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Unlike other people, the absence of a soulmate has never bothered Shouta. He’s glad for it, in a way. The media loves to portray soulmates as something perfect and beautiful. Shouta knows better. Where’s the romanticism in learning the things that someone wants to hide, the flaws they have, the kind of lies they like to tell, before you even know their name or face?
“Besides, it’s more convenient to not have one,” Shouta says, shrugging, much to Yamada’s chagrin. “Rationally speaking, a soulmate would only get in the way for our kind of work.” Especially since he’s an underground hero. A civilian soulmate could be used as a weakness against him. Or worse, what if his soulmate turned out to be a villain? While rare, there have been tragic cases like that.
So who cares if he truly doesn’t have a soulmate? Or if his soulmate just doesn’t want to be found? Or if his soulmate is already dead?
“Shouta,” Yamada intones in his best I-just-want-to-see-my-friend-happy voice.
Shouta sighs. Despite what everyone else seems to think, he hasn’t felt shortchanged in any way. He’s perfectly whole by himself, and it’s been that way for the last twenty years that he’s lived for.
What isn’t rational is how Yamada seems to think that if he’s persistent enough, if he manages to drag Shouta out for a beer and starts not-so-subtly presenting the benefits of a soulmate and what he might missing out on, Shouta will magically change his prevailing view on soulmates or admit that he’s lonely and actually wants to try finding his supposed other half after all.
Yamada continues to ramble on too loudly about how he needs some excitement to spice up his life, and Shouta, practiced in ignoring people he isn’t interested in listening to—Voice Hero or not—simply lets the lecture roll over him like water off a duck’s back. He’s considering whether to put another round of drinks on Yamada’s tab when he feels his body tense. A strange, unsettling feeling washes over him. It takes another moment to pinpoint what it is:
Fear and dread. Shouta hasn’t felt like this for a long time.
Yamada suddenly goes silent. He grabs Shouta’s arm in wordless surprise.
There, written in a childish scrawl, letters appear slowly, as if hesitant or doubtful: My quirk is not evil.
The first words from one’s soulmate are always unforgettable—and it seems even Shouta, skeptical as he is about them, is no exception to this.
As Shouta stares at the words encircling his wrist—this seemingly desperate, unconvinced plea of innocence being the first indication that there exists someone out there who belongs with him—Yamada’s expression breaks into something resembling pity.
So it was the fourth option, after all. Shouta’s soulmate is a child.
Really, it seems nothing good could come out of this.
Hitoshi finds out who his soulmate is the same way everyone else does: through a lie.
He’s sitting by the sidelines in PE class one day when the words, No, I am not Eraser Head, briefly appear on his knee, then fade.
Surprise lights up in his chest. It’s Eraser Head. It’s that Eraser Head.
Hitoshi’s soulmate is the Erasure Hero. Hitoshi’s soulmate is someone he knows—well, mostly by name and a few blurry videos. He’s an underground hero who hates interviews and reporters. A hero whose quirk isn’t very flashy, but can save people all the same.
The exhilaration at finding out that his soulmate is a hero he admires slowly melts away. A pro hero who works solo and hates the media would certainly not be pleased to find that his destined person is an ordinary middle school boy with a quirk perfect for a villain.
But even so, a part of Hitoshi can’t help thinking. A small, self-deprecating smile touches his lips. Maybe it’s rather fitting.
Eraser Head’s quirk lets him erase other quirks just by looking. Hitoshi takes some comfort in knowing that, because that means that he can never accidentally brainwash his soulmate into doing something that he doesn’t want to.
Hitoshi looks up from his spot in the corner, at the boys playing on the basketball court a safe distance away, laughing and joking as they try to steal the ball from each other. There’s a line between them that Hitoshi can’t cross. An invisible wall. After all, he could use his quirk on them, brainwash them into doing whatever, and no one would ever know.
Everyone knows that, and that’s why even the teachers…
Hitoshi hugs his knees to himself. There’s a certain unadulterated joy that everyone experiences during their first encounter with the person meant for them. Hitoshi has no one to celebrate with, but it doesn’t matter. More than joy, the feeling that unfurls in his chest is relief.
At least his soulmate is different from everyone else. His soulmate, whom Hitoshi’s quirk is of no threat to, will be different. And when they meet, maybe he’ll finally be able to escape the suspicious gazes and fake smiles.
What kind of eyes will Eraser Head have? Hitoshi wonders. What kind of expression will he make, when he finds out that someone like Hitoshi is his soulmate?
When Midoriya had suddenly come to a halt—barely after Mic had even finished saying Ready, start!—Shouta had a sense of premonition. That feeling had only solidified when he glanced at Shinsou Hitoshi’s chart and learned that the boy’s quirk was brainwashing.
Children can be cruel. Shouta has had firsthand experience of that too, being someone whose quirk was categorized as ‘lame’ rather than ‘cool’.
Logically, rationally, Shouta also knows that it could be just about any other quirk under the sun—though he has to admit that brainwashing would be a pretty good candidate for what most uncreative people would deem an ‘evil’ quirk. Still, it could be anyone.
It didn’t necessarily have to be this lavender-haired lanky boy with bags under his eyes that could rival Shouta’s, even if, calculating backwards, he’s about the right age that Shouta is expecting his soulmate to be.
It could still be any approximately teenaged kid in the world. Shouta finds his thoughts inexplicably drawn to Shinsou Hitoshi anyway.
There had been plenty of anger in Shinsou’s eyes—not entirely misdirected, Shouta thinks. Considering the type of environment that he would have had to grow up in, it wouldn’t be strange if Shinsou had ended up being recruited by some shady gang. But no, the boy wants to be a hero.
He remembers that first lie from all those years back: My quirk is not evil.
Would that still be a lie now? Shouta wonders. The corner of his lip quirks up.
The fact that Shinsou had the foresight to apply to both the Hero Course and General Studies also paints a rather interesting picture. He should be well aware of who Shouta is as well; after all, Shouta never had any qualms with lying to the media about his identity. Why then, had Shinsou chosen not to reach out despite being this close?
It doesn’t matter, Shouta decides, as he does a perfunctory sweep over Shinsou’s physical stats again.
He had already been convinced when he saw Shinsou pause as he left the arena, when Shinsou looked back and declared that he was going to become a better hero than Midoriya.
Objectively speaking, Shinsou Hitoshi has both the drive and the potential to be one.
(And if they really are soulmates, then their lives would be entwined one way or another. It would be a waste of time to dwell on it any further.)
After his fight with Midoriya, Hitoshi starts to run, both literally and figuratively.
His biggest takeaway from his fight with Midoriya was his lack of physical fitness, and now he’s started following a training menu that he put together after doing research at the library. But is it good enough? What else is he missing? The hero course students are already preparing for their internships. If he keeps dawdling around, he’ll only be left even further behind.
Lost in his thoughts, Hitoshi almost runs into someone around the corner, only to be caught firmly by the shoulders before they collide.
He looks up, slightly disoriented and out of breath, and promptly freezes when he realizes just who he’s come face to face with. The apology all but dies at the tip of his tongue.
The reality is this: Eraser Head’s soulmate is barely sixteen, a boy who knew he was going to fail the entrance exams for UA’s hero course but couldn’t bear to give up on his dreams. Eraser Head’s soulmate is not someone who can stand on even ground with him. Not yet.
The reality is also this: Hitoshi’s soulmate is standing right in front him, his large warm hands a reassuring weight on Hitoshi’s shoulders. Up close and unmummified, Hitoshi’s soulmate is a tired-looking unshaven man with messy inky hair falling into his eyes and spilling over his shoulders. He looks like he’s never gotten a good night’s sleep.
The barest flicker of amusement passes through Eraser’s dark eyes as he lets go of Hitoshi’s shoulders and steps back. Hitoshi belatedly remembers to close his jaw.
It occurs to Hitoshi then, with a sharp jolt, that he’s sweaty and dishevelled, and that he is also probably not giving a good first impression of himself by staring at the teacher he bumped into as if he’d just seen a ghost. “U-Um,” he stammers, “I’m— I mean, are you alright? I— I wasn’t looking, sorry…”
“I’m Aizawa Shouta,” Hitoshi’s soulmate says. He doesn’t seem to mind that Hitoshi is still staring at him stupidly. “I’m sure you already know, I teach the hero course.”
Of course Hitoshi knows. It was one of the reasons why he vehemently refused to apply to other schools that also offered the hero course. It had to be UA, even if it wasn’t their hero course.
“U-Um,” Hitoshi forces his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth. “I— I’m—”
“Shinsou Hitoshi, right?” Aizawa says mildly. “I was looking for you.”
Then, with the same unchanging expression, Aizawa promptly makes him a life-changing offer.
For most part, Shinsou is a good student. He’s determined, focused on his training, and listens to instructions, at least more than Shouta’s actual class that keeps getting themselves into trouble. He also makes it clear that he appreciates Shouta’s time and everything he does for him—though that in itself is quickly becoming different kind of problem.
Shinsou, holding out the sports drink to him, looks genuinely confused when Shouta doesn’t move to take it. He glances back to the bottle in his hand, eyebrows furrowing at the label. “Did I get the type wrong? You like non-carbonated, right?”
Shouta does indeed like non-carbonated. But Shinsou shouldn’t be able to state that so matter-of-factly, like he’s intimately familiar with Shouta’s preferences. Shinsou shouldn’t be acting like getting Shouta a drink as well while he’s buying his own at the vending machine is something he does all the time.
Does he?
“That’s not the issue.” Shouta runs a hand through his hair. “Students shouldn’t be buying things for their teachers.”
Shinsou takes a swig of his own drink—lemon flavored and carbonated—and gives him a quizzical look. “Okay,” he eventually says, sticking out his hand. His lip twitches. “That’ll be 120 yen then, sensei.”
“Shinsou.”
“I mean, it’s just a drink,” Shinsou says with a shrug. “Think of it as a thank you. After all, you’re not being paid to teach me either, are you? You’re basically working overtime for nothing.” He frowns at his sports drink. “And you buy me food all the time, like those fancy calorie bars and the protein…”
“If I left you alone, you’d just live off energy jelly, wouldn’t you?” Shouta says, ignoring his own hypocrisy and the unimpressed look Shinsou shoots at him. “Besides, it’s my job to look after you.”
Something flickers through Shinsou’s expression. He straightens. “As a teacher?” he asks quietly, after a beat.
“… Of course,” Shouta says unflinchingly. “I’m your mentor, after all.”
“Alright,” Shinsou acquiesces. “I still think it’s no big deal. I was conveniently at the vending machine and thought you might also be thirsty after training. Plus no matter how you look at it, I’m the one who benefits a lot more from this arrangement.” His lavender eyes bore into Shouta. “But I’ll stop getting you stuff in the future, if it bothers you that much.”
That’s exactly what the issue is.
The drink itself is inconsequential. It’s the other little things that add up: the way Shinsou’s eyes seem to be saying that Shouta’s the one being illogical here but hey, whatever floats your boat. The way he seems subtly attuned with Shouta’s thoughts. The way the seemingly innocuous remarks grow in frequency and make Shouta feel seen. Cared for.
Because there are times when it feels as though Shinsou understands him better than he should—better than people who have been more involved in Shouta’s life for longer. How is it possible that he knows Shouta better than the people who have known him for almost as long as Shinsou’s lived for?
Shinsou holds out the other sports drink to him again. “Here. Since I bought it already.” The corner of his lip quirks up as he throws Shouta’s advice back at him. “It’s important to stay hydrated, y’know?”
There’s a sparkle in his eye, one that only ever shows itself in moments like these. Only in the afterhours, in liminal spaces where there’s an illusion of equality between them. When words are held back, but the special way Shinsou looks at him says it all.
Shouta supposes he should go easy on the kid. Let him have his secrets, in plain sight as they are. He has an unfair advantage as an adult, after all.
“Teachers shouldn’t be accepting things from students,” Shouta repeats, as his fingers close around the bottle, condensation-slicked and startlingly cold in his palm. “It’s against protocol.”
Shinsou snorts. He lifts the coil of binding cloth awkwardly wrapped around his shoulders. “Isn’t it more against protocol to give your weapon to a General Studies student and teach them how to wield it?”
There are a few reasons why Hitoshi never quite manages to tell Aizawa that they’re soulmates, despite the numerous opportunities to do so.
At first, he put it off because he was simply afraid of how Aizawa might respond. Then as the weeks and months passed, and Hitoshi got to know him better, he realized that Aizawa had probably caught on already. It’d be impossible not to, after all, given all the times Hitoshi had impersonated someone else during mock battles. But Aizawa hadn’t said anything, and now it seems extraneous to try having that conversation at all.
He isn’t the sort who would appreciate a dramatic confession of something they both already knew about, anyway.
Besides, considering that Hitoshi’s status as a student might needlessly complicate matters—even if platonic soulmates do exist—it seems more practical to follow Aizawa’s lead and keep things between them unchanged. At least for the time being.
Things are good now. Hitoshi has his hands full with chasing his own dreams and he’d much rather work towards being a full-fledged hero than making one look his way.
But once in a while, he gets impatient. This person is mine, he wants to claim. Sometimes, he wishes that he meant as much to Aizawa as Aizawa means to him.
It’s the combination of a lot of things: The gruff kindness about Aizawa. The way he saw potential in Hitoshi. The way that sleep-deprived man takes time out of his already packed schedule to teach him, just for his sake. The almost-special treatment.
The way Aizawa is somehow always there when he’s at his lowest. The way he picks Hitoshi up when he stumbles and falls. Again, figuratively and well, literally.
“Am I heavy?” Hitoshi asks inanely.
Aizawa makes a soft snort, but otherwise doesn’t deign to respond.
It’s late in the evening and the empty classrooms are stained sunset-pink. While there aren’t many people left in the school building, they do draw a few stares that Aizawa steadily ignores as he marches down the hallway. Hitoshi has his shoes dangling in one hand, the other tentatively wrapped around Aizawa’s shoulders. There’s a hot burn in his left ankle that’s quickly swelling into the size of a small plum.
The unexpected piggyback ride is almost enough to make Hitoshi feel better.
Recovery Girl is out, so Aizawa props Hitoshi’s ankle on his knee, stretching out his leg. With careful hands, Aizawa applies a compress, gaze snapping to Hitoshi’s when he lets out a small hiss at the sting.
Hitoshi ducks his head, embarrassment prickling at him. He finds himself mentally replaying the events that led up to this—the way he tripped over nothing and went valiantly flailing. He’d landed awkwardly, body slow to react even though Aizawa had taught him how to fall properly in one of their earliest lessons.
And now he’s stuck sitting on the infirmary bed, and Aizawa is silently unrolling a bandage from the first-aid kit, and Hitoshi wonders what will be the last straw. How many times will Aizawa let him mess up before he decides that enough is enough?
“You know,” Aizawa says at last, as he sets Hitoshi’s neatly bandaged foot back on the floor. “I’m not one to talk, but you shouldn’t pull too many all-nighters.”
“What?” Hitoshi’s head snaps up. It’s ingrained instinct to deny it. “I haven’t—” Then he catches himself, remembering how futile it is. Not with this person.
“I hear you’ve been sleeping in class,” Aizawa adds, when Hitoshi falls silent.
His tone isn’t particularly reprimanding; indifferent at best and disapproving at worst. But Hitoshi feels his stomach flop to the floor, and desperation wells up within him.
“I am taking this seriously,” Hitoshi says quickly, voice pitching up. “I really—”
“I know,” Aizawa says, as calm as Hitoshi is panicky. “On top of catching up with whatever you’re behind in, you also need to take all the General Studies’ classes until you can transfer to the Hero Course. It would be stranger if you weren’t having trouble. Did you think I would drop you because of this?” He frowns. “I’m not that unreasonable.”
Hitoshi stares at him, wide-eyed.
“All things considered, you’re doing well.” Aizawa thumbs the corner of his eye. “Hey, don’t you cry on me.”
Hitoshi hastily swipes at his eyes. He tries to tamp down the wave of emotion threatening to burst out, but Aizawa just keeps talking and it doesn’t help one bit.
“Sleep at night instead of in class,” Aizawa is saying. “Find me in the staff room when there’s something you don’t understand instead of going in circles by yourself. That’s what I’m here for.”
He’s being gentle. It’s strange, coming from Aizawa. It feels an awful lot like preferential treatment.
When Hitoshi says as much, with a watery chuckle, the corner of Aizawa’s lip ticks up.
“Didn’t anyone teach you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?” is all he says.
“You keep making passes at him,” Yamada observes one day.
It’s an offhand remark, casually tossed out the way someone might comment on the weather—except that Yamada would be a lot louder about that, and he says this quietly, with a thoughtful air and just the slightest hint of teasing.
“I do not,” Shouta says.
Two floors down and three classrooms away, Shinsou, who is currently in the middle of history class, may or may not find those exact words, I do not, scrawled somewhere on his skin.
Shouta isn’t sure. If he’s really ‘making a pass’ at Shinsou, as Yamada put it, then at the very least, it isn’t intentional.
Soulmates are still largely an unexplained phenomenon. Shouta, who prides himself on being rational, can’t picture himself as someone who would bow to the whims and fancies of the universe. He’s not the sort to believe in things like fate or destiny.
But even so, he can’t deny that there’s something to be said for the way Shinsou turns bright red whenever Shouta hits the nail on the head. The way he recklessly throws himself into training, and Shouta can’t leave him alone because the kid really will overdo it if left to his own devices. The way he’s usually so reticent, but it’s easy to get a rise out of him if you know the right buttons to push.
The way he averts his gaze when he’s overthinking what he wants to say. His habit of rubbing his neck when he’s about to say something honest. The same habit that also comes out when he’s valiantly trying to steer the conversation away without telling an outright lie. The way he can be surprisingly straightforward at times.
“It’s Shinsou, isn’t it?” Yamada says knowingly. “Your soulmate.”
The fact that Shouta doesn’t deign to answer is an answer in itself.
His gaze lands on a packet of salty licorice sitting innocently at the corner of his desk. It was an anonymous gift that had appeared after an exhausting week of taking over Kayama’s classes when her help had been requested by a hero agency.
Shouta hadn’t said anything about that, and Shinsou hadn’t either.
“Well, I get it,” Yamada continues airily, “but don’t make it too obvious that he’s your favorite.” His expression sobers. “He’s still a student at our school.”
It’s as close to an accusation it can be without actually being one, and Shouta finally sets aside the test papers he’d been grading. He frowns. “It’s not—”
Yamada raises a hand to cut him off. ”I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” he says. He gives Shouta a long look, and his eyes soften. “You should take a look in the mirror.”
There’s going to be a war. People have died. More people are going to die. Shinsou, who does not have his provisional hero licence yet, will not be one of them. Perhaps Shouta will.
So Shouta isn’t very surprised when he catches Shinsou rappelling down the roof of the 1-A dorms; when there’s a skittering sound at his window and he parts his curtains to find his protégé dangling above his balcony, slightly tangled up in the capture weapon and trying to regain his balance.
He’d been expecting Shinsou, actually. Though he’d have much preferred if Shinsou had knocked on his door like a normal person.
Perhaps it’s because Shinsou had considered that he might be turned away at the door.
“Hi, sensei,” Shinsou greets. There is a determined set to his mouth, and he sticks his hand through the gap as soon as Shouta unlocks his window, as if to prevent Shouta from having second thoughts. “Can I come in?”
“You’ve already climbed halfway in,” Shouta says, exasperated. Shinsou wasn’t planning to leave any room for negotiation to begin with.
And maybe Shouta is fine with that. Just this once.
He’s watched over Shinsou for the better part of the last year. He knows all the times Shinsou held back, all the times Shinsou had chosen to put away his emotions in favor of focusing on what he needed to do in the present. Now Shinsou is here, and there is resolve in his eyes. It’s something dark and stormy, a swirling maelstrom of frustration and helplessness and worry. A burden too heavy for a boy of sixteen.
Shouta is prepared to let him take.
It’s a special right that Shouta is willing to give to Shinsou and Shinsou alone.
Because Shouta’s soulmate deserves to stand next to him as an equal, too. To make demands of Shouta when he’s never asked for anything else before. Because the decisions Shouta makes will inevitably affect him as well, one way or another.
Maybe it’s not right to say that he would let Shinsou take anything he wants from him. Because Shouta also knows—Shinsou, his soulmate, will not ask for something that he cannot give. It is an implicit understanding. Unfounded confidence. As natural as breathing.
They will always meet each other halfway.
Shouta doesn’t flinch when Shinsou touches his face with shaky hands, a painfully naked emotion reflected in his eyes.
“I love you,” Shinsou says.
Maybe Shouta will find this written somewhere on his skin later.
It’s still too early, after all. Still a budding, immature thing. The meaning is not truly I love you, but I will regret it forever if I never got the chance to tell you.
What if there was never another opportunity? What if this was the very last time?
Shirakumo’s face flashes through his mind. Shouta, spurred on by the fragility of life and the uncertainties of the future, finds himself crossing another line, caving to impulse and reaching for the boy, pulling him close with a sigh.
He’s fond of Shinsou. Likes him as a person, even. It’s so easy to breathe around him. Maybe it’s not hard to admit that he loves Shinsou—but is he in love with him? That’s a different question.
It’s a question that Shouta doesn’t have an answer to, not even when Shinsou’s arms come up to wrap around his back and squeeze tightly, when he buries his face against Shouta’s shoulder.
But there’s a heartbeat he can feel, solid and resonant. It’s fast and wild, a racing thing that gradually lulls into something slow, steady, as they continue to hold onto each other.
Shouta wonders whose heart he’s listening to.
Graduation turns out quite differently from what Hitoshi had expected, when he first enrolled in UA.
For one, he’s surrounded by friends who are unafraid of talking to him; people from Class A and B and some of his old classmates from General Studies who had continued to cheer him on. They’re even taking pictures together to commemorate the occasion, showing off their diplomas.
There are some teary faces and dramatic promises to keep in touch—and it’s kind of funny, really, because most of them will still be working closely together. Just as colleagues instead of classmates now.
But Hitoshi supposes that he does understand the sentiment. There’s something lonely about leaving the school, he thinks, as he lets Kaminari pull him into another group photo.
It’s been an unforgettable three years.
The picture comes out nicely. Everyone is smiling brightly and flashing peace signs, and it’s so unlike what most of the experience had been—fighting villains and getting bloody and bruised and battered and constantly pushing themselves to be faster, stronger, better—that Hitoshi wants to laugh.
Especially when he finds Aizawa wearing a suit.
He’d only seen it once before, when Aizawa was apologizing on live TV for putting the 1-A students in danger.
Now Aizawa’s gaze is warm and amused as he watches over their antics.
“You’ve come a long way,” Aizawa tells him later, when Hitoshi manages to catch him alone.
There’s something oddly wistful about the way he says that, and he looks at Hitoshi with what Hitoshi thinks is both pride and nostalgia.
“Getting sentimental already?” Hitoshi jokes, an irrepressible smile tugging at his lip.
It’s so easy to fall in step with Aizawa and take a literal trip down memory lane, remember how all of this began: Aizawa’s offer to take him under his wing. The first time Hitoshi threw up during his spartan training. That one time Aizawa loaned him his sleeping bag when Hitoshi really was in danger of passing out on his feet. The moment his efforts were rewarded, when Aizawa told him that his transfer to the hero course was officially approved.
Now he’s Night Hide.
And Hitoshi dares to imagine it: A flood of reporters coming up to interview an underground hero who refuses pictures. No, I am not Night Hide, he imagines himself saying, much like Aizawa did all those years back. He imagines those words appearing somewhere on Aizawa’s body. He imagines coming home to Aizawa and being allowed to find that white lie printed on his skin. Being able to laugh about it together, saying, hey, you know how I found out you were my soulmate?
It’s all very nice. It makes Hitoshi feel giddy, silly, hopeful. A pang of longing. He wants that so badly.
Such emotions bubble up and threaten to overflow, and Hitoshi finds himself awkwardly reaching for Aizawa’s hands, squeezing them. Aizawa blinks at him in surprise but doesn’t jerk away from the contact. There’s something relaxed about him today. Pliant. Expectant.
We’re soulmates, Hitoshi imagines saying. Or maybe, I love you would be better?
As of today, he stops being Aizawa’s student. That’s one less reason to not simply speak it into existence. It’s a fine time as any to do it. Hitoshi has the feeling that it would go well, now.
What tumbles out of his mouth instead is, Thank you.
“Thank you,” Hitoshi says clumsily. He thinks he wants to elaborate more, but it’s awfully hard to summarize everything he feels into a few short words, and he’s getting kind of choked up.
Aizawa’s gaze softens. A rare smile blossoms on his face as he reaches out to tousle Hitoshi’s hair.
“It was all you, kid,” Aizawa says, even though that’s not true at all.
Hitoshi laughs wetly and tells him, “I’m not a kid anymore.”
As fellow heroes, they work well together. This is something to be expected, of course, with Shouta having been his mentor and all. Their quirks are also compatible with intelligence gathering work, so Shouta often finds himself being dispatched on late-night missions together with his former protégé.
It is a constant source of amusement for Shinsou, who likens this to their old days of training and tells Shouta, with a twinkle in his eye: It’s like the universe won’t let me graduate from you.
But that’s not true, Shouta is quick to point out, not bothering to hide the upward quirk of his lip. Because he’d never invite a student to his apartment—not even if it’d make assignment briefings and writing mission reports more convenient, or so that he can hypocritically see that Shinsou doesn’t follow his terrible example of subsisting off caffeine and energy jelly.
And so Shinsou, slightly surprised at the implicit invitation and a little more delighted, comes over for dinner for the first time.
The second time, Shinsou carries him home when one of the screws in Shouta’s prosthetic comes loose after a rough fight. There’s a third time, when Shinsou passes out his couch and Shouta fetches a blanket instead of waking him. Then a fourth, a fifth.
Shinsou starts to show up at his door when he has bad days. Sometimes he just happens to be in the area. Sometimes he drops by even though he wasn’t anywhere nearby.
They are better together than separate.
It’s a hassle to cook for one, but it’s not too much trouble to prepare something simple for two. Alone, a quick shower suffices for Shouta, but Shinsou likes taking a hot soak after a long day—and if they’re drawing a bath anyway, Shouta might as well get in too. They tell each other off for being insomniac and try to get some sleep while it’s still dark out. Sometimes they end up talking the night away.
Tonight, Shinsou is settled on his sleeping bag, laid out next to the couch. He’s fresh out of the bath, knees tucked to his chest, nursing a cup of chamomile tea. The ends of his hair are damp and curling around his shoulders.
A feature on soulmates happens to playing on the TV. Shouta, massaging the joint of his knee, finds himself watching Shinsou instead of the program. Shinsou isn’t paying it much attention either. Unlike before, he doesn’t tense up and go bright red when the soulmates on the TV screen share a passionate kiss in the sea with the sunset staining them pink.
Rather, Shinsou’s started to doze off sitting upright.
There’s a slow curl of affection in Shouta’s gut—a thing that’s gradually becoming familiar—as he takes the mug from Shinsou before it can spill, and lowers him into a more comfortable sleeping position. Shinsou’s eyelids flutter but he doesn’t wake. Shouta tucks another blanket around him before turning the lights down low.
Contentment, he thinks, might be the name of this feeling. There’s a sense of security.
They still haven’t acknowledged each other as soulmates, but only because there’s no burning need to affirm that they are.
It’s different from the movies. There’s no urgency here. No need to rush. No need to be impatient. As time goes by, it becomes evident that what belongs with you will always be yours.
Shouta allows a wry smile.
Yamada is definitely going to say, I told you so.
At some point, Hitoshi starts spending more time in Shouta’s apartment than his own.
His things have gradually filled the empty space. It starts with a sleeping bag and a pair of guest slippers. A toothbrush left beside Shouta’s. A T-shirt that Hitoshi forgets to take with him. Matching cat-print mugs from a lottery event. Then Hitoshi brings over proper dishware and cutlery. Shouta continues to buy conditioner despite having cut his hair short because Hitoshi’s begun to grow his out.
There, again. Perfectly balanced.
The front door clicks and swings open, Hitoshi behind it. “I’m home,” he says, smiling when he spots Shouta on the sofa. “Ah, you’re early today, Shouta-san.”
“Welcome home,” Shouta says.
Hitoshi’s stopped saying, Pardon the intrusion when he comes in.
It’s not in Shouta’s nature to pry into other people’s matters. Besides, he doesn’t have to, when it comes to Shinsou. Like it or not, little notes that hint at what Shinsou’s up to ends up being written on his skin in real time. And some things just don’t need to be spoken aloud.
Maybe some things do.
“I bought takeout from that place we talked about trying,” Hitoshi says, sounding pleased with himself.
Shouta must have softened up, for takeout of all things to be the last straw. All of a sudden, waiting any longer than this is unbearable. He rises from where he is, steps forward and crowds Hitoshi against the front door.
“Say it,” Shouta demands.
Hitoshi quirks a brow in confusion, but otherwise does not mind the proximity.
“Say that you love me.”
Hitoshi’s eyes grow wide. Feeling foolishly juvenile, Shouta lets his hands fall to the side. He’s about to step away when Hitoshi’s expression gentles. With a warm and sweet smile, he reaches out to cup Shouta’s cheeks in his hands. Hitoshi’s adoring gaze turns just a bit mischievous as his lips part, and he tells a lie, for the first time, outright, to Shouta’s face:
“I haven’t been in love with Aizawa Shouta since I was sixteen.”
Then he turns Shouta’s hand over, and there, written on the inside of his wrist, those very same words appear—and Hitoshi has the cheeky expression of a cat that got the cream, and Shouta’s chest swells with so much affection it aches.
“I love you, too,” Shouta murmurs, as he knocks his forehead against Hitoshi’s.
It is not a lie.