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Something is wrong with Shinso.
Shota clocks it the second the kid pads into the kitchen that morning. Ever since he and Hizashi had taken him in a few months prior, Shinso – much like Shota himself – had proven to be the complete opposite of a morning person. One thing that always helped them snap out of their groggy morning funks, though, was the smell of Hizashi’s cooking: miso soup, grilled fish, omelettes… Hizashi prides himself in his good, home-cooked meals, and breakfast is no exception.
But not even the smell of Hizashi’s cooking can help add colour to the sickly pale shade of Shinso’s face that morning. His eye bags are much more pronounced, and with his chapped lips and deflated hair, he—
“Wow…! You look like death warmed over, kiddo,” Hizashi announces as soon as he sets eyes on Shinso. Shota reaches over from where he’s perched on the counter beside him (it gives him a good view of the room, his husband, and the food cooking on the stove all at once) and gives Hizashi a gentle smack to the back of the head.
Shinso’s reply isn’t particularly eloquent. “Mmfgh.” He rubs one eye with the ball of his palm and glances over at the breakfast-in-progress.
Shota hops down from the counter. Concern creeps onto his face; an instinctual response to Shinso’s current state rather than a conscious one. “Morning, kid.”
“G’morning.”
“You okay?” Shota asks cautiously.
“Yeah, ‘m fine. Just”—Shinso yawns, as if to prove a point—“didn’t sleep well.”
“That’s what happens when you go to bed at three a.m.,” Hizashi sing-songs, and Shota resists the urge to call him out on his hypocrisy. The man has three separate jobs – his sleeping schedule isn’t exactly great, either.
And neither is his own. As far as households go (can he call them that? A household? They are Shinso’s guardians, he supposes…), it isn’t a very well-rested one.
Shinso steels his features, but Shota doesn’t miss the way his fingers clutch the cuffs of his long sleeves. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh,” Hizashi says, entirely unconvinced, before plating up the food and taking it over to the table. On the very rare occasion he ate a somewhat-proper meal before Shota moved in with his partner, he’d just eat it straight from the pan to avoid extra washing up. Hizashi, however, is very fond of eating together as a family (though none of them ever says the f word out loud), which means sitting around a table together with proper food on proper plates and eating it with proper silverware. It had taken Shota a while to get used to the whole… formality of it all, but now? Now it’s one of Hizashi’s many endearing traits – one Shota is rather fond of, if he’s being honest.
If Shinso has any opinions on it, he’s never said so out loud. He’s usually quick to wolf down whatever food is put in front of him, and pays little mind to its presentation, or the other two people sitting with him. They don’t mind. It’s good to see him eating well.
Or, it’s good to see him usually eating well.
Today, Shinso isn’t eating a thing.
Hizashi, ever the one to fill silence, chats idly about his plans for the day as they eat, and Shota listens intently, enjoying the sound of his voice. Shinso, meanwhile, pushes food around his plate. It takes a good few minutes for him to finally raise some to his mouth, but Shota sees the way the blood drains from his face as he does so, and watches as the food-filled fork is lowered back to the plate.
He can’t be too direct with his prying, or Shinso will shell up like a frightened clam – but if he doesn’t say anything, the kid will try going into school today like there isn’t a problem at all.
“Is he sick?” Hizashi asks him later that morning, as they’re getting ready for work. He hunches over the edge of their bed, trying to pull on his trademark leather pants with some difficulty.
“I think so.” Shota is already fully clothed, aside from his capture weapon and goggles. He leans by the window, with the view of the waking city to his left, and his husband’s contortion skills to his right. Sushi, their household tabby, leaps up onto the windowsill and presses her face against Shota’s hand.
“Has he thrown up?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything last night.”
“Yeah, no, me neither— God, I swear these have gotten smaller—”
“But he didn’t eat anything.”
Hizashi’s shoulders deflate. “No, he didn’t.”
“Your food was good. He didn’t have an appetite.”
“Ah!” Hizashi finally succeeds in squeezing both legs into his trousers, and hops up to his feet in triumph. Shota allows himself a moment to openly appreciate the view. “We gonna let him go to school?”
“No.”
“What was that about not letting him go?” Hizashi murmurs from the driver’s seat of his car. One hand is on the steering wheel, while the other fiddles with and readjusts his hearing aids. Shota scowls and says nothing, glancing in the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of Shinso in the backseat.
Shinso’s reflection catches his eye. “I’ll be fine. Like I said, it’s just a headache.”
The little shit had been too convincing; they had agreed to take him to school without him even needing to use his quirk. Shota’s painfully aware Shinso has the two of them wrapped tightly around his finger, but knows there is little he can do about it.
Shinso promises to see Recovery Girl if things get worse, but Shota knows him well enough to know that won’t be happening at all, not without some coercing. The kid will grin and bare it the whole day, no matter how bad it gets.
Shota would know, because he would do the exact same in his situation. But he is an adult, and Shinso is a child. A child who he is co-responsible for.
A child he is letting rock up to school completely, undeniably sick.
Fuck. He's never having children.
As he approaches 1-A’s classroom, Shota concludes that he is definitely never having children. Shinso’s quietness that morning means that the rowdiness of class 1-A seems amplified to Shota’s ears, and he bites back a full facial wince as he steps foot into the room. It’s too early for extreme facial expressions.
Registration is simple enough; everyone is present and accounted for – for better or for worse. As Shota goes through the motions of teaching, he frequently glances over to Shinso for just long enough to gauge how the kid is doing. For the first hour or so, he appears to be in the same state he woke up in, though the presence of his classmates and friends help to bring the world’s subtlest smile to his face. It puts Shota’s mind at ease, if only by a fraction.
And then comes Phys Ed.
Class 1-A is scheduled to continue working on their quirks, starting off with simple 1-V-1 matches. Shinso avoids Shota’s gaze the entire walk to Gym Gamma, likely aware of his concern yet intent on ignoring it completely. Both of them know quirk training of any intensity is bound to make Shinso’s illness – or whatever the hell is wrong with him – worse through the mental and physical exhaustion. Shota should pull him out of class, just this once, but he can’t think of a way to do so in time without causing a scene. Class 1-A are inquisitive little shits; no doubt a flurry of questions would descend upon him the second they notice Shinso is being excused from practice.
So, to Shota’s chagrin, Shinso participates in the class.
And twenty minutes later, he collapses.
Shota’s body has never moved faster; the second he sees the light drain from the kid’s eyes he’s on the move. Shinso’s limbs go limp, and in the blink of an eye he’s crumpled on the floor, with Shota by his side.
“Shinso? Shinso, can you hear me?” Shota asks, though he knows it’s no use. The kid’s temporarily out cold. As he gently moves Shinso’s body so he’s lying comfortably and flat on the ground, Shota calls out, “Iida – get Recovery Girl. Everyone else, back up. Give him space.”
He holds the back of his hand in front of Shinso’s mouth, and feels almost nauseous from the relief that floods through him as he feels warm breath hit his skin. Two fingers to his neck says his heart rate is normal, too; chances are, Shinso’s body became too tired and simply gave out.
Uraraka, Shinso’s opponent at the time of his fainting, is a bundle of nerves as she lingers nearby. “Did I do something wrong? Is he okay?”
“Aiz— Sensei?” Shinso’s eyes scrunch up, and in seconds his face changes from pure unconscious bliss and relaxation to one of… pain. He hisses a curse and winces, and Shota frowns. Only then does Shinso seem to remember to school his expression into one of neutrality, but it’s far too late.
“I should never have let you come in today.”
“I just pushed myself too hard,” Shinso insists as he props himself up on his arms, before letting out a little snort of laughter. “You know what they say: go big or go home.”
“We’re going home.”
“No— Shit, I’m fine. I just overdid it with my quirk.”
“Why are you so opposed to taking care of yourself?”
Shinso pointedly avoids looking at the rest of 1-A who, despite trying their best to not look as if they’re listening in on the conversation, are doing exactly that. He lowers his voice as he hisses his reply. “Because I didn’t want to make a scene. Draw attention. That’d be stupid.”
“This is stupid. You collapsed. Do you know how frightening that was for everyone else here? And now you’re wasting vital class time. You have gained nothing from doing this.”
Shota’s words appear to hit home; Shinso looks down at the floor, cheeks blotched red. Straight away, Shota regrets his harshness, but Iida returning with Recovery Girl means he has no time for immediate emotional damage control.
Recovery Girl peers down at Shinso. “Oh, you silly boy. You should know your limits by now.” She turns to Shota, who finds it disconcerting to suddenly be at the same eye level as her as he squats beside Shinso. “Exhaustion. And”—she pulls off one glove and presses her hand against his forehead—“yes, a fever, too. You’re sickly pale, boy. You shouldn’t even be in school today.”
Shinso sheepishly turns away, and Shota pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Come on,” Recovery Girl motions for Shinso to stand. He stumbles as he does so, and Shota is quick to steady him. “Eraser, help bring him back to my office.”
Both Shota and Shinso comply, and say very little as they follow Recovery Girl away from Gym Gamma and through the corridors of the main UA building.
By the time they reach the nurse’s office, Shinso is considerably less woozy from fainting, and pried Shota’s balancing hands off him long ago. Shota leans against the doorway and watches as Shinso obligingly hoists himself onto the little patient’s bed, legs dangling over the edge.
“You’re sick,” Recovery Girl says simply, after going through all the regular medical checks. “Sick and downright tired. My quirk will do little else but drain your energy further – but with some proper rest, you’ll be right as rain in no time.”
She pats Shinso’s head in a motherly fashion and hands him a lollipop, regardless of the fact he didn’t receive any of her healing quirk.
Shota feels some of the tension in his shoulders melt away. Nothing is severely wrong with the kid, he just needs to rest up and take it easy while his body recovers. Irritatingly, he wonders how close Shinso would be to feeling better, had he and Hizashi insisted he stayed home, but he knows there’s no use dwelling on it. The damage has already been done.
“I’ll take him home.” He digs around in his pocket for his phone, and sends a quick update text to his husband.
[Shota] The kid pushed himself too much today. Taking him home. RG says he needs rest.
No matter the circumstances, Hizashi’s replies to Shota almost always come within minutes, and now is no exception.
[Hizashi] aw man!
[Hizashi] hope hes OK
[Hizashi] take my car Ill grab a ride from Nemuri
[Hizashi] u need anything?
[Shota] Could you find cover for 1-A’s homeroom? I don’t have the time.
[Hizashi] Ill cover
[Hizashi] I <3 those kids
[Shota] Thank you.
[Hizashi] no prob :)
[Hizashi] keep me updated
[Hizashi] n lmk if u need anything else!!
“When she said I needed to rest,” Shinso says after Recovery Girl shoos them out of the room, “she didn’t mean right this second. I can survive the rest of the school day.”
“I’m not taking that risk.” Shota motions for him to follow. “I’ll take you back to the classroom to get your stuff, and then we’re leaving.”
The look on Shinso’s face says he wants to say something in retaliation, to try and make a stronger case for staying, but then he winces and a hand shoots to grasp his stomach. Shota simply raises an eyebrow at him in a silent case in point.
They cross paths with Hizashi – his Present Mic persona as vibrant and lively as ever – as they take a detour to the classroom on their way out of the building. With Phys Ed’s abrupt ending, Mic’s cover session for 1-A is just getting started, a much more exciting rendition of the lesson compared to how Shota would have done it. He wonders if it will do some good for the class to have some change from his monotony.
Shota hangs back in the hallway as Shinso grabs his bags and gives the bare-minimum explanation to his confused classmates. Before they turn to leave and head home, Hizashi gives them a little wave and tosses over the keys to his car, and Shota gives him a small smile in return.
They slip into the teacher’s office so Shota can grab enough work to keep him busy while he’s at home looking after caring for monitoring Shinso. Without Hizashi, the drive back is oddly quiet; Shota tunes into a random radio station to fill the silence. Once they arrive back at their apartment, Shinso, appearing to accept the fact he needs some good R&R, heads into his room, meanwhile Shota searches for painkillers and pours a glass of crisp, cold water.
He knocks softly on Shinso’s door, and enters when he hears a noise of affirmation. Shinso is perched on the edge of his bed, having changed from his UA gym uniform into sweatpants and an oversized Put Your Hands Up! Radio t-shirt. Hizashi has always been one for giving gifts, and when Shinso first moved into their apartment, he would have been bombarded with them had Shota not stepped in and suggested he held back so as to not frighten the kid. The t-shirt still somehow slipped its way into Shinso’s belongings however, and the first time Hizashi saw him wearing it, his whole face lit up. Shota is rather fond of that memory.
“I have water and Loxonin,” Shota says, holding out the glass and two pills. Shinso takes them with a quiet ‘thanks,’ and once the painkillers are gone and the water has been adequately sipped, Shinso looks at him as if he’d like to be left alone – Shota knows that look all too well.
Despite it, Shota lingers at the doorway. Hizashi is always nagging at him to work on communicating his feelings – and practising it within the safety of his home seems like the best approach.
The words feel awkward on his tongue, but he forces them out anyway.
“I’m… sorry,” he says, avoiding eye contact with the kid and instead looking at Sushi, who has adorably curled herself up on the bed.
“What?”
Shota takes a breath. “I snapped at you. Back in Gamma.”
Shinso lightly scoffs. “It’s fine.”
“I was… frustrated with myself, for allowing you to go to school today. I— I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“…Oh.” Shinso says little else for a short while, and Shota decides to wait and see if he’ll receive a more substantial response. It pays off, because after a few minutes of giving Sushi some well-deserved chin scratches, Shinso adds, “Thanks. For apologising. It was shitty that I fainted in front of the whole class in the first place, and—”
“My scolding did little to help?”
“—yeah.”
Shota nods, solemnly. He’s said the S word once, and he’s not sure he can manage to say it a second time in the span of a few minutes. “I’ll give you space. Get some rest. Shout if you need anything.”
Shinso nods, and just before Shota closes the door completely, he hears a sincere, “Thank you.”
The resulting smile on his face doesn’t disappear until he’s arranged a make-shift office in the living room; what was once a coffee table is now covered in quizzes waiting to be marked and graded, paperwork to be completed, and various other teaching-related stuff that, in Shota’s opinion, is a complete and utter waste of tree. Despite the mess, Sushi hops up onto the table and flops onto some of the paperwork, rendering it unreachable for the time being – how unfortunate. Shota gives her a belly rub in lieu of a thank you.
The pile of quizzes is in alphabetical order, and Aoyama’s patiently waits at the top. Shota takes one look at it, sees the array of doodles adorning the white space, and promptly moves on to the next paper in the pile. He doesn’t feel like wading through sparkles and stars and hearts to mark Aoyama’s answers right now. Ashido’s looks relatively normal – there is still the occasional doodle here and there, but it’s nowhere near as extreme as sparkle boy’s – so Shota picks up a red pen and gets to work.
Question one’s answer is acceptable, but could have been more detailed.
Shinso’s room is quiet. Has he managed to fall asleep?
Question two couldn’t have been answered more incorrectly if Ashido tried.
Should he take more water to Shinso’s room? What if he’s finished the glass he brought earlier, but feels too sickly to shout and ask for more?
Question three—
Was his apology adequate? Was it sincere enough?
Shota shakes off the thought. Question three. Question three needs marking.
He checks the clock on the wall. There’s still a few hours until the school day finishes, and really, Shota should keep working until that time is up. He rubs one eye with the ball of his palm, and, upon catching sight of his sleeve, suddenly remembers he’s still in his hero costume.
He takes a short break to change out of it into something much more comfortable, then forces himself to get back to work.
The sound of a key turning in the front door makes Shota perk up. The handle moves, then the door swings open, and—
“I’m ba~ack!” Hizashi calls. It looks as if today was a long day for him; his glasses are askew and a few strands of hair have escaped his ridiculous gelled-up hairdo.
“Hizashi. Welcome home.”
Hizashi closes the door, dumps his bag on the floor, and approaches Shota with the clear intent of smothering him with affection, until he catches sight of the current state of the living room and pauses.
“What have you done to our coffee table?”
“This is my office now.”
“Like hell it is, Sho. Workin’ day’s over, time to forget about work!”
He doesn’t need to tell Shota twice.
In the end, thanks to the little voice in the back of his head regularly voicing Shinso-related concerns the whole afternoon, Shota only made it halfway through the pile of quizzes – but grading some is better than grading none at all, so he doesn’t dwell on it.
As he returns the living room back to its original state and purpose, Hizashi disappears into their bedroom to change out of his work clothes and shower. By the time he returns, the coffee table is once again visible, and two piping hot coffees are sat upon it – one black, one incredibly sweet and milky.
Hizashi makes himself comfortable on the sofa, takes a long, grateful sip of the black coffee, and runs his fingers through his freshly washed hair.
“How’s Shinso holdin’ up?” he asks, draping his legs across Shota’s lap. Sushi takes advantage of the sudden increase in available leg space and hops up onto the sofa to join them.
“It’s hard to tell,” Shota says truthfully, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “He’s clearly in some discomfort – pain, even – but he’s determined to hide most of it. I told him to get some rest, but I don’t know if he listened.”
“Have you checked in on him since?”
“…No.” And when Hizashi raises an eyebrow, he adds, “I was giving him space.”
“Worried you’re gonna bother him?” Hizashi says, and Shota gives the smallest of nods. “Aw, Sho, you could never. That kid really looks up to you. Man”—Hizashi barks a laugh—“you really are scarily similar. Emo, emotionally constipated…”
“Shut up,” Shota says, gently punching his shin.
“You know I’m right, babe. Drink your sickeningly sweet coffee, you weirdo.”
As Shota does as he’s told – and for the record, it is not sickeningly sweet; Hizashi is weak for being unable to handle a coffee with three sugars – and then he sees movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Shinso,” he says over the rim of his mug. The kid’s face is bleary with sleep, his clothes are incredibly rumpled, and Shota is glad to see it.
“Shinso!” Hizashi says, considerably louder, with a gleaming grin. “Loving the shirt. How ya feeling, kiddo?”
Shinso shrugs, noncommittal. “I think the nap helped.”
“Still feel like shit?” Shota helpfully asks.
“Yeah. Kind of. My appetite’s coming back, though.”
“I call that a win!” Hizashi pumps a fist in the air. “Gotta give it time. You’ll steadily improve. Hey – if you’re feelin’ up to it, I say we order takeout tonight.”
Shota’s eyebrows almost hit the ceiling. Cooking is Hizashi’s thing. He enjoys it so much that any mere mention of takeout would be taken with grave offence.
“Who are you,” Shota says slowly, “and what have you done with Hizashi?”
“Just a one-time thing! We can order from that Thai place you love so much. If you like it, Shinso probably will, too.”
Shota looks over to Shinso, who appears to be genuinely considering it.
“Alright,” he eventually says. “I’ll try it. Thanks, Yamada.”
The look on Hizashi’s face says he still isn’t over his failure to kick Shinsou’s habit of only using his surname, but it’s clear he’s aware that bringing it up for the hundredth time still won’t change anything. Instead, he simply says, “No problem,” and shuffles closer to Shota to make extra room on the sofa, which he then pats. “Hey, we’re gonna watch some TV and vegetate on the couch, you wanna join?”
The doorbell chimes and Hizashi leaps to his feet, simultaneously startling Shota and Shinso.
“Food’s here!” he cries, bounding over to the door. When he returns with a bulging bag full of steaming hot, aromatic food, Shota’s stomach aggressively growls, and he realises he completely forgot to have lunch today. Sushi catches a whiff of the food and goes berserk.
“Smells good,” Shinso says, eyes trailing Hizashi as he heads into the kitchen (closely followed by an incessantly meowing tabby) to plate up the food.
Shota stands, and motions for him to follow. “Let’s go help him.”
There’s a delightful commotion in the kitchen as the food is portioned out and serving sizes are heavily debated (and of course, Sushi is given her own dinner). Shinso grabs the cutlery as Shota and Hizashi playfully squabble over the last bit of pad thai, and Shota doesn’t miss the amused smile that appears on the kid’s face.
Since getting some sleep and relaxing with them on the couch, Shinso’s face has regained some colour, and although he only opts for an incredibly small amount of food on his plate, Shota is quietly thrilled to see small signs of recovery.
With hot food piled onto their plates and silverware passed around, Hizashi leads them both back to the couch – because takeout can only be fully appreciated alongside the comfort of soft sofa cushions – and the three of them sink into the seats, precariously balancing their plates on their laps.
“Thank you for the food,” Shinso says, before tentatively bringing a few noodles up to his mouth. He chews slowly, swallows cautiously, but the small sigh of relief that comes afterwards is a good sign. Shota and Hizashi, meanwhile, scoff their food with the impatience of rabid, starving animals – but they’ve both been working hard today, so Shota is sure they’ve earned the right to do so.
Hizashi pulls up a movie for them to watch, and although Shota isn’t familiar with the name, he recognises the animation style: Ghibli. Clearly, Hizashi had also taken note of the little Totoro pin on the strap of Shinso’s bag.
Later, once the food is all gone and the dishes have been tossed into the sink to be dealt with later, Shota feels a sudden weight against his arm. He looks down to see nothing but Shinso’s hair, and by the time the realisation that Shinso is leaning against Shota dawns on him, Hizashi has already pulled out his phone to take a picture.
‘Sleeping?’ Shota signs with his free hand. Hizashi nods and replies, ‘Out cold. So cute!’, before adding, ‘Do not move a muscle.’
Shota wouldn’t dream of it.