Chapter Text
“Hey babe,” Hizashi greets, turning away from the stove long enough to peck Shouta on the lips quickly. Then he turns back to the frying pan full of eggs, wooden spatula in hand. “How was your day?”
Shouta grunts, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. He cracks it open and takes a long drink. “It was fine.”
Hizashi sends him a look and Shouta smiles softly, albeit tiredly. He leans up against the small kitchen island, setting the water down. He sighs, leaning his head against the wall next to him.
“Fine?” Hizashi repeats, eyes softening. He pulls the pan off the burner and clicks the stove off before turning around and crossing his arms over his hot pink apron. He tilts his head. “Is that a good fine or a bad fine?”
Shouta sighs. Damn this man . He shrugs, unsure of how to even start. It wasn’t a good day, that’s for sure, and Shouta really wants to just curl up on the couch and sleep. Hizashi gives him a look and he sighs again.
“There was a trafficking ring, located out in an abandoned warehouse. Taking kids with powerful quirks,” he takes another swig of water, throat dry. “We thought we had taken it down a couple weeks ago, but we either missed some people or someone else is starting it back up.”
Hizashi has a serious expression on his face, his bright eyes darkened.
“I stumbled across them trying to grab a teenager, and I intercepted them, but the kid ran before I could stop him,” he rubs his eyes, trying to rid of the flashback to the kid’s face. Blue-green eyes wide in terror, chest panting, shirt ripped and skin dirty – he looked like hell. It was bad enough that Shouta wasn’t even sure if it was a kidnapping, or more of a ‘capture and escaped victim’ kind of thing. Which really didn’t help Shouta’s mental war. “He looked so scared, ‘zashi. I don’t think he even spoke Japanese.”
He had said something, after he had taken the villain down and was holding him face down in the dirty alley. He doesn’t remember the words he said exactly, just that the kid had looked fearfully at him and then ran, stumbling over scuffed sneakers. Shouta wanted to run after him, but he couldn’t, not with a villain literally in his hands.
The soft pad of Hizashi’s shoes is all the warning he gets before warm arms are wrapping around his shoulders, soft lips pressing to his neck.
“It’s okay,” is whispered into his neck, air puffing his hair away from his neck slightly. “It’ll be okay.”
Shouta can’t imagine being just ripped away from everything he knew and loved, finding himself in a country with a language he doesn’t speak, afraid of the world.
“It’s going to storm tonight,” he mumbles back into his husband’s shoulder. He saw the forecast earlier that morning when he watched the news, saw the predicted totals and the warnings for travel. It was the season for it, the time of year that him and Hizashi spent evenings sitting around the living room with a movie playing and a bowl of popcorn, and also the time of year when reports of many homeless bodies being found huddled together for warmth or children drowning in rivers and ponds.
Shouta knows that kid is still out there, can feel it like claws ripping through his chest. There’s an itch, a need to go back out there and find him.
But there’s also and ache in his feet, and his back just needs to stretch and his head is starting to pound one furious.
“I know, Shou, I know,” Hizashi says back.
For now, Shouta will just relish in his partner’s grasp, happy for the warmth.
The forecast was right, much to Shouta’s vehemence. That morning, when his alarm blared angrily into his darkened bedroom, after he crawled from Hizashi’s embraced and kissed him goodbye, after a quick shower and breakfast, Shouta glared out the window at the falling drops. They trickle down his windowpane in patterns and veins of no rhyme or rhythm, cascading into the flowerpots that sit on the ledge below.
Shouta’s up, watching the sunrise through darkened clouds and hearing the distant roar of thunder, only because he offered to take up the shifts of one of his partner heroes whose wife just had a child. Shouta wasn't a monster, of course he said yes when the man asked. The shifts ended right before his shift with the hell class even began, and it was short, just some rooftop hopping in some of the nicer residential areas.
He didn’t mind it, not really, especially when he finally gets out on the streets and breathes in the wet tasting air. His coat is soaked by the time he even reaches the route, hair dripping from where it’s tied in a ponytail (there’s nothing worse than wet hair slapping you in the face), and his feet are cold; but he stills perches on the corner of a roof, one leg pulled up and another stretched out in front of him. His hands are wrapped around a thermos of coffee, the cover on to protect it against the rain, and he sips from it carefully.
A siren goes off every so often, but far enough away to not warrant any need to investigate further. There’s a scream once, that has him almost jumping up, but he sees a young girl splashing in puddles beneath him, red rubber boots already full of water. Her mother laughs gently behind her as the girl squeals with happiness.
Shouta doesn’t dwell on them too much, and slowly slinks off to observe another part of the route.
This part, slightly less clean and a little darker than the whitewashed apartment, has a grungier feel. A darker, more dangerous air. Despite this, Shouta spots many family households, bikes leaning against stairs and chalk drawings melting away on the pavement. It’s the same neighborhood Shouta saw the kid in last night, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t come here to see if he could even catch a glimpse.
Half an hour later, with no results, he sighs and drains the last of his coffee. It’s a slow morning, and he has no doubt that the hell class will make it just a little more interesting. His shoes squeak as he spins to a stand, loudly squealing as he whirls back around to peer at a small alleyway across the street from him. His body is taut as he leans forward, eyeing against the rising sun, because no... there’s no way...
Except there must be, because that is sure as hell the kid from last night, standing in all his glory of soaking clothes and bruised skin. He looks a little less scared than Aizawa remembers, a sharper look in his eyes that he can’t help but feel good about, however the kid still doesn’t belong there.
And Shouta will be damned if he doesn’t do anything about it. However, he doesn’t want to scare the kid off. He pulls out his phone and sends a quick text to Hizashi.
Lord knows that man is his greatest source of advice.
Which is strange, seeing how the man can barely take his own.