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Hizashi coughs wetly into his glove, hearing the thwack of liquid running down the leather. He blinks slowly and flicks the blood flecked mucus away, it spatters up the dissected remains of the directional speaker.
The sharp tang of copper at the back of his throat and resident itchiness is nothing to the rampant vertigo plaguing him. He’s overused his quirk and without the crutch of the directional speaker he’s really feeling it.
Hizashi sways, leaning heavily against a drainpipe as the world rolls and swirls around him. The sensation is accompanied by the persistent ringing in his ears, it lingers long after one broken hearing aid has been tossed.
He places an unsteady foot ahead, gritting his teeth as he collides against the shifting pavement. With a lurch he loses his dinner. He’s thankful that he can’t hear the full wet slap against the ringing in his head.
Hizashi forces himself back against the drain pipe and squeezes his eyes shut. Five more minutes, he tells himself before doubling over again.
***
Throughout the gruelling journey home, courtesy of some babbling side-kick, Hizashi wants nothing more than to be sick.
Instead the car draws to a stop at long last and Hizashi slips into his persona once again. ‘Thanks, kiddo. Come to the station on Friday, I’ll treat ya to a tour. My thanks.’
The young adult beams back, hands tightening on the steering wheel.
‘I’ll be seeing you on the flip-side!’
He forces the last burst of energy into his smile and sends the side-kick on their way; both thankful he can hide away until the morning, and that he didn’t unceremoniously leave a mound of half digested sushi on the dashboard.
He slinks through the gates of the apartment building and lets himself into the communal hallway, silently cursing the fact that they didn’t live on the first floor.
The lift is broken, of course and he forces his heavy legs up the flights of stairs. He hums to himself, forcing the ringing in his ears to take a backseat.
He’s regretting not selling the damn flat and living in the dorms full time, it would have saved him all this leg work.
He could almost cry at the sight of his front door, the familiar creak as he unlocks the door and lets himself in. The harsh smell of liquorice greets him, stopping him momentarily.
He’d taken hits to the chest and throat so he knows it’s not a phantom smell borne of head injury, and poison would be better administered at his place of work or his studio so that’s also a no; for once, in a very long time, he wants to be able to stop processing his surroundings and to slowly ease his way back into the hallway and hide from the third consequence of the smell.
The calling card sits atop the scuffed drawer of the hallway. Beside the bowel of keys and knick-knacks he spies the open bag of black, disgustingly salty liquorice.
‘Hizashi.’ Shouta calls from inside the flat.
There’s a slim chance he might actually meet death if he were to hightail it out of there now.
‘The brats are asleep, so Nemuri is covering for a few hours,’ Shouta continues, answering Hizashi’s unanswered question. ‘Told me to get back before the early risers. The wink she gave me was almost-‘
Hizashi stares at his unusually talkative husband, the stark deviation throwing him momentarily. Shouta quirks a brow and stares back, hard. He looks clean and comfortable; Hizashi deduces from the pulled back ponytail and liquorice assaulting his nostrils that he’s clearly been in their flat for a few hours - short enough to begin to unwind but not long enough to feel antsy and join him on patrol.
‘You smell like vomit,’ Shouta deadpans.
Hizashi closes the front door, inwardly shaking his fist dramatically at the sky.
Outwardly he fiddles with the remaining hearing aid and plasters a smile onto his face. Swallowing just how uncomfortable he feels, he slings an arm around his husband and squishes their cheeks together.
‘Mm, someone doesn’t. You tried my bath bomb, didn’t ya? It’s a good smell on you. A definite ten out of ten.’
‘You legitimately smell like vomit, Hizashi.’
‘Mince your words, Sho. I dare ya,’ Hizashi sings, dancing around Shouta. He kicks his boots off with a twirl, breezing his way into the lounge and collapses onto the sofa. He sinks into the warmth Shouta has left behind, positively purring.
‘If I knew I’d be coming home to a handsome man, I would have brushed my teeth.’
He winks as Shouta stalks into the lounge.
‘Hey, sourpuss,’ Hizashi throws an arm across his forehead and peaks over his yellow lenses. He’s laying it on thick, but this is his hill to die on. ‘How about we have a shower together? Get nice and clean before we get nice and dirty.’
If the look on Shouta’s face is anything to go by, Hizashi knows he’ll have more luck drowning in the shower than coaxing Shouta to join him.
‘Sho, I’m fine. Right as rain,’ the words come easy, he adds finger guns to emphasis the point. ‘Just a little smelly from patrol. Ya know how it is.’ He mimes firing.
‘You’re many things, Hizashi. But a liar isn’t one of them.’
‘Yo, so I threw up a little bit. Who hasn’t been sick on patrol?’
‘And why were you physically sick?’
Hizashi forces his hands away from his sore throat.
‘The guy was wearing a really, really, terrible outfit. Almost thought it was his Quirk. Physically harmful on the eyes and stomach.’
Shouta gently clambers into his lap, seating himself to straddle Hizashi’s thighs, mindful of his stomach. In another setting Hizashi would flip his husband and ravish him. Right now he fiddles nervously with his glasses.
‘So, if I touched you here,’ Shouta traces his fingertips across Hizashi’s chest, each hand exploring.
Hizashi bites his tongue at the accompanying twinge of discomfort. He’s still not one hundred confident that he won’t be sick again.
‘Or here.’ Shouta’s fingers move upwards, tracing the grooves the directional speaker has left. ‘You wouldn’t feel tender.’
He swallows a hiss as Shouta’s fingers probe his throat, a wicked parody of a gentle embrace.
Except Hizashi knows that look.
‘Peachy,’ Hizashi pushes the words out. Shouta draws away with a heavy scowl.
‘You’re lying to me, Hizashi.’ Hizashi worries his bottom lip. ‘Let’s see how many you’re going to tick on the checklist.’
Hizashi squirms.
‘Vomiting, accompanied by nausea. Or else you would be on your feet hugging me.’
Hizashi rolls his eyes, playing off the sentiment.
‘Don’t play dumb. We both know you’re the smartest in the room, despite your get up.’ He wants to disappear into the sofa. ‘It was probably the vertigo that upset your stomach, or the ringing in your ears.’
‘Both.’
‘Both?’ Shouta growls and Hizashi really wants to become one with the sofa. ‘And it’s staring me right in the face that your directional speaker took a hit, because that’s fucking gone. The fuck, Hizashi?’
‘Shouta, I’m okay…’
‘All the times I’ve let you patch me up,’ Shouta withdraws into his shoulders. ‘That you’ve stubbornly refused to leave my side.’ He’s positively hunched in on himself now. ‘And you. You really believed that I would buy you coming home from patrol miraculously uninjured. To think that I can’t see through this persona.’
‘Wait, wait, wait. Man, it’s not like that.’
‘Then what is this?’
‘I didn’t expect you.’ Hizashi closes his eyes, too tired to argue.
‘That’s your excuse?’
‘I didn’t expect the dude to have such good aim. Clocked me right in the speaker. Thought I’d ride it out when I got back and deal with it come morning,’ Hizashi sighs, opening his eyes to watch Shouta rearrange himself to lay with his face pressed against him. He shifts slowly, repositioning himself as to not spear his husband on his hipbone.
‘He wouldn’t go down,’ he continues, voice scratchy. ‘Tore up my throat.’ He swears he can feel Shouta’s glare against his leather trousers. ‘It’s better now. Ish. Had half a pack of lozenges on the way back.’
‘Come on, we’re gonna go see Recovery Girl,’ Shouta grumbles, still glued to Hizashi.
‘But my man is all cleaned up for me.’
‘Need I remind you that you reek of vomit.’
‘You’re still hugging me though.’
‘I miscalculated.’
‘Um rude,’ Hizashi whispers and drifts his fingers through Shouta’s hair. He curls the dark locks around his fingers and sighs, bone tired. ‘If I said I’m actually still injured, would ya carry me?’
Hizashi can’t help but smile wide as his fingers become trapped in Shouta’s own hand. He squeezes back, finding comfort in Shouta mimicking the action.
‘If you help me get up, I’ll think about it.’ Shouta traces his thumb along Hizashi’s knuckles. ‘Now, with respect, shut up before you hurt yourself more.’
Catching Shouta’s eye from beneath his fringe, Hizashi smirks back. Despite how lethargic and pained he feels, he can’t help but raise his free hand with a flourish.
Yes, sir he signs, quick enough that it takes a moment for Shouta to read. He grins wider, delighted at the small flush his husband tries to hide.
‘Hitoshi is waiting up for us. Brat pretended to be asleep when I checked on the class.’
Hitoshi? Hizashi signs, smiling at the deepening flush across Shouta’s cheeks. He finally asked?
‘Yeah,’ Shouta growls with a small smile. ‘He was flustered. But I’m glad he asked me to be less formal. Don’t want to sound like a teacher all the time.’
Will he ask me soon?
‘Depends.’
Hey. You can’t be annoyed anymore if he’s going to be annoyed. I won’t survive.
‘Just call me next time. Or text.’
I’m in a parallel universe. Aren’t I?
‘Come on. Lets get you seen to before your hands full off.’
Thank you Hizashi finishes, allowing Shouta to get up and gently pull him to his feet. I wouldn’t have anyone else in the world play nurse to me.
Shouta pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m gonna break my pledge in a minute,’ he grumbles, already winding an arm around Hizashi’s shoulders.
Just don’t bury me in the garden. Cats will dig me up.
‘You’re lucky we don’t have a garden,’ Shouta says, watching Hizashi’s hands move slowly.
I’m luckier to have you though.
Hizashi feels Shouta freeze before he’s drawn in closer.
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’