Archive of Our Own ^beta

Passaggio

All characters © Kouhei Horikoshi

There’s a good-natured, Schadenfreudic glee Hizashi takes in the fact that Shouta now has homework.

It comes with the whole slew of things Shouta has to adapt to, including depth perception and center of gravity. The resident PT is a little Spartan, to put it mildly, and Hizashi finds himself cackling at the exercises Shouta has to do because the alternative is to break down crying and no one wants that.

“You look tired,” Shouta remarks. He’s in the middle of drawing a frog as part of his spatial awareness assignment (Hizashi notes that it looks unnervingly similar to the school principal), and he really shouldn’t be the one talking to Hizashi about looking tired. 

“Can you blame me?” Hizashi grins. “There’s a lot more food on our plates right now.”

Shouta sniffs. “Fair point. Speaking of which,” he adds, good eye skating over one too many folds on Hizashi’s jacket, “are you eating enough?”

Hizashi rolls his eyes and draws a pair of bunny ears on Shouta’s frog, which earns him an indignant snort from Shouta. “Yes, mom,” he says. Shouta doesn’t look convinced. Hizashi can’t really blame him, what with everyone on high alert ever since, well. Midoriya.

UA classes are far from normal in the wake of the kid’s return. Hizashi’s radio show is on hiatus; Hound Dog’s office is always full, Vlad’s looking anemic (which Hizashi didn’t even think possible but hey, you learn something new every day), and Cementoss can be seen chugging Red Bull in an effort to get the walls reinforced. 

“I’ll get us some karaage,” Hizashi offers, placating, because between the two of them Shouta really is the ultimate Mom Friend (and if he were honest Hizashi’s more like the Vodka Aunt).

“Add some mango sticky rice,” says Shouta, giving Hizashi an unreadable look. The new scar on his face runs raw pink and jagged along the crevices of his temple, skin pulled taut and shiny over his brow and into his hairline.

(Hizashi really wishes the prosthetic wasn’t taking so long because he doesn’t like staring into that blank socket).

He makes excuses to help Shouta with his rehab, and not just because of that one time Shouta made Ectoplasm cry. He thinks it will soothe the licking flames in him, watching Shouta establish a new gait—literally walking it off, in a sense. It doesn’t seem too difficult for Shouta, but Hizashi definitely notices an uptick in language not fit for a classroom and is vaguely reminded of their post-grad days when Shouta’s verbal palette was considerably more...colorful. 

He has to dissuade Shouta from hopping on the treadmill because it’s only been a week and they’re both kind of workaholics. 

“You know, Midoriya’s lack of self-preservation makes a lot more sense now,” Shouta huffs, as he practices his lateral weight shifting despite the sweat rolling down his temples and curling the ends of his hair. Self-preservation is...difficult, when it comes to hero work. Hizashi knows it, Shouta knows it. Kayama and Shirakumo knew it a little too well.

Hizashi hums in agreement. Neither one of them had been especially surprised at the Big Reveal of Midoriya holding the One For All quirk. Truthfully, he had suspected it for a while, and he knew that Shouta had as well. 

In the end they don’t get karaage and sticky rice due to a scheduling mish-mash that has All Might bursting in practically pleading with them to take over 1-C’s lit class. As fun as it is to watch Japan’s Greatest Hero flounder amidst a sea of pubescent teenagers, Hizashi kind of wishes he were good enough to beat Shouta at Janken because he always draws the short straw at fill-ins.

They’re all spread thin now, Snipe and All Might taking the brunt of covering Kayama’s history classes, but Hizashi’s been updating the curriculum on his own time because he’s a stickler for grammar as well as a secret fan of sprinkling a bit of NLP in there so the material sticks. The fallen deserve to be remembered at their best, is all. 

Hizashi does not pity the dead. Kayama is somewhere even his voice can’t reach now, somewhere he doesn’t bother contemplating, but the space where she used to be is so, very quiet.

He wonders, as he watches Shouta bump into a wall, if he’ll be the only one left of them one day. If a tree falls in the forest and no one’s around to hear, does it make a sound?

-

Hizashi’s never been as grateful for soundproof walls as he is when he claws himself awake at 1:30 with a choked cry behind his lips. Again. It’s some patchwork pidgin of English and Italian and Japanese honorifics that makes about as much sense as some of his students’ essays and it makes Hizashi thankful that he cannot remember what he was dreaming about.

It’s the night—morning, really, after Kayama’s memorial service. Just thinking about it makes his stomach curdle, but Hizashi swallows down his manpain and submits himself to the fact that he’s not returning to sleep anytime soon. He sighs, tying his hair into a haphazard semblance of a bun, and decides it couldn’t hurt to get a spot of training in. 

The air is sharp and cool as Hizashi heads to the forest, track boots crunching on things his abysmal night vision cannot see but that he hopes are just twigs.

His Kulning is haunting in the black of morning, and all it brings forth are a few squirrels. ¹

“Where do you think we go, after?” he asks a squirrel that’s poised on a mossy stone. He’s met with the roaring quiet.

He wonders if Shouta is awake right now. 

His breakpoints echo off the trees and he thinks of someone who could make them both fall asleep. 

-

Shouta squints at him the next day in the PT room when Hizashi can’t quite hide a yawn. “Were you training last night?” he asks. “I thought I heard…”

Hizashi, on the cusp of another pirate joke (because someone’s gotta say it, and that someone sure as hell won’t be Shouta) tilts his head. “Probably just a loon,” he replies. 

Shouta eyes him (hah) in that way he does when he suspects Hizashi is deflecting and something inside Hizashi swells with equal parts fondness and fierce protectiveness.

He tries not to think about the fact that not all of Shouta made it back this time.

-

Two nights later he dreams he’s walking down the central corridor of UA, only something’s wrong because his footfalls have no sound. 

He tries calling out and the hall fills with thick, rolling clouds.

That one wakes him up in a cold sweat, the mildness of the dream somehow scarier than anything he’s had in a while. 

Hizashi groans and runs a hand through the tangles in his hair. The thing is, once he’s up he’s up. So this time he decides to search the web. He has access to Naomasa’s databases (though Naomasa does not know this) because Hizashi is really good at what he does and playing the fool fools even the smart, sometimes. 

He goes over the little but growing files on Nomus, ignores the hungry feeling in the pit of his gut that has nothing to do with food, and shoves intrusive memories down because that isn’t going to help his sleepless, addled judgment any.

He thinks back to the winemaking metaphor of a deranged old man well past his expiration date: obsessed with immortality, mind sagging and splintering under the weight of all the time he bought. Clearly, living for too long means more marbles to lose. 

Hizashi knows a thing or two about marbles. It’s why Shirakumo offends him so much. Yes, offends. Because whatever he is doesn’t make sense. If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, but isn’t a duck Hizashi has a problem. Shirakumo is not supposed to exist; they live in a world where people walk around with animal DNA and yet something like that goes against every rule Hizashi knows and that pisses him off. 

Immensely.

He has to rationalize it, because a teacher not having answers is simply blasphemous and Hizashi’s carefully obfuscated genius cannot stand the unknowing. Just how long had Garaki been stealing cadavers? Of UA heroes? Of children?

He also finds himself contemplating Eri—because she is living proof that whatever has been done in this world can also be undone. But Hizashi’s also had it up to here with people using kids to shape their societal ideals. He loves Yagi but goddamn it Midoriya had been fourteen.

It’s sunup by the time Hizashi collapses into a heap of blankets and angst with Fleetwood Mac playing softly on his stereo.

-

“You’re kind of scary, you know that?” Shinzou says to him the next afternoon, after Hizashi spends an entire English period gleefully explaining the physics of opera deaths in Western theater.

Hizashi does know, is the thing.

It’s why he’s the one they call in to negotiate hero contracts with commissions. It’s why, when he was twenty-two, he made five people at Shouta’s underground agency quit their jobs after they decided to cut extraction costs that landed Shouta in the hospital.

It’s no secret that Hizashi uses his sunny grin and twaddle to foil Shouta’s wasteland of dry wit. People assume, due to Hizashi’s spectacular savoir faire, that he’s the good cop and Shouta’s the bad cop in their dynamic duo. What people don’t know is that it’s actually the opposite, and given the right circumstances Hizashi can be terrifying. Almost predatory, in how he raises hell with a smile gentle but so, so cold because he knows what it’s like to lose. And to almost lose, which is worse in some ways.

Now he looks into Shinzou’s vapid, lidded eyes and the rather unsettling mix of Nemuri’s catty playfulness and Shouta’s cynicism he sees there makes him want to deflect. He quashes the urge to make one of his “Aria 51” jokes with significant effort and a cough. 

“It’s okay,” adds Shinzou. Hizashi isn’t sure if Shinzou’s talking about the class. Maybe it’s the expression he’s wearing, whatever that is. Hizashi always did have a very open face (it's why he uses all the gear to distract from it).

“Tell anyone and I’ll hafta kill you,” Hizashi replies instead, grinning and running a finger under his nose.

Yeah, he’s not having the best of weeks. As of late, there’s a stuffy pressure blooming between his eyes indicative of a burgeoning cold. Just what he needs. It’s the icing on this rancid, shitty cake and Hizashi just wants to go somewhere remote and scream.

Which is what’s going through his mind when All Might catches him singing Dido’s Lament while making coffee in the teacher’s lounge.² And of course, of course, Yagi would recognize it. The guy’s surprisingly well-versed. Because All Might’s physique makes it near impossible to determine his age, Hizashi sometimes forgets just how long he’s been around and how much he’s seen.

“My boy,” Yagi murmurs, looking lost.

Hizashi feels like throwing up. So he barks out a pinched, strained laugh and somewhere down the hall, a window shatters.

-

A swirl of dreams of sweet things that could have been prompts Hizashi to brave the bugs once more, when he jerks awake on Thursday morning with hands fisted around a wet pillow. 

Briefly, he considers self-medicating, but that’s a bad idea all around and the forest is its own consolation. This time he tries out his Messa di Voce, falling short when his voice cracks spectacularly—though Hizashi’s not sure from misuse or emotion. It doesn’t matter.³

With a cough, Hizashi shoves his Sturm und Drang aside and decides to patrol the stifling bastion that is the school grounds. It’s started raining again.

He ignores the pounding, throbbing ache behind his eyes.

-

It’s not surprising when Hizashi comes down ill. Like, right and properly ill.

Almost a week has passed him by without decent sleep. He’s had more than enough practice at healthy grieving, but this time it’s heavier, somehow, and the thought of being idle, alone with his thoughts, makes his skin crawl.

The caveat that...whatever this is seems to be settling in his sinuses as well as his chest should tell him something, but Hizashi decides to ignore it in favor of reading a book on Mongolian throat singing because why not wreck his voice some more. There’s probably a meltdown lurking on the horizon. 

Even so, Hizashi still can’t bring himself to just...stop and rest. 

Shouta knows that for all of Hizashi’s posturing he actually hates being cornered in public, so he catches Hizashi with some JSL during a drizzly joint training session when Hizashi can’t quite hide a sniffle. Or five.

Alright there? 

Hizashi rolls his eyes and signs a reply that has Shouta’s ears turning a rather endearing shade of peach.

He also gets new and fun experiences with sneezing his carefully pomaded head off. Colds tend to settle in his chest and throat so this prickling, buzzing feeling along the bridge of his nose is both new to the party and wholly unwelcome.

Take that time he decides to patrol the PE grounds, for example, when he suddenly starts sneezing and it will. Not. Stop. Do normal people have to deal with this kind of thing? If so, he’s never making fun of Shouta during allergy season ever again because this is the pits.

Hizashi is lucky no one’s around as audience to this grossly uncool display of him pitching forward and bumping his directional speaker against said tormented nose as he sneezes and sneezes. In the end he has to fumble through streaming eyes to unclasp the speaker. Repeatedly smashing his nose against it only exacerbates the fiery itch that is just barely being scratched with each sneeze.

The relentless fusillade only begins to die down once he gets the speaker off and tosses it to the ground (dropping it on his foot in the process).

Well. That was fun.

Teaching isn’t much better, to be honest. He almost loses it on Monday when Katsuki blows up a fucking desk and the debris tickles his aching nose so badly he has to excuse himself and pinch off half a dozen sneezes in the men’s room that leave him bleary and watery-eyed.

Hizashi runs the sink and tries not to feel too sorry for himself. It’s his own fault, anyway. He rubs his head, splashing some water on his cheeks and groans. He’s so sore. He never thought losing another friend would hurt like this. He sneezes again without the usual theatrics, this time with an encore of the crackly, telltale coughs he tends to get when sick. 

Facts are funny; he knows the mechanics around how a cricket chirps down to a T, but for the life of him he cannot remember what tea loosens congestion. Maybe he should visit—no. Chiyo will just give him that puckered, exasperated stare, despite the fact that Hizashi hasn’t been to see her for his own health in years and he doesn’t know if he can take one more person looking at him with pity.

Besides, it’s fine. He’s fine. He’s smart; he can handle this. 

He starts to avoid Shouta. Emo Cyclops or not Shouta will notice Hizashi’s whittling voice and nasally consonants in an instant, regardless of what language Hizashi is speaking in and Shouta will know something’s up if Hizashi only signs. 

Sure enough, Shouta frowns at Hizashi when he tries to skate around a sneeze at a staff meeting, even if Hizashi plays it off rather brilliantly as a yawn. The cough is starting to be a problem, though, mainly because using Voice is compromised. Not because, y’know, he needs to take it easy or anything. 

If he could just stop dreaming of the dead, that would be enough. 

-

The fever trickles in on Wednesday, after Hizashi just barely makes it through his lit lesson without passing out since holy cow everything’s too loud and he swears he can feel the vibrations of every molecule around him doing the cha-cha along the soft tissue of his brain.

Hizashi pretends not to see the looks his students exchange with each other as his voice cracks and jumps octaves faster than sparks in a fire. Luckily, his ears are too full of...stuff to make out the whispers of god knows how pitiful he must look.

It’s barely six, but Hizashi could care less as he throws his gear onto a nearby chair and lays down on his bed. Well. It’s more of a controlled fall that makes him splutter and wheeze, but who’s keeping track?

The rest of the evening consists of fevered anacoluthia and an epic battle with his covers.

When he wakes he notices another speaker on the desk by his bed, shaped like a gourd.

“Hey there,” Hizashi croaks, licking dry, arid lips. 

“Two and a half down, we’ll try again. We miss you guys,” the gourd says, which makes Hizashi laugh because there’s a speaker with the voice of a dead boy in his room and somehow that’s hilarious.

“We miss you too, Obie,” Hizashi mumbles. He squints in the moonlight. “‘Snot the same.” 

“You’re next,” says the gourd. 

-

The night Hizashi finally breaks is the night some idiot townsfolk decide quite adamantly that they want a closer look at Midoriya. Evidently, the Rare and Famous Deku is Mufustafu’s latest zoo attraction. Hero work isn't the most discreet thing, sure, but hasn't anyone heard of privacy these days? Sheesh.

It’s Friday. Or Saturday? One of the days that ends in a -youbi , Hizashi is certain of it.⁴ It also happens to be the night he’s dragged himself off to patrol. He’s lucky like that sometimes.

Even without the proper use of Voice, with a temperature that still hasn’t abated and a cough that resembles a zealous seal, Hizashi can hold his own. Mostly. 

Okay, he might have texted Shouta for some backup. He doesn’t actually remember doing it, but Shouta’s suddenly there so Hizashi doesn’t have another explanation.

It’s one thing to try to sneak onto the main campus, but Hizashi snarls because the Heights Alliance is absolutely off limits. Over his (now more plausibly) dead body is anyone getting in there.

Shouta angles his head, assessing the situation. Once he sees what these idiots are trying to do, his face darkens.

Then, abruptly, it doesn’t. 

The intruders falter at the glimmer of teeth from this slight, unassuming man with no weapon, one eye, and a prosthetic foot that still wobbles a bit because Shouta hasn’t gotten the gravity distribution right yet. It's a wide, bleak, and almost manic smile and Shouta only smiles like that when he’s about to make someone’s life very, very unfortunate. Hizashi chokes out a giggle. 

He almost feels sorry for these listeners, before he remembers that they were about to break into an underage school dormitory in the middle of the night.

It seems Shouta still has some center of balance. His movements are no less fluid and graceful as he dodges a jet from what looks like a photon-based quirk. A few minutes pass of Hizashi staring at the display before him slack-jawed and sorta out of it before he realizes he should probably help.

The campus spins. It’s sweaty cold out. Hizashi shivers with the heat of it. He really just wants to go to bed, you know? Actually, first he’d like to sneeze out the irritation in his nose, which is acting up again; why. Then nappy-time. Maybe right here on the sidewalk. Probably wouldn’t even mind the ants, at this point.

Oh, wait. Fight.

So Hizashi uses the thrumming tickle in his nose to opt for a massive sneeze, pouring all he has left of Voice into it. The intruders buckle under the waves of sound and somewhere, a few glass panes crack.

And woah, turns out sneezing with Voice uses some serious harmonics. Hizashi makes a mental note to save that bit of information for later before his breath stutters and the only warning he manages to give Shouta is a look of blatant, watery desperation.

Shouta barely gets his ears covered in time as Hizashi’s snapped forward with a wrenching sneeze that echoes off the trees. 

Hizashi wants to celebrate actually being useful, only his nose decides it’s not done and would like to sneeze twice more, thank you very much. More windows shatter, and a car alarm bleats in the remaining silence. The civilians decide they’ve had enough and high-tail it off the school lawn. In their wake, Hizashi sags.

He can feel Shouta gaping at him in shock, but he’s too busy gasping for breath and coughing up gunk and cackling something about three piggies and a wolf.  

“Well, that was,” Shouta manages, limping over with a frown, “interesting.” 

Hizashi swallows and says nothing. He knows Shouta won’t press. 

“Are you alright, Mic?” Shouta’s speaking a little too loud in the aftermath of three—no, four sonic blasts. Maybe that hadn't been the best idea. Hizashi winces as another stab of “ow” shoots through his temples.

“M—Hizashi?”

He blinks. Huh. Guess this all looks bad enough that Shouta will press, but it’s fine. He’s fine. His head isn’t about to split itself open and throat isn’t scraped raw and his sinuses aren’t burning. He’s dandy, peachy keen, A-okay. 

“Of course. Right...as rain,” says Hizashi, before promptly crumbling into a heap on the ground. Vaguely, he hears a muffled “Shit,” and then things get a little...not clear for a while.

-

“Bronchitis?”

Shouta looks pissed. But not The Kids Are Breaking Curfew pissed, nor the I Caught Mineta In The Ladies’ Locker Room pissed. It’s more than that.

He looks scared.

“Bronchitis,” he repeats.

“Uhm,” Hizashi tries, batting his eyes at the slightly fuzzy outlines of his friend because his glasses have been removed, “sorry?” Ugh, his ability to put up a cogent argument has been shot to hell. Because he apparently has bronchitis. 

...and to sneeze, if that spidery tickle at the back of his nose is anything to go by. Trying to hold it back at this point is to go up against a mudslide with a shovel, so Hizashi does all he can to turn away before he splurts snot everywhere and dissolves into coughing.

“Bravo,” Shouta remarks when he’s done, tone dry, and hands him a tissue from...ah, they’re in Hizashi’s apartment. On his living room couch. He doesn’t remember getting there. He also doesn’t remember having a humidifier, but he can’t deny the steady whir it makes puts him at ease.

“I try,” Hizashi gurgles.

Even without his glasses he can spot the hardship etched into the premature crows feet at Shouta’s temples. Shouta’s regarding him with an expression that’s smooth and deceptively casual, which has Hizashi biting his lip uncomfortably. 

“Mic,” he starts. Then trails off in search of words, leaving a fat, pregnant pause. Hizashi hates that metaphor, but he admits it’s exactly what the silence feels like. When Shouta speaks again the words sound strained, squeezed through the lips of a mouth in labor and Hizashi swallows down a grimace.

“With all that’s happened, we haven’t really sat down and talked about Shirakumo. About Nemuri.”

“There’s not much to talk about,” Hizashi replies, wiping his nose. “You saw him. And Nem’s...well, that was pretty straightforward.”

At this Shouta snorts, though there’s no real humor to it. “Nothing straightforward about our friends dying.”

And nearly taking you as well, Hizashi doesn’t say. Doesn’t need to, because Shouta nods and gets up to pour Hizashi some tea. He watches the dark silhouette of Shouta move about and thinks of shapes that cast shadows over empty biers. He really does get emotional when he’s ill. 

“I know you’re probably going to anyway, but I would advise against talking,” Shouta informs him when he returns with a steamed bun and a mug of something spiced. “Chiyo said to get some food and tea in you.”

Hizashi winces. “Ooh, was she mad?”

“That you were sick? No, but she was pissed you’ve apparently been acting like a seventeen-year-old version of me,” says Shouta, rolling his eyes.

“The resemblance is striking,” Hizashi agrees. “We only got you to stop when you broke your collarbone, remember?”

Shouta only glowers. Hizashi sputters a few coughs and okay, yeah, that feels stellar. He looks into Shouta's eye and has the distinct feeling he's about to get schooled. 

Sure enough: “Tell me how much sleep you’ve gotten this week,” Shouta demands. He’s using his Teacher’s Voice, which might have been sexy if Hizashi weren't feeling so cruddy.

Spitting into a tissue, Hizashi replies, “A couple.” It sounds more like a question, which evidently rubs Shouta the wrong way because he sighs through his nose, nostrils flaring in that minute way they do when he’s trying for some semblance of patience.

Shouta’s teeth are clenched, baring the sleek line of his jaw. “Ballpark it.”

Hizashi coughs wetly, sets his tea down, and pulls the quilt Shouta's given him over his stomach. “...six hours?” he guesses.

Shouta makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Hizashi really does feel bad now, and not just physically. Shouta’s dealing with even more than he is, what with becoming permanently crippled and likely losing his combat career on top of everything, and Hizashi’s been too wrapped up in his own little pity party to notice. 

Hizashi swallows with a grimace. “I know, I’ve been an assface,” he admits. “It’s been rough, and I, eh. Sorry.”

“When you’re better we’re going to have a lengthy discussion on healthy coping,” Shouta replies. 

Carefully, Hizashi takes a swallow of tea. It is strong and tasteless and somehow perfect on his ravaged throat. He licks his lips and adds, “Can we just decide once and for all that workaholism is not a proper grieving method?” 

Shouta looks away. “...I’m here for you this time, Hizashi.”

And somehow that’s it, that’s all it takes for the long-awaited waterworks. 

And shit, it’s gross and soppy and Hizashi hasn’t cried like this in years and it’s also exactly what he needs.

“I’m so...hic! s-so angry it hurts,” he chokes out, to which Shouta shushes him and runs a hand through the hair at Hizashi’s temples. It’s both a placating gesture and an incredibly intimate one for Shouta, who tends to shy away from touch unless it is absolutely necessary. This thought makes Hizashi sob even harder.

Shouta wraps his arms around Hizashi and the warmth, the gentle tactileness of it has him weeping like an opera buffa character. And when the wails start to gain a couple of overtones Shouta pulls him tighter against his chest. 

This, this is the soothing unguent Hizashi’s craved for his sleepless nights.

He trembles and curls into Shouta’s chest, solid and alive and there in the way that makes him think, we see the dead in dreams but the living are so, so warm.

Then he remembers where he is and he sags heavier against Shouta. As if that can somehow hide him from the world. “Ugh. Can we also agree never to talk about this?” he asks, mostly kidding because not talking was what got them here in the first place.

“Crying is good,” Shouta tells him. He sobers. “It’s when you don’t that I worry.”

Hizashi barks out a laugh, which of course turns into a brittle hacking that leaves him teary and snotty and a tad mortified that he’s essentially leaking all over Shouta.

“You’ll need to burn this shirt,” Hizashi rasps, when he thinks he’s gotten himself a little more under control.  

Shouta looks down his front with a little smile half-covered by the shadow of his hair. “It’s seen worse,” he exclaims. Hizashi can feel the rumble of Shouta’s voice against his cheek and he closes his eyes.

“I...legit don’t feel well, Shouta.”

A fond huff. “And whose fault is that?”

“In fact, I think I’m dying,” continues Hizashi, ignoring Shouta’s comment and trying for some humor to salvage how gross and puffy he looks. “I can hear it now: my death throes splashing cries on the staves of the night, my soul spavined on a bed of sorrow, soon to join the rotten phalanx of the dearly depar—”

Shouta gently flicks Hizashi’s forehead. “Dramatic, much?”

“Come on, you love it.”

“In your dreams,” snorts Shouta, and smiles that little smile again. It’s scarred and lopsided and somehow achingly beautiful in its rarity. Shouta has a rather large playful streak, though most people don’t realize it because he only ever exercises it with Hizashi. And Nemuri.

Hizashi yawns. “Speakin’ of dreams, you mind if I’m a rude host and take a nap?”

“That means the meds are starting to work, at any rate,” says Shouta. He raises an eyebrow. “And it’s your apartment. Do what you want.”

Hizashi yawns again with a nod. “Hoooh yeah, baby. M’gonna conk out and drool all over these cushions,” he announces. “I’ll prob’ly have some seeeriously trippy dreams, too. Might need some kinky capture scarf action.” He blinks up at Shouta.

“You won’t leave, will you?”

Shouta knows he is not talking about his apartment. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. The metal of his prosthetic glints in the lamplight.

Seemingly satisfied with that answer, Hizashi eats his steamed bun and sips more of his tea until he’s unbelievably warm and sleepy and his tongue loosens with all the rambling he’s put off.

“Thinking of turning my directional speaker into a sonic projector,” he mumbles, at one point. “Like the Black Canary? Or like, the collar Nem used to wear.”

Shouta’s still stroking his hair absently when he replies. “Oh?”

“Yeh. Speaker hides hickeys well, but it’s heeelllla clunky,” Hizashi says. “And heavy. My chiropractor might hate me, jus’ a little.”

“I’ve heard chokers are in again,” Shouta agrees. 

Hizashi lets his eyes slide shut. “Ng...Shou? Make sure they don’t make Nem into a—into a Nomu, kay?”

“They’ll have to get through me first,” Shouta assures him.

“An’ we should plan a return episode to boost lis’ners’ morale. Y’know, accept the past and go forward, or something.”

“I’d like that,” murmurs Shouta, after a moment.

But Hizashi’s not done. “Cause it would suck if what happened to us happens to the kids,” he points out. “And they’re...kinda startin’ to grow on me.”

Shouta snorts. “Didn’t you tell me last week that they were all, ah, ‘butts’?”

Hizashi turns his face so it’s smushed into the couch cushion. “Mnfl. Butts can be nice.”

He can practically hear Shouta’s eye roll. “Go to sleep already.”

“Only if you break out that bass for me.”

Shouta gives him a sour look that Hizashi pointedly pretends he can’t see. “Really?” When his only response is an unintelligible noise from Hizashi, he sighs. “Fine. Just because you’re sick. Mention it to anyone and I’ll kick your ass.”

(He won’t, and they both know it.)

So Shouta sings him to sleep like he sometimes did when they were kids. Hizashi lets his gaze rest on Shouta’s face and he thinks that somehow, the hole where Shouta’s eye used to be looks a lot less empty than it had before.

The last thing Hizashi feels before falling asleep is a strong, warm hand on his head. 

And for the first time in a while, his dreams are okay.

End.

¹ A high pitched call used in Scandinavian countries to herd cattle that can carry over long distances.

² Dido's dying aria from Henry Purcell's opera Dido and Aeneas, also titled "When I am Laid in Earth."

³ An extremely advanced vocal technique that involves alternating volumes on a single pitch.

⁴ In Japanese, every day of the week ends in "youbi," much like the English "day."