, you’re trusting him with all of your heart. Laughing bitterly, lips damp and cheeks glistening from your tears.
He wants to kiss you all over again, to never let you go.
But he is eighteen, and he will only continue to grow older, grow wearier—face death and experience grief over and over again. He can’t share with you. He doesn’t want to share that with you. You are the embodiment of kindness, the warmth in his belly as you effortlessly make him laugh, the butterfly touch of gentleness along his scarred knuckles that had known evil, and would know more evil.
“I love you,” you confess, and Shota inhales sharply.
How many times has he pictured this? You, pressed up against him, lips plump from a hungry kiss he’s given you, finally uttering those three words he spent countless nights dreaming about. But dreams are never close to reality, and Shota’s shoulders slump in defeat because I love you also means goodbye.
“I love you, Shota,” knocking your forehead against him, you chuckle, the sound hollow. “You’re going to make a great Hero, and I can’t—I can’t wait for you to show the world what you’ve got.”
I had you, he wants to say.
“I am always proud of you, Shota. Don’t ever forget that.”
Shota nods, weak to your words as ever. “I won’t. Thank you—for everything.”
“You’re welcome,” playfully knocking him by the shoulder, Shota feels you are miles away from him, even when you’re only at an arm’s length away. When you smile at him this time, he, too, sees that you have grown older. “ Go save the world, Hero .”
Aizawa Shota is thirty one years old. Long gone are the shy, timid smiles he used to hide from the collar of his uniform. Instead, his permanent grumpy scowl is concealed by his capture weapon, a grayish-white fiber adorning his shoulders that carry a burden’s weight only an adult could ever muster. That’s who he is now, isn’t he? An adult, grown man—stronger, wiser, braver, and wearier.
The dark circles under his eyes seem to only grow with time. Redness rims the outer corners of his ruby eyes, often glassy with eye drops which he keeps stashed in his utility belt.
He is a Pro Hero—an underground one. He couldn’t care much for the popularity, the publicity, and quite frankly, he much prefers this peace. This privacy. Shota never had to worry about being bombarded by a multitude of fans when he simply wants to go about his day, nor has he ever felt the need to plaster a smile to reassure the citizens of Japan that all will be safe.
Granted, he’ll come to people’s rescue. His daily patrols that he never skips is enough proof of that. Shota promises to be on the scene before further chaos escalates.
He couldn’t risk that— wouldn’t risk that. Not when he knows the power he holds, the responsibility that it comes with. Being a step too late, a second too slow, and an innocent civilian would have lost their lives. He simply doesn’t have enough time to overthink. He is action and movement himself, executing moves to prevent the loss of further lives, but in the few and far in between moments where he does have time to think, the thoughts rain down on him without mercy.
Like a rainstorm beating down on a roof, Shota twists and turns in his bed.
How many nights has he spent like this?
Exhausted, with muscles heavy with overworking, and eyes itching from its use. When he’s done with his patrols, and he’s not so kindly refused his friends’ proposals for a night out, there’s not much to do except stare at his empty ceiling. Feel the coldness of his too-large bed, hands wandering as he muses what it would feel like if he had someone to come home to, if maybe the gray-walled room barren of pictures and knick-knacks to breathe life into it would feel less… cold.
These thoughts are unforgiving, and Shota’s learned long ago alcohol never helped. Liquor merely numbed the pain a little bit, but it’d hit him twice as hard the next sunrise. He’s refused drinking past his limit since, wanting to be clear-headed (as much as he could, anyway) and prepared to present himself to his students.
Funny, he snorts. How he’d been at his students’ shoes once. Coming to school hopeful and excited to learn more about their Quirks, forming bonds with future Pro Heroes, gaining experience firsthand over the real world—and now he’s the one entrusted to guide these youth’s future. It’s a heavy responsibility, one he brandishes with honor, and while he’d never say it out loud, Shota dearly loved his students.
A teacher could only hope that these children’s innocence stood a chance of preservation. But time and time again, he is reminded peace is something you ironically had to shed blood for.
Shota’s heavy eyes glance at the wall clock.
It’s been two hours since midnight, and while he’s more than ready to embrace slumber, it isn’t quite reaching out to him yet.
He’s done grading his students’ papers, has finished up with requests of extra investigation over cases, his laundry is neatly folded—there’s not much else to do. Groaning, he rolls himself out of bed. Coat drawn above his shoulders, Shota locks his apartment as he leaves, feet taking him down the road aimlessly. The night is cold, a slight trickle of rain present—enough to damp his coat, but not enough to concern him. Shota keeps walking and crosses street to street, paranoid as he glances for any signs of danger even when the night is dead quiet—save for the constant rolling of wheels on the pavement, the clicking of shoes from blue-collared men after a company dinner, and the crackling of a radio from a nearby vintage 24/7 shop.
The peace is temporary, but it’s this—the quiet, the calmness, the freedom of people to stumble drunkenly into cabs while waving goodbye to their peers without having to worry about getting mugged, or their life getting threatened—that Shota’s worked so hard for. That he and plenty of other Heroes have strived for.
He knows it won’t always be this way.
Danger will still come. People will still suffer at the hands of a Villain. He can’t possibly stop them all, but it’s enough for him to hope there will be sunshine at the end of the rain. And as if the sky has heard his silent prayers, Shota ceases to feel the drops of rain onto his hair.
Looking up, the dark night is replaced by a bright yellow. Said bright yellow object turns out to be an umbrella, an arm promptly holding it out for him. Shota follows the lines of their body, about to say thank you when his breath hitches.
The kind stranger who’d lent him an umbrella, the kind stranger who must have noticed him hunched at the side of the road, brows knitted deep in thought that he just allowed to be kissed by the rain like that— is not so much of a stranger, after all. Although that’s up for debate, because fourteen years has been forever, and you’re one and the same, yet an entirely different being all at the same time.
Eyes widening, you step closer. Your scent—still of violets birthed with lilacs, only this time tinged with the faint whisper of coffee—engulfs him like a warm blanket.
Aizawa Shota feels seventeen years all over again—young, in love, and foolishly hoping to do what’s right. He is seventeen again, cramped with you under that umbrella the day he first came to your house, and you’re there, breathing in the same space. He is seventeen again, fighting the boyish urge to kiss you despite the fear of being sloppy. And you are seventeen again, adjusting the umbrella as an excuse to diminish the space as if it’s offensive, close to Shota enough that his breath hitches when you smile at him.
“ Shota, ” you greet. Your voice has gotten deeper over the years, smoother like velvet, yet your tone still holds that lilt to it—like you’re walking over air and the sun is within reach. Like the brightness is yours. Shota finds it perplexing that your first meeting would be in such a gloomy state. “Is that really you?”
He doesn’t blame you.
Nearly two decades of not seeing each other, it makes sense he might be harder to recognize. He’s grown taller, towering over you even more with solid muscle, yet he is still awkward. Hesitantly, he plucks the umbrella from your fingers cold from the rain. He has to consciously fight back the urge to wrap them in his own hands to warm you up, and he distracts himself by hiding his glee that you’ve let him hold it over you both. And while Shota has never cared much for his appearance, he immediately feels self-conscious at his unkempt stumble, the unruly curls of his long, dark hair.
He should have kept that fucking hair tie on his wrist.
Straightening his back, he offers a minute nod. “Yeah. It’s me, and you’re—” Beautiful. You’re as beautiful as the day he lost you, radiant as when you’d first said hello to him, and ever-so loveable when you melt into a softer smile at his blatant shock. However, he is lamer than his romantic thoughts, and he coughs out, “You’re… doing well, it seems.”
Your chuckle floats through the otherwise quiet night.
“I am doing well, but I’m not so sure I can say the same about you.”
Ah. He’s confident he’s known you long enough to tell you’re teasing him. There’s no malice in your words, yet Shota shyly rubs a calloused palm to his cheeks that have grown warm. He knows he isn’t the most handsome man out there, isn’t the most front-cover-of-a-magazine worthy Hero—or so he thinks, until his thoughts are pulled away by the feathery touch on his knuckles over the umbrella handle.
“If you’re not doing anything else at this godforsaken hour, would you like to have coffee with me?”
Coffee.
A simple, harmless thing everyone shares with another every once in a while. It shouldn’t have made Shota’s heart skip a beat under his sweater. It does, anyway, and he offers a nod when he couldn’t muster the courage to say yes.
Somehow, coffee is always present at the beginning of everything. From when you’d taken him on that ‘first date’, and now to your first meeting in so long.
He can’t help but anticipate what comes after.
Shota lets you lead the way. You weave through alleys and empty roads. For a moment, his mind humors him of a possibility you may be kidnapping him. Although that seems far from your intentions, whatnot with the barely noticeable bounce in your steps as you offer him curious glances every now and then as if to ensure he’s still following. Which he does, and his lips twitch in the need to tell you he’ll be there, he is just there. He isn’t going anywhere soon this time around.
He’s made that mistake once. He’d be stupid to go a separate way again.
“I don’t recall any cafes heading this direction.”
“We’re not going to a cafe,” you correct and do a once-over at his figure. “Not with your sodden hair and dripping coat, that is. But if you insist, who am I to stop you?”
Shota frowns.
“The rain wasn’t that hard.”
“It wasn’t. Although it still makes me wonder what got you soaking under the rain like someone just discontinued your favorite line of snacks,” you mutter under your breath. You mustn’t have intended for him to hear it, but Shota grunts in response, and you wave your hands innocently before pausing.. “I’m kidding. I was planning on taking you back to my place.”
“Take me back—? Wait.” His face hardens into a stoic expression, refusing to show his puffed chest, but he has to make sure he heard that right. “You’re taking me to your place?”
“I am sure that’s what I said, yes.”
“But why ?”
A hint of a smile dances across your lips.
“Must I paint the picture for you, Shota? You’re soaked, and those cold clothes can’t be more comfortable. Come to my place, I’ll lend you some towels to dry off and some spare clothes. Make yourself comfortable. Then we’ll have coffee.”
“You could have started with that,” he grumbles, yet follows you obediently anyway.
“If you’ve got further complaints, you can just tell me. We don’t actually have to head to my place if you’re uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable is a reach. It’s the exact opposite of what he feels, which is incredulous. He’s not a teenager anymore; he shouldn’t be this excited at coming over to a woman's place. Not wanting to scare you off, Shota shrugs. “I suppose it does mean I wouldn’t have to walk you home afterwards.”
“Too lazy for it?”
“That, and other things.”
The other things being situations he’d rather not say out loud. Silence settles after that, the only sounds audible being your footsteps being in sync as he finds himself shoulder to shoulder again. Shota can’t help the way he gazes at you, relishing in how right it feels to have you by his side again—hadn’t even realized how much he missed it, how much he missed you. Fourteen years is no joke. A lot has happened, everything has happened in the in-betweens. There’s a lot of area to cover, a lot of stories he can’t wait to listen to. You’ve lived a life separate from him, and it makes him wonder—
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to drop by just like this? No one would mind?”
There’s an implication at his carefully chosen words that he hopes is subtle, yet sends the message clearly. You immediately understand what he’s hinting at, and raise an amused brow. “I live alone.”
Shota grunts, unsure if he’s satisfied with that answer or not. You haven’t particularly clarified whether you’re with someone exclusively. You could have a partner yet still live by yourself.
A quick glance at your fingers—empty, fortunately —somehow eases his worries.
You arrive at a plain-looking apartment complex in a matter of minutes, the walk feeling like an odd sense of forever and fleetingness. Time is always a matter of mystery when he’s with you. Soon enough, you’re opening the door to your unit, and he’s greeted warmly by the scent of lavender—strong enough that he figured you must have lit a candle before leaving. The lights open, you both kick your shoes off and leave them at the doorway.
The sight of your shoes next to one another makes him pause. He could picture it—your ballet flats and his worn-out boots, together, your beige coat and his darker ones at the coat rack, together —a life that while not always well-lived, would be lived together.
“Make yourself at home,” your voice pulls him out of his trance. Clearing his throat, he shakes the rain out of your umbrella and sets it aside.
Bathed in the warm lights of your apartment, Shota doesn’t feel the need to hide his open curiosity. There’s an entire story in these walls that he’s yet to uncover. Starting with the framed photographs placed at your desk—you with your family, perhaps during a vacation as he notes the snow in the background, one of you in a friend’s wedding as you hold the bouquet happily (you are stunning in that champagne dress, but Shota frowns at the possibility your heart had welcomed other people in the other half of your life), and another photo of you hugging a calico cat from a cafe that looked all too familiar.
It’s the cafe you first took him in, when you had searched up cute first date spots back in high school. You’re older in this picture. Alone. But the fact you had returned to it years after he’s broken both of your hearts stirs nausea in his belly.
All too sudden, guilt weighs on his shoulders again.
There are no more pictures after that, none to show for high school memorabilia, and Shota clears his throats as he takes in the—while mismatched and quite noisy—decorations, they all made the place feel more like a home. It’s a stark contrast to his empty apartment.
Shota wonders his place slowly being filled with color and trinkets at you pouring life on every corner of your shared space, but he erases the thought before it goes down a treacherous path. Shrugging his coat off, he says, “Your place is nice.”
“Thanks! Collected a lot of knick-knacks throughout my travels—I hope you don’t mind the mess too much.”
“I don’t. It makes the place look homey.” Well-lived in.
You emerge from behind a door after that, now changed into matching silk set pajamas. Shota turns away to hide a blush. You look absolutely comfortable and homey, which he figures is normal when you’re in the comfort of your own home. You’re bare faced, bare-footed, and rummaging under the sink as he debates whether he should sit on your couch with his wet jeans.
He decides against it.
“How have you been?”
“Fine,” he grumbles, opting to thumb through a bookshelf. Stacks of fiction dominate the shelf, romance, and he hides a smile as he pictures you giggling to yourself while you read a cheesy romance book before bed. “I’ve seen better days.”
“You’re a Pro Hero now, aren’t you? I told you you’d make it.”
The praise is polite, casual. It’s nothing too over the top—it’s not like you confessed your love for him—but the words are enough to twist his insides. In a good way. In a really good way.
“Thanks. And you? What do you do?”
“Funnily enough, I ended up working somewhat in the Hero industry, too, although it’s probably not what you think. I’m part of a Hero Agency’s PR team. I figured with my Quirk, it wouldn’t be that hard to get people to listen to me when I need to clear up my Hero’s image.”
“Which is…?”
“Endeavor,” you smirk, and his brows shoot up. Endeavor is the last Hero he imagines you to be working with, but then again, life has its funny ways of tying things together. As if reading your mind, you chuckle and disappear into the bathroom, voice echoing around the apartment. “A man like that would require a ton of PR work.”
“I can imagine.”
“Do you—do you have work tomorrow?” your head peeks out from the door. “Never mind, that was a stupid question. You’re a hero. Of course you don’t have day off’s.”
“On the contrary.”
“Then, would you… would you like to meet up again tomorrow? Or any other time when you’re available, really. It’s just been a while since we’ve seen each other, and I—” you frown, but it smooths out just as quickly into an expression he can only describe as vulnerable. He’s seen this look on you before—the downturned eyes, hesitant yet hopeful, as if you’re handing your heart on his palms and silently wishing he’d take care of it.
A beat passes, silence filling in the tense cracks. Your next words are so soft, so airy he almost hadn’t heard you say, “ I really missed you .”
Shota silently thanks you for your choice of dim-lighting. It conceals the shared vulnerability on his hard face.
“I’m afraid tomorrow isn’t any good,” he winces when you don’t hide your disappointment, and Shota is quick to placate it, thumbs pulling at a loose thread from his sweater. “But I can be all yours the entire weekend.”
Your face lights up.
“All mine, huh?”
“Don’t go there.”
You pointedly ignore his warning glare. “Why, are you taken?”
“I am not.”
Pleased by his answer, you usher him— kindly —into your bathroom after that. The shower is all ready for him, some towels and spare clothes folded neatly on the closed toilet lid and a separate toothbrush on top. Shota tries to keep his composure as he lathers himself in your body wash, his hair softer than ever when you insist he has some ‘conditioner’ that’s great for his locks. When he finishes, and he’s coated entirely by your scent, he finds you scrolling through TV channels on your couch.
He makes no noise as he takes the opposite end of the couch. You glance at him briefly, a smile tugging at your lips. It makes him all too aware of himself again, makes his large, imposing frame too small in your place now that he knows he’s being watched.
Arm stretching out before him, Shota looks up to where you’ve crawled to his side. Legs criss-crossed on top of one another, you gesture to the towel in his hands.
“May I?”
Shota swallows. He’s at war with himself again— to indulge or not to indulge ? But he is not always this selfish, and just this once, it couldn’t hurt to allow it. Giving in, he bows down his head in response, and the towel slips from his fingers.
At the first contact of your hand on his hair, he lets out a sigh.
When was the last time someone had taken care of him like this? Had he ever allowed himself to?
With a tenderness that is alien to him, a Hero who has had his hands stained with blood countless of times, you carefully dry his hair. You place great attention to untangling the knots. Fingers treading through his scalp as your nails put slight pressure, you massage his head and slide your fingers—almost hungrily—through his locks.
It makes his heart stutter that he isn’t the only one holding himself back.
“Do you offer your umbrella to any stranger you see?”
“Only to the broody-looking ones who look like they could use a hug.”
Coffee mug in hand, Shota settles in your space, snug. He doesn’t ask how many cups of coffee you’ve had—your leg is bouncing, the other bent underneath it. There’s a placidness combing over you that contrasts the movements of your body. Anticipation, anxiety, restlessness—he’s halfway done with his drink when he scans his wristwatch. A few more hours and he’d have to go back to work.
He didn’t plan to stay out this long, but bumping into you is equally out of the equation.
“Hey,” he calls your attention, and you peer at him owlishly through your mug. The caffeine pumping into your blood is apparent. “Please don’t hesitate to tell me if I’m overextending my stay. I’m sure you have to be early for work later.”
“I do, but… it’s one of those nights. ‘Can’t really sleep. So, I made the smart decision for some cheap coffee. It’s just a stroke of luck I ran into you on the way back—which makes me want to ask, is everything okay? Well, it probably couldn’t have been. No happy man chooses to stand outside in the rain at two in the morning —”
“You can say it’s one of those nights as well. Sleep is quite difficult to come by.”
You tip your head to the side, a gesture that shouldn’t have been so adorable. Fuck. “Huh. I always figured Heroes would pass out exhausted after a long day at work.”
“That happens. Occasionally.”
“Does it ever get easier?”
You’re pertaining to the demands that come with being a Hero. Truthfully, he doesn’t know the answer to that. Maybe he’ll never know. But you’re regarding him with such trust over his career as a Hero, a savior, and Shota takes one last sip as if to brace himself. He feels the need to supply you with an agreeable answer.
The time spent without each other, with this entire life lived apart, the look on your face hopes that he’s already figured it out.
However, honesty is all he could give.
“I can’t guarantee it gets easier, but… there are things that make it all worth it. When I wake up and see children make their way to school peacefully, or when I hear teenagers laughing with one another without a care in the world. When I see parents playing with their children in the park—” he makes out your form in the first rays of sun reaching out to you with its finger, a barely-there warm, golden glow clouding you like a halo. Cheek in your palm, your other finger tracing patterns at his knee. He follows the movement, entranced by your entire being. “—When now I know you’ve lived a good life, it all makes it worth it. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
For a few heartbeats, he feels immortal.
Time has frozen. The coffee sloshes in your mug, forgotten in the coffee table before you. He’s lost track of time, and has forgotten who moved in first. You’re nearly draped all over his side, sides flushed with each other’s warmth and scent, yet Shota doesn’t pull away.
He doesn’t do this often—he isn’t good with affection, is averse with physical touch—but you’re always an exception.
From when he was seventeen, young and foolishly in love, to being thirty one, older and healing from a newly-opened wound, still in love and hopefully wishing to do what’s right—you remain an exception to his mundane routine.
“Shota. I know… I know now may not be the best time to bring this up, but… I hope you’ve forgiven yourself after all these years. None of it was your fault.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“So, have you? Forgiven yourself?”
After countless nights spent being wasted, drowning in his own anguish because he doesn’t know any better, he believes he has. He’s had to, at some point.
“I have, though there are still days I get nightmares about it. And I… there’s still some things I find harder to forgive myself about,” he admits, refusing to meet your gaze. He’s afraid if he does, he might lose the courage to do the right thing again. “Like how I pushed you away, and Hizashi. When we were kids.”
He waits for it. A shaky exhale, a disappointed smile. He doesn’t know which is worse—you never forgiving him, or you not seeing the need to because it happened so long ago, and it’s irrelevant. Time must have healed your own wounds. Your happiness is pouring in every corner of your home, a clear tell-tale you had been living life to the fullest even without him—something he is both proud, and envious of.
He waits, and waits, and waits, waits for you to watch him walk out the door as you tell him it’s another morning already, and it’s time for him to go.
It never comes.
Fingers coming up to tilt his chin, you are seventeen again. Fresh-faced, untouched by the hardships that come with growing older. In love, and most of all, forgiving. He realizes that you’re meeting him half-way. Taking his hand into yours, and he lets it. He lets himself reach out to you until your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, nosing at the crook of his neck. A shudder goes down his spine at the feel of your lashes tickling his skin, but you are warm, and you are both thirty-one.
Touched by time, hardened by the everyday pains. You still have stories to tell him, and there’s still a lifetime ahead of you he desperately hopes he can be a part of.
Fisting his sweater, almost as if refusing to ever let him go, you breathe out onto his neck, “You can always make it up to me.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know,” he feels you smile through his skin, “We’ll figure it out as we go.”