Archive of Our Own

Hitoshi was certain that their neighbors thought there was something seriously wrong with them.

Not that such a notion was all that arbitrary when he was the subject being discussed, but "them" included his rather recently acquired parents (in the grand scheme of things)— Aizawa Shouta and Yamada Hizashi. And Hitoshi believed wholeheartedly that it was entirely unfair that they should face the same judgment that he did. He deserved the weary, sideways glances from their neighbors. But his parents deserved more respect than that.

Because they were, after all, respectable.

Teachers at U.A. by day and pro heroes by night (and radio show host by early morning). Two of the most respectable positions a person could hold! All about helping people and bettering the world and providing for others. So for someone to know that someone else held those professions and still judged them anyway was, frankly, fucking insane!

Maybe, after all, their neighbors were the ones who had something seriously wrong with them.

Though, because Aizawa and Yamada were so busy with their work, they weren't usually home all too often. Which meant that it was actually rather rare for them to bump into any of their neighbors. But on the occasion that either of the apartment's inhabitants did happen to encounter another resident of their humble little apartment complex, it always became a whole ordeal.

It wasn't common for the average person to just stumble upon a pro hero or even catch a glimpse into their regular lives.

That was because most pro heroes lived in fancy, high end penthouse apartments at the very top of tall, glass buildings with spectacular views far, far, far away from the public's eye. They claimed that it was a luxury. The fruits of their hard labor. It was privacy away from adorning fans. It was serenity. A sanctuary. Safety.

Heavy emphasis on most.

Eraserhead preferred practicality above all else, and a penthouse was not practical.

So, instead, they— being Yamada and Aizawa— chose to live in an average, modest apartment on the fourth floor of a five story building.

It was mostly Aizawa's idea, but of course Yamada had begrudgingly agreed for the sake of living with his best friend turned husband. Way back when that decision had been made— a time when they had once known peace— Hitoshi hadn't even been a factor. He was born, probably. Still living with his biological parents, though, if his math was correct. On the cusp of being given up, but still naively believing that it might actually be possible for them to love him if he tried hard enough.

Anyway.

The point was that it wasn't a penthouse. Not luxurious. A sanctuary in its own way, when only Aizawa and Yamada were to be found between its walls. Practical.

Plain.

But in awfully plain view, too.

That was another reason why most pro heroes lived in such untouchable houses. To keep out of the public's eye. On the television, they dressed up in their shiny costumes and put on bright smiles and brave faces for all to see. But at home, Hitoshi knew for a fact that even the flashiest of heroes didn't put in half the effort. Not only that, but after a harsh encounter with a villain, he knew a lot of them went home unable to smile because of the sheer amount of battering and bruising.

He definitely had his fair share of good beat downs, and, from experience, it drew a lot of attention from on lookers.

Still, Hitoshi honestly kind of preferred their simple apartment. Even if it did allow for their nosy ass neighbors to gawk at him and his parents whenever they returned from patrol. Or whatever odd job that had them finding their way home at whatever odd hour in whatever odd condition. He was thankful that most evenings he didn't have to deal with it. Not because Hitoshi didn't have his moments where his face met a fist and he was left beaten in various shades of black and blue.

Following nearly a decade in foster care, he could happily, and confidently, and honestly say that it wasn't because of an abusive foster parent, or another piece of shit ward at the group home, or an asshole classmate.

Rather, he was steadily holding an internship for his third year at U.A. now that he was officially in the Hero Course and was trusted to run the streets alongside another pro. Unfortunately, not Aizawa, considering Eraserhead was one hop, skip, and a jump away from being retired from active duty entirely.

For that same reason, though, he usually returned to his dorm at Heights Alliance on U.A.s campus rather than home to their apartment. Because he was only just an intern and he still had school and homework and pop quizzes that needed tending to. But Yamada and Aizawa— especially the former— had told him many a story both from the past and present of their neighbors. Them and their damn wide, watchful eyes that just loved to catch a look.

"They're so shameless," Yamada had huffed one night after Hitoshi had confided in them that it felt like he was getting stares over a split lip, which hadn't even been at the hands of a villain but rather a classmate and a small training slip up. His hands had been placed square on his hips and dinner simmered away on the stove. "I still remember the last time I broke my nose. They gave me this big ol' splint with all these bandages and my whole face was totally messed up— I felt so hideous! It was bad, but then Ms. Okamoto made it all so much worse."

Yamada was one of those heroes whose appearance was staple to his identity as a hero, so injuries— no matter how minor— were always a big deal. Despite his tendency for theatrics, Hitoshi listened intently to every word and fully believed it. He had been suspicious since the day he had moved in that their neighbors were nosy, though initially he just chalked it up to them being rightfully off put by the random, skittish teenager who had just showed up one day looking rather sleep deprived and particularly malnourished. Not to mention that it had only been a little bit since the end of the war, so he was still healing from those injuries.

Shaking his head and stirring whatever was cooking, Yamada continued, growing increasingly exasperated. "I was just trying to check our mailbox like the good husband I am. But she stood there, key in hand, just like this," then he opened his eyes as wide as possible and dropped his jaw as far as it could go, his bottom lip jutted out in a pout, to express her very exaggerated look of shock. "Like, geez! I know old people have staring problems and it's not their fault because they're senile or whatever but it seriously bruised my already butt hurt feelings!"

Aizawa added his own iteration of a similar experience, not looking up from his lesson plans. "After USJ when I was completely wrapped up in bandages, I remember standing in the elevator that first night home from the hospital. Someone from the floor above asked us to hold the door. I had all but turned around— because even the slightest movements took so much energy and I was drained for Chiyo's quirk— and they just froze."

His fingers found the bridge of his nose and he rubbed his eyes like it irritated him to even recall. Or maybe he was having trouble seeing the fine print. Aizawa had been rather stubborn about wearing his glasses back then. Now he tried to set a good example or whatever excuse he made up to evade admitting that they actually helped.

"I don't know where they had been and I don't care to know either, but they had all these bags. Two suitcases and a swelling duffel bag across their body and after an uncomfortably long silence," he gave Hitoshi a pointed look through stray strands of hair that had escaped the elastic prison entrapping the rest of his head in a messy heap that kind of resembled a bun. It was hard for Aizawa to find silence— his renowned peace and solace in such a chaotic world— anything except wonderful. "They just said, 'Never mind, I'll take the stairs.' and stood there to wait for the doors to close."

"They're obsessed with us! They can never turn their noses away," Yamada tutted.

Aizawa corrected sourly, "They can't have the common decency to mind their own business is what they can't do."

Hitoshi had believed all of it easily, of course. Not just from his first— and certainly not last— encounter in the lobby of their apartment. But because he had been familiar with what it was like to be a show pony for on lookers for years. For fucks sake, he'd had his picture plastered on the home page of some website to guilt trip people to adopt him some few years ago. Back when he was still kind of cute looking, all round in the features, sad looking and with a missing baby tooth. Then he got too troublesome for adoption and they quietly took his wide, innocent, watery eyed image down to replace with another young boy who was waiting to find his forever family.

Like damn dogs in a pound.

Of course, it would have been just his luck that on one of the rare instances he went straight from his late night patrol directly back home— to the apartment rather than his dorm— someone would coincidentally decide that midnight was the perfect time to prune their damn porch tree. Again, it was an apartment building, so why Ms. Okamoto kept a plant at her front door instead of on the identical balcony he knew that she— and every other one of their neighbors— had, Hitoshi had not a clue. But when he finally managed to heave his body up the last few stairs by literally grabbing the hand rail and pulling the rest of his body after, she had been knelt there by her precious Zanzibar Gem tree.

Not that he would have had a single idea what species it was if not for overhearing her say it time and time again during one of her many, many long winded conversations with Yamada whenever they happened to catch each other in crossing.

Upon hearing his less than careful or mindful steps, she turned to watch him stumble toward their door, which was just across the landing from hers. Hitoshi hoped he had mustered up the strength to smile at her, though he couldn't have been all to certain he managed to pull more than a grimace and a small, respectful nod that was more tired and clumsy than anything. Ms. Okamoto did not return his questionable greetings. She just stared at him, eyes obviously flickering over the reddish bruise that was beginning to turn dark on the side of his face and acknowledging his obvious limp.

Okay, maybe it was, admittedly, a strange sight to behold. Again, that side of heroics was typically kept away from the public. But she still didn't have any right to gawk. Hitoshi was a teenage hero in training, for crying out loud! It was hard work enough as is and he was exhausted from saving the fucking world— or, at least, protecting the streets of Japan from rampant villains and do-no-gooders. He didn't need her judgment on top of everything else. So excuse him if he pressed his aching forehead against the cool surface of the door to support him as he fished through his go-bag for his keys.

Wherever he put the damn things.

Hitoshi sighed and finally pulled his keyring, with entirely too much shit on it, free from a random pocket. On good days, it made him happy. All the little key charms from friends were like a reminder that he was not only loved but considered. That they thought about him even when he wasn't around and that his friends knew him and knew what he liked and what exactly would put a smile on his face. A custom miniature album cover from his favorite band. A string of purple beads and swirly charms someone had made him with their own two, crafty hands. A miniature fuzzy cat accessory, since everyone associated him with cats because Hitoshi adored them. A small, tarnished silver, heart shaped clock that actually worked and had been thrifted and was the coolest fucking thing ever.

Plus all the many, many keys belonging to every secure thing he was trusted to have unrestricted access to. His dorm, the mailbox, home.

But since Hitoshi was decidedly not having a good day— or night, technically, though maybe it was actually morning?— he quickly became frustrated with the clutter as he tried to remember what his copy of the apartment key even looked like. Whatever. He would try them all if he had to, anything so he didn't have to actually think about it anymore. Just do. So Hitoshi picked a random key, one he was a little less than sure was right, and shoved it in the general direction of the key hole.

He missed, and then missed again, and got the tip in before realizing his key was upside down. Which way he was supposed to turn, again? He couldn't remember. Ms. Okamoto watched it all. She said nothing while Hitoshi slumped against his own door and struggled to unlock his parents' apartment with his own key. Maybe if he had any more sense, he might have been embarrassed. Prayed that she didn't think he was trying to break in and call the cops or something. But he wasn't.

Hitoshi was just tired.

Behind the door, the cats seemed to have realized that someone was home. At least two distinct meows began to call out and one of the felines scratched in an attempt to get to him. It only took Hitoshi roughly another minute of finagling before he finally— finally!— got the door open. It swung wide, hitting the wall where a dent already existed, before Hitoshi tumbled in and shut Ms. Okamoto and her completelyrude staring out. A gaggle of cats surrounded his feet, chirruping and stretching themselves on his legs, claws piercing through the fabric of his pants to dig into his aching thigh meat.

He pushed them away without much effort, placing his keys into the dish on the table that sat conveniently right in front of the door with a near limp hand. Hitoshi let his bag— which seemed so much heavier after his shift than it had been before— fall to the floor next to his backpack. Aizawa had helpfully grabbed it from his dorm room before leaving U.A. for the weekend, which Hitoshi had been thankful for since it meant he didn't have to lug it to patrol and back. He wasn't sure if he would have been able to make it up the stairs had his body weighed any more than it did.

Hitoshi would have fallen backwards and smashed his skull open on the stairs behind him for one of his parents— probably Aizawa, since Yamada's radio show didn't end until 6:00— to find while his brains oozed out, a splattered mess of fleshy gray matter, his blood dripped down and stained the steps in a river of fresh crimson.

When Hitoshi stuck his sock clad feet into his purple house slippers he imagined that was what it would feel like to step into clouds— at least, to his aching soles it was comparable, despite the fact that his slippers had begun to wear a little. His hero costume shoes were thin and lacked the rigid support that his sneakers provided, and the switch between the two was jarring after patrol. Of course, his very professional footies were designed that way to maintain the most flexibility and mobility possible as well as reducing the noise that his steps made. They were nice, did their job while serving a purpose, and they protected him from debris. But after a while of feeling every pebble and divot in the cracked asphalt, his feet began to hurt. Aimlessly strolling streets looking for trouble to disarm or running through countless alleyways or leaping from rooftop to rooftop for hour after hour made him want to kick back more than anything just so his feet didn't have to feel anything at all.

The plushness of his slippers was truly heavenly and a welcomed change from his work footwear.

Hitoshi navigated blindly down the dark hall into the apartment and then he was struck with a million decisions. All the while he had the energy to make exactly none of them. On one hand, he just wanted to sleep. On the other, Hitoshi knew he should shower, or at least brush his teeth, or pretend in some way that he was a person with basic hygiene. But sleep… Not to mention that he was so, so hungry.

A blob of stormy gray— sweet Nari, probably sensing his sudden distress— wound herself around Hitoshi's ankles as he stood in the middle of the hallway.

"If I was a cat, everything would be so much easier," Hitoshi said, reaching down to pet between her ears. "I could just sleep all day, and have my food served to me, and I could groom myself with my own tongue." He sighed and picked her up. Even if his back ached and his legs ached and his arms ached and everything ached it was an easy and familiar enough choice to scoop the ball of fur up and cradle her sweet face close to his own. "Since I'm a person, it's actually kinda gross and frowned upon to lick myself."

Okay, Hitoshi, think. Just a little more brain power and then sleep. Sleep would come no matter what happened before then so he just had decide what was worth the effort.

None of it, was what his very hard working brain supplied him oh so helpfully.

If he was asleep he wouldn't feel hungry, and there were always snacks, Hitoshi reasoned. Would Aizawa and Yamada be happy to hear that he had skipped a meal? No. But that was a problem for future Hitoshi, just as his hollow stomach was going to be his problem, too. Present Hitoshi had already decided to pass the kitchen without so much as a glance at the pantry.

Too much work.

So was showering. He was sweaty and dirty and tired. Down to the bone tired. Unfortunately, that was all that seemed important at that moment. But he really should have brushed his teeth. If nothing else, Hitoshi could at least do that much. The last thing he needed was for anymore of his teeth to find a reason to rot out of his head or worsen the stain that surely existed.

Damn past Hitoshi who had delightfully taken up the offer for a coffee and decided that without Aizawa around to poke fun at him he could indulge in a single cream and a single sugar.

Drinking black coffee for the aesthetic and convenience was one thing. But Hitoshi wasn't a heathen. He absolutely didn't fucking enjoy the bitterness like certain deranged people did.

At last, Hitoshi padded into bathroom just as gracefully as he had barged through the front door, which was to say not at all. He deposited Nari on the counter and reached for his toothbrush. It didn't even have to be a good or thorough brush, just get it gone. He turned the faucet on, watching as Nari inspected the stream of water for a moment and gave it a curious few licks. Eventually he squeezed a hefty glob of toothpaste out of the tube.

It didn't have to be good, just had to be done. That was the only thought that got him through roughly a minute of minty foam and repetitive back and forth motions with his spent arms. As soon as he had started, he was spitting in the sink and washing the evidence of his chore away from the shining white porcelain and his toothbrush. His eyes caught on his face wash when he discarded his toothbrush back into it's sleek black holder and he figured might as well.

If he'd made a mess, Hitoshi didn't care. His bangs had gotten wet because he hadn't bothered to pull his hair back and there was a high probability that not all of the soap had gotten rinsed off, either. Hitoshi simply grabbed a clean towel from the cabinet to pat his face dry and swiped it over the counter to wipe up any splashes he had made. Then he threw the towel directly in the wash and left without another thought. He hardly remembered how to put one foot in front of the other let alone to flick the light off on his way out.

On his way to his bedroom, Hitoshi passed the empty kitchen. No warm lights, no music playing softly in the background, no sizzle on the stove or the wafting of heavenly smells through the rest of the apartment— the thought of which made hunger flare in Hitoshi's empty stomach. No Yamada. The kitchen was lifeless without him. Without his humming or stellar cooking skills or bright energy.

The living room on the other side of the half wall that separated the two rooms was just as barren. Aizawa wasn't slumped on the couch snoring. No cats laid around his legs or papers strewn over the table. His precious tablet had been packed up and probably taken with him to work or plugged in on his side of their shared bed.

Hitoshi glanced then to the cracked door that led to their room. Right beside his own, which was equally as partially open. Kuma hadn't made an appearance with the rest of her siblings at the door so she was probably inside sleeping on his desk chair. He could vividly picture her large, brown, fluffy body stretched out across the entire seat. Hitoshi would have been able to see tufts of her fur sticking out on either side the minute he walked in.

Except, he hadn't walked in. Hitoshi had frozen on the spot by the sudden loneliness that washed over him with the realization that his parents weren't around. Was it childish? Sure. He was almost seventeen, he wasn't supposed to need his daddys around for everything. And he didn't need them.

But, God, had he wanted them more than anything in that moment.

Wanted their noise to fill the void that was left in their wake. Wanted to feel them close by because it made him feel safe. Hitoshi wanted Yamada's hand to tousle his hair, which was already blown every which way from the strong currents of wind that whipped over Musutafu at the very top of the tallest buildings. Hitoshi wanted Aizawa to press his freakishly cold feet against his side like he was nothing more than a convenient space heater that trailed behind whatever room he was in.

He was surely pathetic in that way, and for whatever reason they seemed to find it endearing. Hitoshi practically plopped himself intentionally in Yamada's way just for the chance that the man might choose to reach out for him. And he didn't go anywhere he wasn't given explicit permission to, so following Aizawa around like a lost puppy was always a safe bet.

Hitoshi wanted them there to tell him goodnight. To wish him sweet dreams. To remind him that they loved him. He wanted Yamada to kiss his temple and to call him "little listener" a gazillion times, and for Aizawa to press his own forehead against the teen's while his calloused fingers discreetly found Hitoshi's pulse point after tucking him into bed.

How many times had he checked and found nothing there? Hitoshi wondered not for the first time and ached all the same. He really wanted his parents. Pathetically. So, so pathetically.

He thought about how when Aizawa got that close, Hitoshi could smell his breath, always laced with the strong scent of coffee. It was something he had come to love more than he hated. Even his feather-light detergent, paired with the ever present tickle of cat fur, both woven so deeply into all his clothes, reached his sensitive nose. Most uniquely Aizawa, though, was the smell of the streets at night, which clung to him like a second skin. Never truly washing down the drain when the day was done.

But those were only Aizawa's scents— mere traces of the man within his own home— and they were faint on top of that. Without his physical presence there in that apartment with Hitoshi to reinforce what was already lingering throughout their home. Except maybe in his bedroom but… No.

Hitoshi knew better.

Or, at least, right-minded Hitoshi knew better. Tired-to-the-bone Hitoshi couldn't tell his own left foot from one of Yoru's pitch black polydactyl paws. So… maybe he hadn't realized when he slid open the door to Yamada and Aizawa's room instead of his own. And by that point he had been too far gone. Walking all the way back to his own room— less than two meters away— was simply too much effort.

He was already there, in their room, and a bed was a bed, after all. Except Aizawa would throw a fit if he knew Hitoshi had gotten into his bed with outside clothes on and— again— his room was so far away. Conveniently, though, a pile of discarded clothes was strewn beside the bed right at his feet. Cream colored cotton shorts and an acid washed T-shirt that both looked like they belong to Yamada.

Why they were on Aizawa's side of the bed— closest to the bedroom door— Hitoshi didn't know or care to find out. Especially not when he replaced their spot on the floor with his own dark pants and sweater. A lazy outfit he had sloppily put together for the sole purpose of comfort after his patrol.

It was nowhere near as comfortable as his father's light weight pajamas.

Hitoshi sighed, lifting the comforter, and slumping face first into Aizawa and Yamada's bed. The sheets were unmade, likely from a nap that one— or both— of them had taken right before leaving for their own respective secondary jobs. Could hero work still considered their primary job? Or had teaching taking that from them?

Too many hypotheticals, not enough unconsciousness.

He took a deep breath, earning a face full of Aizawa's pillow. It was creepy— Hitoshi certainly was, at least— but it smelled just like him. His basic yet fresh shampoo and conditioner combo. The occasional Shea butter treatment that left behind its own warm, creamy smells that always had Hitoshi sitting ever so slightly closer every time Aizawa allowed such an extravagance to take place. Even notes of the same detergent they used for everything because it was the only one that didn't give Aizawa a migraine. Hitoshi's mentor hated overly strong or pungent smells. That's why everything about his scent was so… natural.

Soft, subtle, and his.

Hidden within the many folds of their comforter were hints of Yamada as well. The botanical scents of his skincare, from cool eucalyptus to calming lavender. The warmth of his sandalwood body wash. Even the dreamy coconut from his special conditioner.

Hitoshi shifted to his side with his back to the door. Aizawa would be disappointed, he thought distantly. Then he breathed again and his mind melted to just Aizawa.

His dad. Safety. Even if the mentor part of him had drilled it into his dense head over and over, don't leave yourself vulnerable, the parental part of him soothed Hitoshi with constant reminders of you're safe here, I'll protect you, nothing bad will happen to you ever again as long as you're under my care.

Physically the bed was comfortable, but it was the mental embodiment of comfort as well.

It was almost like getting wrapped up in a tight squeezing hug, sandwiched between both men. Such an occurrence had only happened a handful of times and typically lasted for a few seconds. Usually initiated in some kind of joking manner, when they both were trying to overwhelm Hitoshi with their love. But that was the problem. It was too much, too overwhelming. Not just for him but for them as well.

So that was the closest he would ever get to having both of them curled around him at once for an extended period of time— sneaking into their bed like a creep.

Hitoshi could feel his consciousness fading fast. He was lying in the fetal position, clutching Aizawa's pillow, and wrapped up in his parents sheets. They were supposed to have been home just a few hours after Hitoshi had gotten back from patrol. Maybe only one. He couldn't have been sure, he couldn't even remember where he'd left his phone, never mind when he'd last checked the time.

But soon.

They would be home soon and that was what finally soothed his brain into sleep.

He had been so exhausted that he hadn't even had the energy to spiral and keep himself up all night or to conjure any nightmares that would have interrupted his rest. Hitoshi slept soundly and deeply. Despite the subconscious part of his brain that typically made him hyper aware of any imminent or potential danger, he didn't wake up when the front door opened. Though, in all fairness, Aizawa entered not just quietly but silently.

Or he'd tried to, at least.

The man was greeted by the same cacophony of meowing that his son had been subjected to only hours prior. And just like his son, Aizawa pushed his fur babies aside with ease. He smiled to himself upon seeing Hitoshi's keys in the same dish where he placed his own, much more minimalist key ring. Then he slung his bag down beside the entryway table and lowered himself onto the short bench to unlace his boots.

Oddly enough, the kid's school bag was still in the genkan where Aizawa had left it earlier. Strange. Normally he would have taken it to his room to finish any homework he had. Or, at least, he grabbed the bag because he told himself he would do homework, regardless of whether he actually did or not. Not to mention that, for whatever reason— though Aizawa could unfortunately name a few reasons pertaining to the teens upsetting past— Hitoshi was usually convinced that he was in the way, so he wasn't very keen on leaving his things laying about. The fear is deeply ingrained into him that he crumpled himself into a ball too small to take up any space. Either way, Aizawa chalked it up undoubtedly to the fact that Hitoshi was likely wiped from patrol— he himself was looking forward to simply dropping dead in his bed— so he simply made a mental note to drop the bag off outside his door to not disturb his kid's much needed sleep and thought nothing more of it.

It was a slight hassle to wedge his work boot off of his prosthetic, but eventually he was able to slide his feet into his well-worn slippers. Aizawa discarded his boots into the shoe cabinet as well as Hitoshi's sneakers— despite being relatively new, they were already dirty and clearly well loved— which he had left in the middle of the genkan after carelessly kicking them off following his return home.

Although to others it might have been inconvenient or even seem inconsiderate, Aizawa took it for what it was; a very small victory. Hitoshi had gained the confidence and comfortability to develop that slight habit of leaving his shoes knocked to the side, because they always magically got put away by the next time he went out and no one had ever confronted him about cleaning up after himself. In most every other way, he erased his existence for the apartment. But that simple act— that proof, a single, minuscule mark of his occupancy within their apartment alongside him and his husband— was everything to Aizawa.

He hadn't considered correcting his fully capable son anytime soon because, frankly, he enjoyed being trusted to care for the boy, even in the most minor of ways.

Soon thereafter, Aizawa pushed himself from the bench carefully, grabbed Hitoshi's bag, and shuffled down the hallway. All the while he was trailed by Yoru and Nari. Kiyoshi, Kuma, and Sushi were notably absent, though if he knew anything about those lazy butts— and he knew them very well— then he was certain Kuma was already asleep in Hitoshi's room and Sushi was hiding somewhere in their room. Rounding the corner Aizawa confirmed that Kiyoshi was perched on the tallest cat tower, curled up and sleeping.

Hitoshi's door was cracked open like usual so Kuma could come and go as she pleased. Though, whenever the teen chose to hole himself up inside his room, she was usually more than content with staying by his side. Strangely enough, his own door seemed to have pushed open slightly wider. Probably by one of the cats rubbing their face against the edge, Aizawa reasoned, even if it gave him an odd feeling. He gently placed his son's bag beside his door and peeked in.

Just to see him. To know Hitoshi was safe. Aizawa didn't need to go any farther than the doorway. At least, usually he didn't need to because they had agreed, almost to make a point, that they would never breach the boundary of his space without explicit consent.

Except when he realized the bed was empty.

"Hitoshi?" Aizawa glanced down the hallway toward the bathroom. The bright light flooded the hall. He should have realized sooner, but his mind had been too wrapped up in the idea of getting to see his son that he had completely overlooked it.

Aizawa walked down the hall at an ever so slightly hastened pace. Ducking into the bathroom proved Hitoshi wasn't there, either. The shower room was notably dry, but his toothbrush appeared to be damp and a ring of water sat around the drain of the sink. Recently used. Turning off the light, Aizawa felt only partially reassured.

Staring back down the hall, he was met with only the glow of the nightlights— the ones they'd put in before Hitoshi had moved in with them and no one had bothered to remove. The living room was dark too, so he couldn't have fallen asleep in front of the TV. Aizawa moved toward the couch anyway.

Empty.

Maybe he'd just missed him. He hated to do it— especially after reassuring Hitoshi so many times he would never— and he gave a precursory knock, but Aizawa ultimately shoved his way into the room before he could reason himself out of it. Hitoshi had to be in his room because he was home and he was no where else to be found.

He wasn't in his bed, or on the floor— which would have been weird, but Aizawa understood. Flicking the lamp sitting on the desk on washed the room in a soft, warm glow, providing Aizawa no comfort when it still didn't help him find his son. His chair was tucked away under the desk with Kuma's large body taking up the whole seat, but no Hitoshi. Pushing the door to the closet open proved he wasn't in there, either. It also proved that the last time his friends had come over, he hadn't actually cleaned. Rather, Hitoshi had shoved everything away where it wouldn't be seen.

Not the point, and it was his space to keep as he pleased.

Aizawa groaned as he used Hitoshi's bed to lower himself to the floor, genuinely exasperated when he found himself reaching an arm into the dark hoping to brush a large T-shirt or wispy hair or a limb or something— anything! But there was nothing. After entirely too long, Aizawa finally got himself back onto his feet. The only place he hadn't checked yet was the balcony.

It was possible that if the teen hadn't been able to sleep he could have gone out there for some fresh air. Turning the light on in the living room revealed that the curtains were drawn, but still. Maybe he had slipped out for just a second. Aizawa really hoped that he had slipped out for just a second.

The door was locked just as it had been before Aizawa had left for patrol.

He had checked, and then he'd checked again, and both times it had been locked. Even still, he flicked the mechanism up and heaved the glass door open, only to find an empty balcony and a cold, lonesome breeze.

Aizawa had very plainly and pointedly not been panicking before. But by that point he was more than a little willing to admit that maybe he had started to grow a bit frantic. Maybe Hitoshi had left. He wasn't supposed to leave without telling Hizashi and him before hand, but it was possible he had simply forgotten. He'd also left his keys, but again, Aizawa understood better than anyone the extent of which forgetfulness could affect a person.

He was married to Hizashi— ADHD personified— which also explained the shoes— Aizawa was surrounded by vanity.

Hitoshi's white ones were dirty or they didn't match his outfit or he had already worn them once in a day and he couldn't be seen wearing them again. Aizawa didn't need to count all his shoes— though he wasn't above it, either. He could be reasonable, he didn't need to freak out.

He could call the damn kid! Then he'd find out where he was directly from Hitoshi. Besides, maybe hearing his sarcastic, monotonous voice would calm Aizawa's nerves a little.

So Aizawa grabbed his phone out of his back pocket and it was possible that he had begun to pace behind the couch as he called Hitoshi. Meanwhile, Nari climbed onto the back rest to watch him as he spiraled. She almost seemed to be judging him for being ridiculous, which helped Aizawa to take a second and think more than he would have liked to admit. There was no reason to panic. Not yet. Not until a familiar ring tone echoed through the apartment. Aizawa let his hand— which was holding his phone— fall away from his face as he moved back down the front hall.

That was where he had found Hitoshi's phone, pulling it out of his work bag as it continued to ring and vibrate.

Not remembering to message his parents before he had left the apartment was normal. It wasn't something Hitoshi had been required to do before moving in with them— since he lived by such a strict schedule and wasn't allowed to go anywhere on a whim— so sometimes it slipped his mind. Forgetting his keys was one thing on its own and downright bad luck when paired with the lack of message. But a teen going anywhere without their phone? Not likely.

Either something had happened or Hitoshi was in the apartment.

Aizawa would flip the place upside looking for his kid if he had to. But it didn't make sense to look in the same places he already had, and there was one room he hadn't checked yet. It made even less sense why Hitoshi would have been in their room, but maybe he had been looking for Sushi or— something! It didn't matter. Not if Aizawa found him because that was all that mattered.

He wedged the door open slightly because— again— it had already been pushed wider than Aizawa had left it.

A deep sigh of relief forced its way free from his lungs. Aizawa was more shocked at how relieved he was at finding Hitoshi than he was of finding him curled around his pillow and tucked into their sheets. Was it weird that Aizawa thought he almost looked like he belonged there? Never mind that.

Hitoshi belonged wherever he wanted too as long as Aizawa knew where he was and that he was safe.

The man sat down on the edge of his bed behind the curve of his son's back. Leaning forward, Aizawa's forehead met the teen's temple and his fingers automatically found that spot below his young, not-quite-sharp jaw. A steady rhythm danced under his fingertips and Hitoshi stirred slightly under his touch.

He grumbled incoherently, the only legible word was a questioning, "'Zawa?"

Aizawa huffed a breath that could hardly be considered humorous. "Yeah, I'm here. You scared the shit out of me, kid." He leaned back then, looking down fondly at his son who didn't even have the energy to pry open his tired eyes. "I couldn't find you… Thought something had happened," he admitted far too quietly, though he couldn't have been sure that Hitoshi was even still awake to hear it.

But then Hitoshi took a deep breath in and sighed, "Sorry. Was tired… Missed you." Just like Aizawa, it was a murmured confession, equal parts embarrassed as it was honest.

"It's fine, Hitoshi. You're fine." He brushed hair back from Hitoshi's forehead— which was stiff with… something— to get a better look of his face. It was then that he fully saw the bruising. Aizawa's fingers traced the injury lightly and Hitoshi's face tightened subtly. "That hurt?"

He nodded. "Yeah, some asshole…" Hitoshi suddenly frowned. That is, if suddenly meant slowly after a few seconds of delay. His face was troubled, but only slightly. There was only so much that his mind could process in a partially conscious state.

Something about it made Aizawa's anxiety flare up again, though. "Did someone check this out? If you hit your head you could have a concussion."

Shaking his head, Hitoshi said, "No," and then he trailed off into almost delirious chuckling. "No, I don't have a concussion… Ms. Okamoto was watching me when I got home. I couldn't open the door." The teen giggled tiredly some more, as if his exhaustion fueled incompetence were the funniest thing, but Aizawa grimaced.

"That old witch," he grunted. "What time did you even get home? She should be asleep and minding her own business."

Hitoshi hummed and sighed again, this time content. But something about his face— as tired and hazy as it was— still seemed vaguely troubled. Aizawa gave him time to sort it out himself, a skill he had, admittedly, been working hard on. Especially since the teen had a history of shutting down when pushed too hard too fast.

Hizashi said he had a tendency to try and solve everything immediately and he didn't allow things to sit, even when they needed to.

"Stay?" Hitoshi mumbled eventually, peeking one eye open— his left one and the one that was beginning to swell a little. Aizawa knew it was all in the job but still something protective stirred at the thought of Hitoshi getting hurt at the hands of some low life with nothing better to do than harming defenseless teenagers.

Except Hitoshi wasn't defenseless and he need to remember that. He had trained one hell of a kid, and now he got the honor to raise and nurture that kid when he got knocked down, too.

Aizawa felt himself smile. Squeezing Hitoshi's shoulder, he said, "Of course. I'm going to change first, though. Is that okay?" He didn't know why the question came so easily or what made him so eager to get his son's approval, but it probably had something to do with his ever growing soft spot for the teen that knew no bounds and wasn't about to stop growing any time soon.

A nod was all the permission he needed. Though, before he could get up, Hitoshi scolded him quietly. "You got on the bed with your outside clothes on." His tone was teasing and warmed something deep inside Aizawa.

"I know," he huffed, "but we don't all get the convenience of floor clothing." At that, Aizawa pinched the short sleeve of Hizashi's T-shirt— as loose on Hitoshi's thin arm as it was his lean husband's biceps— and tugged slightly. It wouldn't hurt him to put on a little more weight, Aizawa noted in the back of his mind, though maybe he was destined to be thin forever.

Hitoshi curled in on himself more, hiding his face in Aizawa's pillow.

Aizawa finally stood up, cracking his back with a soft groan, and then moved slowly toward his dresser in search of sweatpants and a long sleeve sleeping shirt. It didn't take long to find what he needed considering those specific garments made up half of his wardrobe. He made quick work of peeling off his hero costume— unlike Hitoshi, who had to pack his away to keep at U.A. for class, he could wear his home. Its lack of flair kept attention to a minimum on his commute from work and his minimal gear was easy to store.

Before climbing into Hizashi's side of the bed, Aizawa grabbed Hitoshi's discarded pants and sweater and tossed them into the laundry hamper— earning a grumpy trill from Sushi, who often slept among their dirty clothes and still got irritated when he was bombarded by the aforementioned dirty clothes.

Softly, Aizawa shut the door to his room, blocking out the light he had left on in the living room in his nervous search for his son. Then he made sure to plug Hitoshi's phone in on the bedside table and maybe he also pulled the blankets over his shoulder where they'd slipped off. Hizashi always said he was a mother hen at heart, and while he denied it time and time again, perhaps there was some truth to it after all.

If he didn't do the little things for Hitoshi, who would?

He couldn't help it. Something inside Aizawa had grown strongly paternal for the teen— even if he was a growing boy and fully capable of caring for himself— in a rather short amount of time. Whenever he could, Aizawa wanted to be the one to care for him so the weight wasn't left on Hitoshi's shoulders alone. He deserved it. After so many years of being pushed aside and neglected, he deserved those soft moments. Payback for every stolen innocence, each time he was forced to grow up, when he had the weight of the world on his own two scrawny shoulders.

Maybe, for a change, Hitoshi could be allowed a chance to act a bit childishly.

Eventually, Aizawa found himself settling down on the edge of their bed to begin the process of disassembling his prosthetic. He peeled off his socks from his feet and then from his residual, followed by his liner. Aizawa made sure that everything he needed was still within reach in case he needed to get up or when it begrudgingly became morning— though the likely hood that he was getting out of bed before noon was insurmountably low. And at long last, Aizawa was finally laying down, sleep already overtaking him.

Even if Hizashi's pillow was too firm under his head for Aizawa's liking when he laid his head down, it didn't seem like Hitoshi would be very keen on giving his up. Not if the vice like grip was anything to go by. And, in all honesty, he didn't want to take it from the kid either. Aizawa wasn't about to ruin his peace.

Peace.

God, how had his son come so far? Peace had once been a mere fantasy for Hitoshi. Something that came rarely in sporadic, fleeting increments. Hizashi and him had done everything to give the teen consistency and even still sometimes it didn't feel like enough. It felt like he was never going to be completely comfortable with them or like there would always be that fear— that doubt, the constant second guessing, the inability to let his guard down.

And then he had let himself into their room— borrowed Hizashi's clothes and wrapped himself around Aizawa's pillow— and he'd asked him to stay.

Aizawa let out a shaky breath and shut his eyes. He'd stay. He would have stayed even if Hitoshi hadn't asked. Even if he'd pushed away instead, if he distanced himself and told everyone else to go. Aizawa would stay.

With that settled and his anxieties soothed, Aizawa was ready for a nice, long, deep sleep.

Usually, he was hyper vigilant, even when he was unconscious. So much so that the smallest noises would wake him sometimes. One of the cats sneezing, or Hizashi getting up to pee, a neighbor bumping into something, even a car humming smoothly down the street four stories below was enough to pull Aizawa from slumber on an especially bad night. He was lucky enough to be so skilled at falling right back to sleep, but a single long stretch of unconsciousness was actually something rather unheard of for Aizawa.

It was unusual then that when a set of keys jangled against the front door, he didn't so much as stir.

Hizashi had returned from his late night slot at the radio station completely ready to unwind for the foreseeable future. A nice steamy shower, a hot cup of tea, and his warm lips against his husband's cold ones would make the perfect end to his day. He whistled an upbeat tune to keep himself awake more than anything, swinging his keys around his finger as he took the stairs two at a time. Just a few more steps and he'd be home.

Hitoshi should have been home too— it was a nice and early 6 o'clock in the morning on a Sunday, so most people should have been home. But Hizashi didn't care about most people. He cared about his son and his husband, who were both supposed to be home and most likely zonked in their respective beds, but still. Breakfast after they all got up and moving— no matter how late in the day— was always something that he looked forward to.

Though, maybe a nap was due, too. He had only squeezed an hour or so between the end of his evening patrol and leaving for the radio station. And that had been after a full day of teaching, no less! The second Hizashi stopped moving, he knew he was going to crash, but in that moment he just had to keep going. One foot in front of the other.

Once he'd reached the door, Yoru was already screaming her greeting, hopefully not waking Shouta or Hitoshi with her yowling. Such a noisy cat, he thought grimly, the irony not lost on someone as attuned— no pun intended— with literary devices as he was. Pushing the door open revealed only the miniature panther, all by herself.

Strange.

As much as the felines preferred their solitude, they had their moments wherein they flocked together. Anyone entering or exiting the apartment was one of those moments— though Hizashi hadn't a single clue why. They didn't seem to possess any desire to flee. Not to mention that it was almost time for breakfast, so they were sure to be rousing from sleep to annoy their owners incessantly for the next hour.

Even stranger was— well, everything. One oddity after the other. Firstly was the absence of the many kitties crowding at the door. Because there was nothing was good about cats and silence. What was really weird, however, was that someone had turned one of the overhead lights on. He could see it down the hallway, probably in the living room. It was possible that Hitoshi hadn't been able to sleep and was sitting in there, but rounding the corner quickly disproved that. There was no one to be found— no one except Kiyoshi, flopped dramatically on his back atop his throne.

Shouta had clearly shut himself inside their room, but Hitoshi's door was wide open.

He couldn't help himself. Hizashi peeked inside, just to see if his precious baby boy was there tucked all adorably in his bed, sheets strewn about and drooling on his pillow. But he wasn't there.

Hizashi's son was missing!

He was missing and his damn husband was in the room next door asleep! Hizashi jutted his bottom lip out in a pout, eyebrows knit together tightly. It was possible he had just missed the teen, he was pretty sneaky— always so quiet and shrunken in on himself, not to mention that Eraserhead was his mentor, which made his stealth skills that much better. So he double checked the couch, and made sure he wasn't in the kitchen, and finally ducked into the bathroom, which was void of any sign of Hitoshi.

Right, well, that meant it was time to pick a bone with Shouta, who was certainly waiting for him just behind their door because of his uncanny ability to just know when to wake up. Except, when he slid their door open, the log of a person sleeping on Shouta's side of the bed was very much still asleep. Completely unlike his husband.

Matter of fact, he wasn't Shouta at all.

Such a wild mop of hair could only belong to Hitoshi, and suddenly all of Hizashi's anger disappeared. Though, it hadn't really been anger before, if he were honest. Shouta wasn't the only one who liked to keep their flock together at all times. Hizashi enjoyed proximity too, and to come home after a long day without his two favorite people right where he knew they should be felt almost criminal.

With Hitoshi in his spot, however, Shouta had taken up Hizashi's side of the bed.

And that goddamn cat was on his pillow! Nari, the spoiled brat she was, always got what she wanted with Shouta. And that meant their strict "no cats in the bed" rule had quickly gone out the window after taking her in. The stormy ball of fur slept curled up beside his head every night. Or morning. Or whenever it was that Shouta had managed to squeeze in a nap.

Hizashi was too distracted to care about that, though. Hitoshi was in their bed. When had he gotten there? What had he missed while he was away? It felt intimate, too out of line for the teen, too close. He always seemed to mingle at the edge of their little family, like he was just waiting for the day he'd slip out of their circle and become an outsider once more. But… he was there.

Pride instantly swelled in Hizashi's chest, and he went to the side of the bed to ruffle his hair. Softly. Like he usually did, just so Hitoshi knew he was home.

Rousing slightly, his eyes blinked open but he didn't seem to really see anything. His gaze was unfocused, not soloing in anything.

"Hey, baby," he said with a smile, brushing some of Hitoshi's wayward lavender locks away from his forehead. Then his thumb traced a nasty bruise on the side of his face. "Go back to sleep, I didn't mean to wake you. I'm happy to see you, though."

He closed his eyes and smiled drowsily. Hitoshi hummed something that might have been words, but was nothing more than sleepy slurs when it reached his ears.

Hizashi moved to the other side of the bed— his side, usually. Then he sat down next to his husband, preparing for a scolding about his "outside clothes", when Shouta startled himself suddenly from sleep, a hand bracing over his head defensively and the rest of his body curling slightly toward Hitoshi, as if to protect the teen. It would have been cute if Hizashi hadn't been so familiar with the petrified response— no matter how it had changed and adapted throughout the years. Even then as it accommodated for their son despite having manifested many years ago.

Way back when it had just been Shouta and Shouta alone.

"Hey, hey, it's just me," he said, a hand hovering over Shouta's hip. Hizashi waited until Shouta's eye found him and truly saw him before he allowed himself to actually touch his husband. It seemed it had been forever ago since they hadn't been Hizashi-and-Shouta. Back when they didn't know each other's small cues, when they didn't have the others full, unconditional love and support. "What's, uh, what's up with this?" He raised an eyebrow and looked at Hitoshi, keeping his voice low, though the boy seemed dead to the world once more, face slack again and breaths coming long and deep. The corner of his mouth slightly glistened.

With a sigh, Shouta shut his eyes and laid his head down against the pillow, that defensive tenseness he had equipped in seconds bled out of him almost immediately.

It came so much more easily to him— that relaxation. Hizashi still remembered what it was like to lay beside Shouta when they had been young and dumb and stumbling through the very first, hesitant steps of their relationship— wobbling unsteadily just as baby fawns might upon being welcomed to the world. They had both been as still as statues, with their backs facing each other, and Shouta's breaths would come shallow and forced into a steady rhythm. Almost to trick his body into thinking he was calm and safe. But he didn't really believe it. Not then he didn't, he felt just as vulnerable as he would have been had he been on his own— or maybe having Hizashi there raised the stakes.

They hadn't yet known the reality that they had been carved to lay in bed beside one another for the rest of eternity.

Now there was no risk. Hizashi was Shouta's safe place, undoubtedly and unwaveringly. They often found themselves wound together at the end of the day or night or whenever. Limbs entwined dynamically as though they were made out of smooth marble, chiseled away from one firm slab into something beautiful. Intimate. Each gentle caress and minuscule fold in the sheets and vague shape of their bodies depicted with the careful detail only an artist could capture.

"When did you get home?" Shouta asked.

What he meant was "How long had I been oblivious to the potential threat lurking while I laid here and slept, endangering my entire tiny family?"

Hizashi was quick to reassure him with an honest, "Not long, just a few minutes. Your guard cats are slacking," he nodded to Nari, "but Yoru put up quite a ruckus. If I was a bad guy, I would have totally been frightened off." He chuckled, but Shouta only found his hand and squeezed. It was a little tight, but Hizashi let him hold on for as long as needed.

Soon after, his grip slid up to Hizashi's wrist.

"I was going to hop in the shower real quick, I've been marinating in B.O. since patrol. That okay?"

Shouta nodded, his fingers still pressed against Hizashi's skin.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Shouta's forehead. "I'll be quick, I've been thinking about you for hours."

"You ever stopped?" Shouta questioned quietly, and while it was a blatant tease, Hizashi responded in earnest.

"Never." Another kiss, this time on the tip of his nose. "Be back soon." Lastly, a smooch to his lips. He felt Shouta smile and hum his approval, only the slightest hint of his earlier turmoil remained. Hizashi knew Shouta wasn't used to being oblivious. He never got caught off guard. But his fingers squeezed one last time before he released Hizashi and that seemed to be the last of it. He would settle once more.

Hizashi made quick work of grabbing his pajamas— the perfectly good ones he'd left next to the bed had somehow gone missing, though it was probably Shouta who picked them up and threw them in the hamper. So he grabbed a fresh pair of brown plaid pajama pants and a gray crew-neck plus some underroos before he skee-daddled to the shower.

Hizashi washed up in record breaking time, both because he had been looking forward to cuddling with his husband in bed all day— he hadn't lied when he'd said Shouta had been on his mind— but also because he could feel his exhaustion creeping up on him quickly. He threw his lusciously long hair into two quick, simple braids. The world was quiet as he walked back down the hall, and slightly blurry— Hizashi hadn't bothered to put his glasses back on, nor his hearing aids. He was done being a functioning person.

He quickly detoured to flick the living room light off and navigated back to his room with the slight light the seeped through the blinds. The sun was rising, taking the responsibility to shine off of Hizashi's shoulders. He could rest now.

The scene that awaited him on the other side of the door couldn't have been anymore precious than the first time— yet it was.

Shouta had his hands tucked under his chin, bent sharply at the wrist, dark hair sprawled over his pillow and pinned under Nari's butt. Her gentle slate coat contrasting his stark ebony waves. Hizashi knew he could never love the cats as much as Shouta did, but the sight of them fitting so naturally together— like the feline were merely an extension of the man— made his heart squeeze.

And Hitoshi.

All curled up on himself, tucked in and looking like a belonged right there in that bed which wasn't even his. Though, in a sense, it was. Everything in the apartment was just as much his as it was theirs. Hizashi could only hope that they'd done a good job at assuring him as much— maybe that was proof they had. He felt comfortable enough to get into their bed. To take up room in their safe space.

Hizashi went to his side of the bed and nudged Shouta closer to the edge of the bed. His husband grunted and shimmied just enough to make room for Hizashi— though Nari kept him from going much of anywhere— and he slotted himself in the space between Shouta and the teen. He all but melted into the hallow of his husband's chest as Shouta's arms wrapped around his waist. Hizashi wasn't much of a side sleeper, but he needed the cuddles more than he cared for his preferred sleeping position.

That was how Hitoshi found his parents when he woke up again. Though, of course, he hadn't really been aware of the other times he'd awoken, too delirious to remember his own pathetic and desperate mumbles begging for his parents to stay close.

For a moment, everything felt normal, and then the realization of what he'd done dawned on him.

Hitoshi had gotten into their bed. He'd gotten into Yamada and Aizawa's bed. And they had let him.

How embarrassing. Really, Hitoshi had every intention of leaving before they had gotten home… Or, he thought he had.

With a soft sigh, he let his head fall back down to the pillow. Aizawa's pillow, Hitoshi noted.

They were right there, he could reach out and touch them, and yet they seemed inaccessible all the same.

The room was pitch black— courtesy of the thick, heavy blackout curtains that had been thumb tacked flush with the wall. It was different. Hitoshi's own room had a nightlight in it, even though he was entirely too old to need one. Aizawa and Yamada had put it there before he'd moved in, probably under the assumption that he would remove it if he didn't need it. And— under the circumstance that he did need one— he wouldn't have to ask them for something so trivial yet embarrassing.

Hitoshi just… hadn't gotten around to unplugging it yet.

It took his eyes some time to adjust to the dark, but eventually the lumpy, indistinct shapes of his dads came into view. They were entangled with each other and something suspiciously fuzzy laid at their heads. There was a significant gap between him and Yamada— who had somehow gotten between Aizawa and him— though that might have been a slight exaggeration fueled by the mental distance he felt.

Hitoshi felt like an outsider.

Aizawa, having sensed a shift in the universe, miraculously woke.

Of course, Hitoshi didn't know that until a hand— having unwound itself from Yamada's waist— brushed his arm, which was significantly more covered than he remembered it being when he'd fallen into their bed.

He flinched.

"You awake?" Aizawa grumbled, though he figured the answer was obvious.

Hitoshi yawned, "Yeah."

"Awake awake?" he clarified.

The teen hummed the affirmative.

Aizawa's hand tightened on his shoulder. "You still sound tired, you should try to go back to sleep."

Hitoshi hummed again, less affirmative. Then Aizawa's hand cupped the side of his face, his thumb lightly passing over his bruised cheek. And his busted lip— the damn traitor— quivered.

Please don't say anything, please don't say anything, please don't say anything.

"Kid," Aizawa said, his tone indecipherable as he pulled his hand back.

Reflexively, Hitoshi grabbed it and held Aizawa's hand against his face. The room froze. Tension thickened by a tenfold. Hitoshi held his breath until the sting in his eye went away and his throat didn't feel warm and choked. Aizawa didn't try to pull away again in the meantime. When Hitoshi finally let out a trembling breath, he spoke.

"Bad patrol?"

Hitoshi groaned. "I don't know. I was just exhausted. Mentally, I think." He shrugged and said again, "I don't know." Truly, he didn't. Didn't know why he was sleeping closer to Aizawa than he ever had before— minus the rare exception that either of them (read as Hitoshi) fell asleep on the other on the train— and it still didn't feel like enough. Didn't know why he wanted to cry so damn bad even though nothing was really bothering him. Didn't know why Aizawa had come home, found a stray teen in his bed, wearing his husband's clothes, begging him to stay, and let it happen.

Aizawa paused, but eventually he asked, "Do you want a hug?"

He did. He really, really did.

"Yeah," Hitoshi sighed in one pitiful, mucousy breath. "Please."

His dad sat up— disrupting Nari, who got up, stretched with a muffled trill, and padded down to the end of the bed— and leaned over Yamada, pulling Hitoshi closer to him since he couldn't go far. He tucked the teen's head under his chin with one hand while the other rubbed his back firmly. Yamada moaned about something, probably his sleep being disturbed as well, but Aizawa was quick to dismiss his tired complaints, even if Yamada had no way of understanding.

"Hush," he snipped, "this isn't about you."

Aizawa's voice rumbled in his chest under Hitoshi's head, which was being held flush against his dad by a single large, calloused hand. All the rope burn from manipulating his scarf and scaling concrete buildings and such. Hitoshi's pathetic noodle arms came to wrap around his midsection, a loose and limp hold. The angle was a little awkward since he hadn't fully sat up and Yamada was still trapped between them.

"This is sweet but do you two mind?" His complaint was duly noted and promptly ignored.

Hitoshi pulled back first. Not that he wanted to, but by that point Yamada had resorted to physical violence, giving Aizawa a hearty thunk on the back and winding up for a second whack. He didn't want to be next. Yamada's play hits packed some punch.

Aizawa huffed, less than pleased to have his moment with his son interrupted. Hitoshi could practically hear his roll his eye. He grabbed Yamada's arm and heaved him up.

There was an exasperated sigh before Yamada sat up by himself and grabbed his pillow, getting the hint. He tossed it on top of Hitoshi's— though technically it was Aizawa's. Maybe not anymore now that Hitoshi had drooled all over it. Then he announced in a voice thick with exhaustion and absolutely fed up, "Swapsies."

"What?—"

But Yamada had already begun to climb over Hitoshi, pushing him into the middle of the bed. He shoved Aizawa's pillow aside with the teen and miraculously produced another pillow from the mess of sheets, which he thrust in the direction of his husband. Then Yamada plopped down onto the mattress, pulling the sheets over his chest and snuggling against his pillow with a series of indecipherable grumbles— though Hitoshi was certain it was more playful than genuine.

Aizawa silently placed the additional pillow under his head, pulling Hitoshi's down with him. Though, he did a little more than just pull it flush with the bed. His left arm remained tucked under the pillow, which he had fluffed and smoothed out in preparation for Hitoshi to lay down, and his right— which had done the aforementioned finagling— lifted invitingly.

For a moment, Hitoshi's breath caught in his throat.

He had convinced himself that he'd been thinking dramatically and acting irrationally. That the longing for closeness he had been feeling that night— honestly, for a few nights by then— was childish and desperate.

Hitoshi was in the trenches of his third year at U.A. and soon enough he would graduating. Almost a fully fledge Pro Hero. That meant he was practically an adult! He shouldn't have been acting the way he was.

Aizawa wasn't helping Hitoshi confirm what he already knew was true.

Not when he was actively opening his arms up to the boy to cuddle. Like he was a toddler instead of a teen. Like Aizawa was only his dad and not just his teacher, his mentor. Like it wasn't super weird that Hitoshi had let himself into their space without permission. Like their space was also his space and personal space didn't exist.

He should have said no because Hitoshi should have known better than to push the boundaries of Aizawa and his relationship.

But should and would were two completely different things and deep down Hitoshi knew the only thing he would be doing that night— morning, technically— was losing himself in his dad's wide open, warm, completely willing, and welcoming arms.

Aizawa's pillow held familiar smells faintly. Vaguely. Hitoshi knew they belonged to the man, and that was why he could recognize and place the scents for what they were. But had he been even slightly more of a stranger, he didn't think he would have been able to point out where the strong coffee odor ended and the soft cotton of his detergent began. Hitoshi definitely wouldn't have been able to name the complex urban smells— grimy alleys mixed with cool late night breezes and a moody fog— that seemed to find home in Aizawa's loose waves. Worst of all, though, was how his body physical relaxed simply at the mere smell of his mentor.

His dad.

Hitoshi lowered himself to his— as in Aizawa's, because it was not his own— pillow and scooted close enough to catch a whiff of the real deal. It was different but the same. Stronger, more natural, personal. Aizawa either way. His arm draped heavily over Hitoshi's side, pulling the boy slightly into himself.

Then his lips pressed gently to Hitoshi's forehead.

"Love ya, kid," Aizawa sighed, resigned but honest.

He couldn't help the smile that pulled at his wavering lips. Hitoshi didn't respond. He didn't need to.

Yamada had a way of filling the silence, even if he himself had no way of telling the difference between quiet and clamor.

"Are you guys snuggling without me?"

He was glaring at them dramatically out of the side of his eye, which Hitoshi saw when he glanced out of Aizawa's protective and comforting hold.

"Yes," Aizawa replied, his tone void of any inflection other than exhaustion. Yamada heard none of it. For a moment, a hand rubbed heavy against Hitoshi's back, coaxing the teen to settle again. Once he did that, Aizawa reached out to brush Yamada's arm, trailing down to his husband's closest hand. Then he whispered, "If this is too much, let me know."

It was soft and gentle.

It was sickening.

Hitoshi nodded anyway and let it happen. Because maybe— even more sickly— he wanted it. He wanted it so badly.

Aizawa guided Yamada's hand to Hitoshi's shoulder and for a moment they were skin to skin to skin. He could feel the way his parents' hands were intertwined on top of his bicep and something about it was reassuring. Subconsciously, Hitoshi felt his body begin to relax under their combined touch. The tangle of their palms pressed into his skin like a pinky promise of love and years to come. It was steady, stable.

Everything he'd never had before.

The smooth back of Yamada's hand laid flush against Hitoshi's own irregular skin, sandwiched by Aizawa's surly palm laying on top, fingers curved slightly around the side of his husband's. His other arm laid across his stomach over top the sheets, meanwhile Aizawa's was still trapped under Hitoshi's head, and the teen was caught curled ever so slightly between them. His knees were slightly bent because he couldn't bring them any closer to his chest— an overwhelming urge to curl up fetal style had plagued him since he'd gotten home— and he clutched the nearest corner of Aizawa's pillow between his own hands.

It was the only thing stopping him from reaching forward and grasping the front of his dad's shirt to pull him close and never let go. Ever.

Their hands fell away from each other and Yamada's right hand slid between their pillows and found Aizawa's other. Hitoshi felt it more than he saw it, but he was sure they weren't apart for more than a few seconds. Then he felt Aizawa's arm draped over his side again, paired with the new sensation of Yamada pressing his knuckles against his lower back. Just to be there.

So Hitoshi knew he wasn't going anywhere.

Yamada's breath came as an airy whisper against the nape of his neck when he said, "Sweet dreams, 'Toshi."

And even though Hitoshi had already slept for longer than he ever had in his own bed in recent days, he was more than happy to oblige and let his mind slip into slumber once more with a departing, half hearted hum.