#self-esteem issues

Even with the age difference between you, your relationship has remained stable throughout. You have reached the point where you not only appreciate each other's good qualities, but you are also able to deal with each other's areas for improvement in the sweetest way possible. And you usually solve everything in one night, one deep conversation and two glasses of wine, a heated ending in bed... but on days like today, you don't know what to do.

He loves you. And he knows how to treat you. And he would do anything to make sure you live a peaceful life. But it seems that the magic he normally uses to make all your problems disappear is blocked during your damn exam weeks at university. For a few days, the warmth that always seems to surround you vanishes completely, giving you an almost icy appearance. Your boyfriend knows better than anyone the feeling of imposing unrealistic expectations on yourself when it comes to work, and becoming obsessed with it... but he's not a person who stands out for his sensitivity. Logic made it impossible for him to feel frustrated, sad or cry over situations like this. You, on the other hand, are quite the crybaby, no matter how hard you try to hide it or not show it because you want to appear strong and independent. He doesn't quite understand why you think crying is typical of a weak person, but so far he hasn't been able to convince you otherwise.

So, when he comes home and sees you lying on the sofa with a notebook over your face, repeating your lesson and crying, stress taking over because you can't memorise your notes, insulting me every time you don't say a sentence exactly as it is in the textbook... it hurts him so much. It breaks his heart to see you in pieces over some stupid exams, to see you consumed by your own self-imposed demands, to see that his words have no effect during exam season...

After watching you motionless from the doorway of your apartment, reflecting, he finally approaches you, and in a quick but delicate movement takes all your notes, diaries, notebooks, laptop, anything that consumes you in that way, and immediately proceeds to lie down with you on the sofa and hug you.

At first, your first instinct is to be scared and tell him to move away or you won't have time to study what you need to. However, not having the strength to push him away, you give in and finally return the hug. Only to finally cry on his chest. The only place where you feel safe. You even forget for a moment about the real world, about university, about your future, your results... everything boils down to the strong, secure arms around you, their muscles sheltering you from the sad reality outside your apartment.

"Love... it's okay. I'm here now." Kento coos, stroking your head, your hair, trying to get your mind to focus more on any physical stimulus rather than the worry that is overwhelming you. "I'm sorry I'm late. I should have known you'd be like this..."

You caress his neck with your hand as he speaks, as if you want him to keep talking to keep you distracted. Of course, he understands.

"I realise that my words are rather useless when it comes to exams and self-imposed pressure, but take my words into consideration simply because I was in your shoes a few years ago." His voice has a much warmer and sweeter tone than usual. He is always gentle with you, but today you need that treatment more than usual. "I always tell you that your future is not determined by exam seasons, and I know you're going to tell me that's a lie, and I understand where you're coming from, but... let me explain, hmm?"

With teary eyes, you look at him, your brow slightly furrowed. You didn't feel like listening to the typical ‘there's more to life than your grades’ speech. Mainly because that makes you think about exams and causes an urge to push your boyfriend away and reread the same page in your textbook for the fiftieth time.

"What defines you as a person is not stupid numbers. That determines your ability to adapt to the current education system, and we've had more than enough conversations to know how opposed we are to the current system. I think all your torment comes from wanting to be seen for something that doesn't represent you."

Before continuing, he leaves a hand on your back, tracing undefined patterns and letting his touch penetrate your body. The moment, so vulnerable and intimate, sends a shiver through your entire body.

>> You always pass your exams. Even if you didn't, my point would still stand, but the problem would be different. Why do you demand so much of yourself? You don't have impossible goals or a frustrated dream that requires top marks at university. Whenever we talk about this, it seems like you want to prove to yourself how intelligent you are... The question is, what do you see as intelligent about the current system, love? What makes you so proud, what part of you feels more alive, more reassured, when you see that excellent in your grades?

>> Why is your self-esteem affected by these assessments? Do you feel that an important and essential part of you lies in your results? Darling... you are a mosaic of everything you love, and that detailed work of art is what amazes me. Your essence does not include parts such bureaucratic. How many lives will it take me to make you see that this particular moment is rather unimportant?

He is not talkative, far from it, but if he has to give a speech, it will be elaborate, structured and organised. Like this one. You don't know how he is able to say such beautiful things to you, to almost convince your stubborn mind, to caress you with words, looks and actual caresses. Perhaps experience has given him this insight. This talent for advising your inexperienced self, nervous about what the future holds.

"You don't have to answer now, darling. I understand you must be tired."

"Of course I'm going to answer you. Anxiety is killing me, but it kills me even more that you're always right." You say, pretending to be annoyed, but the moment you make eye contact with him while you talk, any facade you had until now breaks down. Your tearful, needy self shows up. "I love you too. Thank you for telling me all that. Nothing I say will be on your level as, well, you know, I'm sad and stuff, and *sob* people don't talk very well while they're crying. I'm going to cry again. I hate you."

Your little comment makes him chuckle and pull you even closer to him, if that's possible. He plants a little kiss on your head, and seeing how your body seems to relax thanks to his little gesture, he continues his affectionate exploration. Your temple, your neck, your cheek, your brow, your closed eyelids, your nose... it's so sweet that it makes you cry even more. Yes, you're a crybaby, but who wouldn't be when being comforted by a man like Nanami?

"A mosaic of what I love..." you exhale, repeating his words. Trying out how it feels to say something so poetic and beautiful. Nah, it doesn't sound as good as when he says it.

"A beautiful mosaic."

"You mean disastrous."

"I didn't think of you as someone who didn't appreciate the art of chaos, love."

"I thought you were someone who was only able to appreciate what was strictly organized, neat and planned, love."

"Your chaos is perfectly organized for me. My mission here is to help you see it the same way."

You hate and love equally the moments when he leaves you unable to respond. Well... Nanami 1 - You 0.

"Anyway. I think you have got an idea of what I mean. It's impossible to convince you, so I'm satisfied with that." He kisses your lips quickly and briefly before continuing to speak. "Now, we're going to try to study again, but in a healthier way and having me by your side to help you in any way I can."

"You didn't even study the same degree as me, Nanamin." you shake your head with a small smile. You look at him with admiration. He doesn't understand why you adore him so much, why you think he's worthy of your fascination and wonder, but since he detected this, he's strived to become the man you see in him.

"I can help you review your lessons, help you organize what you have left to study, look for the information you need, go grab some sweets... Don't underestimate me, love." He smiles. "I'm just not going to leave you on your own now, yes? You don't need to go through emotional extremes just like the one moments ago."

You've always known that he's very overprotective when it comes to you, and lately you've realized that his protection can even lead to protecting you from your own bad habits and negative emotions. You thank him so much...

"I love you. A lot. You're so good to me that I just want this exam season nightmare to end and show you how grateful I am that you take care of me in places such as our bedroom."

"...you brat." He scoffs as you just laugh and finally sit down next to him, showing him what you have to study. The anxiety that threatens to creep in again calms down every time you hear Kento's plumb voice. He has been right in everything he has said, he has inspired you effortlessly, whenever this happens you feel that you fall in love all over again completely, you confirm that you are made for each other... and, that if the concept of soulmate took shape, it would probably look something like a hardworking, tall, serious and muscular blond man with a nervous, somewhat weepy, creative and inspiring figure in his arms. Or, in other words: Nanami and you.

a/n: please be kind, english is not my native language, so I apologise for any spelling/grammar mistakes or parts that are confusing etc etc. thank you so much for coming this far! i've written this mainly bc i'm in exam season and completely depressed and i lowk feel like reader… and instead of studying, i thought it was a better idea to deal with it by imagining myself with nanamin. the truth is that i am aware that the writing is not very good (in fact, my eyes close as i write this, i feel on the verge of collapse), please be kind.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Katsuki's voice jerks him out of his thoughts and Hitoshi bites his tongue, so he doesn't say something stupid like 'I wish you would care' or 'Why don't I matter to you' or worse 'Do you even love me at all'.

He couldn't stand the answer he would get and even though he knows what Katsuki is going to reply, it would be so much worse to actually hear it out loud.

At least like this there are times where Hitoshi finds it in him to pretend, where he can pretend that he's more than a convenient fuck for Katsuki, where he can pretend that all of this means something so much more to him than it clearly does.

"'s nothing," Hitoshi mutters and forces his head back, stares off into nothing instead of straight at Katsuki, but now he can feel his gaze boring into the side of his head and for a moment he thinks Katsuki is going to speak.

For a moment, he thinks Katsuki is going to say something but in the end he doesn't.

Because he never does.

~*~*~

Hitoshi presses a kiss to Katsuki's temple as he untangles himself from the blankets. Katsuki's hand reaches out, tangles in his shirt for a brief moment, but before Hitoshi can even start to interpret something into it, the fingers uncurl and Katsuki hides his arm away under the blanket.

"I've gotta go," Hitoshi mumbles and Katsuki sleepily blinks up at him before he snuggles deeper into the pillow.

"Go kick some ass," he mutters back and for a moment, Hitoshi wants to rage and scream and sob because why does Katsuki not care?

Why is it so goddamn fucking easy for him to let Hitoshi go all the damn time? Why does he never ask him to stay?

It's a stupid impulse, because Hitoshi knows why—he doesn't matter, Katsuki doesn't love him, what they have doesn't matter—and so he pushes it all aside and locks it up and puts it away to look at it never but especially not in the next few weeks because thoughts like this are going to get him killed out in the field.

So instead of letting any of those feelings fill him up and drown him, he gets ready, puts on some clothes, takes his phone and keys—no wallet, because it's not as if he's going to need his government ID where he's going—and leaves without a look back.

They've been through this often enough that Katsuki knows to lock up behind him and so Hitoshi isn't worried about leaving him in his apartment at all.

Hitoshi has just gotten on the train to his agency when his phone rings.

For a moment, Hitoshi deliberates simply not answering, because if someone calls him at this godforsaken hour it can only spell trouble and he really doesn't need this hours before he goes into an undercover mission but when he pulls his phone out, he sees that it's actually his agency trying to reach him.

"Yes?" he answers with a sigh and to their credit, his handler doesn't waste a second.

"The mission is cancelled."

"What? Why?"

"Someone blew up the suspected hide-out of the organisation and everyone is understandably in disarray over that. If we send in a new face now things are going to go bad."

"Blew up? Do we know who?"

"No fucking clue," his handler bites out and some of the same frustration Hitoshi feels bleeds into their voice.

Two week prep time down the drain and now Hitoshi is expected to go back to his normal life as if he didn't mentally adapt a new identity already.

"Wonderful."

"We're keeping you off patrol for at least a week, too. Everyone's running around like headless chicken and we don't need you making contact with them now, it could ruin a potential new operation further down the line.”

"Even better," Hitoshi deadpans, and wonders what the fuck he's going to do with a week of free time, but it's not as if his handler cares about that, because they simply hang up on him.

Hitoshi lets out a deep sigh, exits the train on the next station and promptly gets on a train that's going to get him home again.

Home, where nothing will be waiting for him.

Home, where Katsuki will have long left.

Home, where Hitoshi could potentially hole himself up for at least a week without talking to anyone because everyone thinks he's on a mission.

The thought is mighty tempting in all honesty, even though he knows it's stupid since Aizawa will know about the cancelled mission sooner rather than later and will therefore hound his place if he doesn't call in the next twenty-four hours.

But—that does give Hitoshi twenty-four hours to wallow in his own stupid, self-inflicted misery and he intends to use it to the fullest.

Which is why he freezes when he steps into his apartment and finds it unlocked.

It's unusual, because Katsuki never forgets to lock up behind him and for a moment the adrenaline kicking in makes everything sharp and bright.

And then Hitoshi notices Katsuki's shoes in the genkan, realises that the light in the kitchen he left for Katsuki—because he keeps running into the table and he very loudly complaints about it—is still on and then he hears strange noises from the bedroom.

Strange enough that he creeps forward, careful to not make any noise at all and when he's in reach of the door he stops.

For a moment it almost sounds like someone breathing heavily and moaning and it lasts for long enough that Hitoshi's heart crashes straight through the floor because did Katsuki bring someone over to fuck in Hitoshi's bed before everything aligns itself again and Hitoshi realises that it's actually sobs what he's hearing.

Someone is crying their heart out in his bedroom, the sounds only barely muffled and context clues would suggest that it's Katsuki because who else could it be?

It makes so little sense though that Hitoshi pushes the door open without a sound and—yeah.

It's Katsuki alright, curled up on Hitoshi's side of the bed, his face pressed to his pillow and clearly having a good cry about something.

Panic floods Hitoshi, because what if someone died? What if Katsuki got a call that one of their friends died, or that something happened to his parents?

Hitoshi hasn't heard anything, but then again, people die of illnesses and freak accidents and those rarely make the news and despite what everyone says, Hitoshi is smart enough to realise that and to know that his only option to really know is to go in and comfort Katsuki and then ask.

So that's what Hitoshi does, though he makes sure to stay firmly in that hero headspace since he doesn't know how to handle this situation at all and if he pretends that this is a distressed civilian, maybe he'll be a better support.

"Kats, hey, Kats," Hitoshi mutters as he steps fully into the room, this time with deliberate noise so that Katsuki can hear him and Katsuki freezes on the bed, mid-sob, and Hitoshi makes it to the bedside where he perches awkwardly before Katsuki turns his head and blinks at him. "What's going on, angel? Did something happen?" Hitoshi asks, carefully pushing Katsuki's bangs out of his face and Katsuki jerks his head back.

Hitoshi freezes, hand uselessly hovering between them, before he takes it back and then retreats from the bed for good measure, too.

"Sorry," he mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets and ducking his head, and he thinks he might not be very good at pretending that his chest isn't currently caving in on itself.

"I'm sorry, I just—wanted to comfort you," he mumbles even as he's very aware that Hitoshi is probably the last person Katsuki wants to be comforted by because they don't do emotions.

Not really, not where it matters and Hitoshi was stupid to forget that.

"I can—call someone for you, if you want," he awkwardly offers and watches how Katsuki sits up and wipes his face.

"You're here," he croaks out and Hitoshi shrugs.

"Mission got cancelled, so I have a lot of free time on my hands, suddenly." He doesn't offer to go, because this is his apartment after all, but he needs to say something. "What's going on? Did something happen? Did someone die?" he tries again, hoping that now that Katsuki is sitting up, he'll get more of an answer out of Katsuki, but he's only met with a blank stare.

"You left," is what finally makes it out of Katsuki's mouth, as if that is any explanation at all and Hitoshi frowns.

"Yeah? Sorry for not calling ahead and letting you know I'd be back," he tacks on and Katsuki's face falls even as his eyes well with tears again but a second later it's all wiped away by a look of pure rage and then he settles on something like concerned confusion.

Hitoshi has no idea what the fuck is going on anymore.

"You left," Katsuki says again as if that makes any sense at all, "that's why I was—" he trails off with an awkward nod towards the tear-soaked pillow and now it's on Hitoshi to be confused as hell.

"Why would you?" he blurts out because where does this even make sense, where Bakugou Katsuki cries into a pillow simply because Hitoshi left and it must be the wrong answer, because the rage is now firmly back on Katsuki's face.

"You're so incredibly goddamn stupid," he hisses out and gets up from the bed.

Hitoshi stumbles back to give him space, but also because he doesn't want to be in easy reach of those hands right about now but Katsuki only glares at him.

"I'm going to take a shower. If you're gone when I come back, you're dead," he says, promises more like and then grabs some clothes before he leaves Hitoshi standing there.

Katsuki slams the bathroom door rather loudly and Hitoshi lets out a shaky breath because he has no fucking clue what's going on anymore.

He didn't think his presence or absence thereof would matter much to Katsuki besides the fact that he can't get laid whenever when Hitoshi is gone on a mission, because he never says anything about it, never even so much as hints that he misses Hitoshi and so this leaves him at a complete loss.

Hitoshi is not quite stupid enough to leave though, because he trusts that Katsuki would make good on his promise and so he sinks onto the edge of the bed.

He remembers to inform Aizawa about the cancelled mission, so he gets his phone out and shoots off a quick 'Mission cancelled, I'm back home, no patrol for at least a week' before he adds a 'Did something happen? Someone got hurt or anything?' because if anyone knows then it's Aizawa.

'Enjoy your free time' Aizawa replies moments later and follows it up with a 'Why?'

'Found Katsuki crying, thought someone might have died' Hitoshi explains and then anxiously waits for the reply.

'Ah, I see,' Aizawa writes back as if it's a perfectly normal occurance to find Katsuki sobbing his heart out. 'Everyone's fine. You better call this evening, Hizashi will want the deeds,' he adds, thoroughly confusing the hell out of Hitoshi but before he can ask any more questions, the bathroom door flies open again.

Hitoshi doesn't even get a grace period to gather his thoughts—not that there's much to gather—before Katsuki already spits out an angry "Why wouldn't I?"

It leaves Hitoshi floundering, but Katsuki doesn't do anything except stare at him, his gaze unreadable, his arms crossed in front of his chest and he looks so done with this, with Hitoshi, that for a moment, it feels hard to breathe.

"Because you don't care," is what Hitoshi finally says when he manages to breathe past the lump in his throat and he steadily ignores the burning of his eyes.

Because Katsuki doesn't care. He doesn't, and Hitoshi knows that and it shouldn't matter except for how it does and now it also seems as if he might care and Hitoshi doesn't understand anything anymore.

"Says fucking who?" Katsuki shoots back, and even though Hitoshi can tell that he's still trying for angry, his eyes are wet again.

And all of a sudden, it's Hitoshi who's angry, because how dare Katsuki.

How dare he imply that he cares when it's so obvious that he doesn't and Hitoshi jumps up from the bed.

"You!" he snarls back. "You fucking say that every goddamn time you don't care. You don't care when I go out on patrol, you don't care when I have to go on undercover missions and you just. Don't. Care. About. Me. About any of this. So excuse me for being confused!"

"You—think I don't care about you," Katsuki weakly repeats and Hitoshi looks to the side.

"It's not as if you ever ask me to stay or to come back or anything," he mutters and he wonders if he can maybe talk his handler into sending him onto an international mission on short notice.

He thinks disappearing for a while would be good, right about now.

"Because you don't want me to," Katsuki tells him and Hitoshi is surprised to hear how devastated he sounds. "Because the one time I told you to be safe out there you nearly tore my throat out for suggesting that you're not good at your job and then you avoided me for several days! I might be a stubborn, pig-headed bitch but even I can understand when my care is clearly not wanted!"

Katsuki screams the last part, even as tears fall down his cheeks and Hitoshi is too surprised to find his voice, which clearly incites Katsuki into talking even more.

"I would love to ask you to stay, to be safe, to come back to me in one piece, to come back to me period, but I also damn well know that if I do that, I'm going to lose you quicker than even your goddamn work can take you from me and I don't want that! I'm terrified every time you go out there, but telling you that would ensure you don't come back at all! You're a goddamn good hero, and I'm so fucking thankful for it because that means your chances of coming back to me are higher but that doesn't change the fact that I'm scared out of my mind and that I miss you and that I want to be able to tell you any of this!"

"Kats," Hitoshi helplessly says as Katsuki scrubs the tears off his face.

"So yeah, whenever you go on an undercover mission I cry into your goddamn pillow, and whenever you go on patrol I sleep like shit out of worry but I would rather shoot myself than tell you that and have you blow up in my face again!"

Hitoshi moves before he can comprehend that he's even doing it and he gathers Katsuki up in his arms and crushes him to his chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," Hitoshi mutters frantically into his hair, because he remembers that fight they had, where he accused Katsuki of not believing in him.

But it had been at the very start of all of this, at the start of them talking more regularly, when Hitoshi still believed that Katsuki looked down on him, that he didn't acknowledge him as a hero simply because he's not out in the spotlight and those things have changed.

Hitoshi knows that they have changed, and that it wasn't even the truth to begin with, he just never communicated that to Katsuki.

"I love you," Hitoshi says into Katsuki's hair. "I love you and I'm sorry, and I'm such an ass, I'm so sorry, I wouldn't blow up like that anymore, I know better now," he rambles and he feels his own tears fall when Katsuki raises his hands to clutch at him almost painfully.

"Just don't accuse me of not caring when it's you who wouldn't even allow me to," Katsuki shakily gives back and Hitoshi hugs him even harder.

"Okay, okay, angel, I'm sorry," he agrees and Hitoshi finally sees it.

He sees how Katsuki sidestepped work topics all the time, sees how he very deliberately didn't ask questions, how he sometimes opened his mouth only to close it again without saying anything at all, how he was trying to hard to not upset Hitoshi.

And it blew up into their faces anyway, because Hitoshi is an insecure idiot who can't use his words outside of work.

"I love you, too," Katsuki mutters and presses his face to Hitoshi's shoulder. "And I love the work you do, but it also scares me."

And Hitoshi gets it; he has been a nervous wreck in front of the TV more than once already, watching Bakugou fight for his life and it scared him, too.

It scared him because he loves Katsuki and he doesn't know what he's going to do should he ever not make it back to him.

And clearly, it's the same for Katsuki.

"Can we go back to bed now?" Katsuki finally mutters, sounding more tired than Hitoshi has ever heard him and Hitoshi simply picks him up and manhandles him into bed, without listening to Katsuki's token protests.

He slides under the blankets with him, clothes be damned, and he immediately pulls Katsuki close again, tucks him safe and sound into his chest, under his chin, and when Katsuki clutches at his shirt, Hitoshi remembers the fleeting moment hours earlier.

"You wanted to keep on, before. When you reached out for me."

"Would have dragged you back into bed if I knew I could have gotten away with it, but—I didn't," Katsuki agrees and Hitoshi remembers the way he tucked his arm close, had to put the blanket over it, too, and he hides his tears in Katsuki's hair once more.

"I'm such an idiot."

"You're an insecure idiot," Katsuki corrects him and Hitoshi would love to argue, would love to be offended but—

He's right.

Katsuki is right.

"Sorry."

"Don't, just—for someone who has to rely on his voice to do your job you're so fucking bad at talking," Katsuki replies and moves away to look at Hitoshi. "We both need to get better that that."

"Move in with me," Hitoshi blurts out and watches how Katsuki rolls his eyes.

"Yes, obviously, but like. In general. About feelings and stuff. We have to talk more."

It's a terrifying prospect, if Hitoshi is being honest, but he sees that how it was going is not good either, so he nods and peppers Katsuki's forehead with kisses.

"Okay, but—moving in?" he asks between kisses because he's not going to let that go and Katsuki tangles their legs together.

"Shut up. Yes. But we're going to talk about that after we nap." Katsuki very visibly hesitates before he adds "And I'm glad your mission got cancelled."

Hitoshi can't help the knee-jerk reaction of being angry, of being hurt that Katsuki thinks he's not capable, but then he takes a breath and Hitoshi hears what Katsuki really means.

I'm glad you're safe. I'm glad you're here with me.

And that doesn't seem so bad at all.

Series on AO3

He blinks, once, twice, rubbing at his eyeballs through the skin of his lids. No amelioration. He shrugs it off, readjusts the straps of his slime armor. It’s a shit one, not even the good enchants on it. But he’s been restless lately, antsy. Not quite worried, but something else, something in the negative shape of a beloved, beret-wearing egg. Ants under his greenish skin, a fire only the cold bite of enemy blades and a close brush with Lady Death can fix.

He likes Kristin. She’s funny, with her large brimmed hat and gentle smile and gentler words still. Philza’s a lucky man.

“You are sad,” she would say, in the space-between-spaces he would drift to when downed, just before the ‘doom-doom’ of revival. The crimson bud of her smile would twist into a scowl, as she watched him give her a two-fingered salute. “Is that why I see you so often, starling?”

“I’m not sad,” he would answer without fail — the ache inside his chest wasn’t sadness. Étoiles didn’t do sad. He killed, he destroyed, his body grown in a weapon meant to hurt and maim and be hurt in return. Meant to be wielded by someone worthy. (He thinks of pitch-black feathers and a wheezy laugh, the tingle of wither-decay dancing on his skin, the smell of bone. Claws digging into his bony hips, a litany of trills speaking of ownership-claim, great shadows trapping him in so effectively. His knee guards stained by fresh soil where potatoes are endlessly grown in honor of a great warrior he once crossed blades with. Worship, devotion.)

“I’m not sad,” he mumbles, jumping down the well and into the darkness of the dungeon below. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a shit one, and he could scratch that itch in the back of his mind that demanded blood be spilled, be it his or otherwise. “Maybe I die for real today, let’s goooo.”

He never does. He’s too good at dungeoning, too good at placing blocks and throwing splash potions at his feet, golden apples now a rare last resort because he knows what happens when he eats too many. Aaaah, what a pity, he thinks, as he loses himself in the clash of metal on metal and the grunt of mobs falling at his feet. What a pity, I feel nothing. Bad day for me, bad day.

***

The blurriness stays. Days go by, sluggish and quiet, too quiet on this shit island, and no amount of sleep or healing potions make it any better. His arm stings with static-burn where the black and green binary tar has spread, higher, creeping up his neck. But it does nothing to hinder his movements, doesn’t dull the sharpness of his mind. So he ignores it. “Maybe you should get that checked out or something,” Foolish pokes at it once, as they sit and talk atop the Titan’s head using the blue and green plush chairs the TazerCraft have sneaked in. Pac e Mike, wow wow, sings a little voice in Étoiles’ mind whenever he sees splashes of blue and green, because those two live rent-free in everyone’s builds and brains.

“It’s okay,” he smiles at the shark-totem, easy and casual and Étoiles. “It doesn’t hurt.” It doesn’t. “It’s not changing me.” He is changing, that softness that Pomme had made bloom inside him eroding away with every day she’s gone. It’s harder to stay still, harder to stop and talk to the others, because half of them are depressed and the other half are going insane. But none of that is the code’s doing. “Look, I’ll prove it! 1v1 stick?” he jumps to his feet, throwing a wooden stick at his friend with a fiendish grin. “1v1, right now, let’s go.”

Foolish chuckles, even though his smile doesn’t reach his emerald-carved eyes. (His features are hazy, fuzziness getting worse every time Étoiles wakes. Doesn’t matter.) 

They fight, Étoiles takes it home with six hearts to spare. And he still feels empty.

***

Lilacs. Sunflowers. Cornflowers. Poppies.

Flower biomes were Pomme’s favorites. They’re hard to find, but Étoiles is one patient, stubborn cucumber. “T’aurais adoré ça, légende,” he hums, picking another poppy by the stem and stuffing it into his inventory, the frozen subspace keeping it suspended in time and fresh. He can almost hear the pitter-patter of her little cheeto legs in the grass, the rustle of the blades against her shell. The bomp of a red sign being placed, asking for more red, more blue, more of every color to make her siblings flower crowns and dye her trusty scythe like a rainbow.

He can barely make out their shape anymore, only differentiating roses from poppies by tracing their petals with gold-scarred fingers. He sees a blue blur somewhere at his right, oh, cornflower probably. Her secret code.

He lets out a deep, guttural groan and lets his body fall backwards, hitting the plush grass with a thump. A few butterflies flutter out of the way, one of them settling back on the bridge of the warrior’s nose. He glares at it, faded golden stars comically crossed. He only sees the yellow of its wings, stark against sky blue. “Hey, hey. Tu vas rien trouver ici, tu sais. J’ai pas fleuri depuis des plombes.”

The critter’s wings flap once, unbothered. Étoiles blows on it to make it go away, fails. (He’s a failure, at everything. Fails to keep his kid safe, fails to win a 1v1 against an insect.) Soon enough, there is enough butterflies on him to pin him to the ground under the would-be guilt of disturbing them. Étoiles whines, childish and unserious. “Vas-y, j’peux plus bouger. Pas juste. Même la nature me déteste, c’est bon.”

He’s missed this. The warmth of a sunbeam, the scent of fertile soil, the brush of grass blades, the call of the earth below pulling at him. Part of him wants to sink into it, curl up in Her embrace like a child would in their mother’s womb, forget about the world and the Federation and the Codes and all this shit. Maybe he could fall asleep right here. Let his body soak up the sun, let himself bloom again. Let that softness grow out of his skin for all to see, like he used to. Or, he thinks he used to. The memories of Before are static-fuzz between his ears, unreachable unless he looks at them at the corner of his eye, so to speak.

(The freezing cold, then heat as air exploded around him, an impact. Physicality, sudden and unexpected, the song of the stars loud in his ears as he opened his eyes for the first time in front of a bewildered human in a frayed straw hat. He was happy, wasn’t it? He thinks he used to be happy. What happened?)

But Étoiles is a warrior, a weapon, and weapons dull and rust and grow weak if left to rest. So he takes a deep breath, pushes himself up. “Désolé,” he hums to the butterflies as they scatter away. They are but bright, colorful blobs in his dulling eyes. “Désolé,” he says as he warps back home to forge yet another axe. 

His inventory is full of flowers that he’ll forget about, wrapping him in a constant mix of herbal scents that has Cellbit recoiling next time they cross paths. Étoiles doesn’t notice it, the Brazilian’s bothered expression lost on his rapidly-decaying vision.

***

By the time the Code challenges him to what Étoiles knows will be their last duel for the foreseeable future, his sight is all but gone, everyone and their dog has taken notice, and he has brushed off their concern. “I don’t need to see to click good,” he boasts, slamming down deepslate to launch himself fast and run circles around a disgruntled Pac. “See, see! I’m strafing, I’m doing it, playing the game.” Pac makes a strange sound, one he struggles to guess the emotion behind without body language. “It’s okay, Pac. It’s easy. There’s no problem, at all.”

Phil isn’t here yet, can’t see any names on his comlink but Tubbo told him he wasn’t. Shame, shame he won’t be there to see him die, Étoiles thinks as the rain soaks through his shirt, the boom of lightning bothering him more than he lets show. His ears are ringing as he jumps, ducks, tugs at the string of his bow and sends an arrow flying where he knows the Code is, he can feel it, the only spot that doesn’t smell like anything but void. But there’s no feedback, no satisfying sound of health being chipped at, nothing.

This Code is too strong, his sword winging an off-tune melody as it goes through the binary without ripping or tearing. No damage. Ah, he thinks, so they have finally stopped playing. I see now.

The back of his chestplate shatters into a blast of broken enchant magic and diamond shards, some of them lodging themselves into his flesh. Something cold sinks between his ribs, brushing against his spine in a white-hot flash of pain that irradiates through his whole body, and oh, yeah, it’s over. It’s joever, as Tubbo would say. “GGs,” he gasps through a mouthful of dark green blood. He coughs it up, lets it splash down his neck and paint his shirt. Tubbo’s screaming somewhere, too far away for Étoiles to discern the words. “You- eugh, you slash-kill’ed me, good job you cheater. Easy win.”

The entity growls, a hum-buzz that makes his brain (or whatever he has for brains, maybe lettuce?) rattle inside his skull. The blade slides out, cutting away at him further on its way out, and his body falls into a puddle of rainwater and mud with a wet thud. It hurts, blackered arm buzzing, pain creeping up his neck and the right side of his face, extinguishing the last of his remaining sight. 

He faintly realises that almost nobody knows about his respaw mechanic. Ah, et merde. He hopes they’ll have the presence of mind to ask Antoine, when they realise he wouldn’t just re-pop into existence seconds after his death… or when they noticed his body starting to wilt and decay, if they stuck around for long enough.

(Tallulah knows, he remembers. He told her. But had she told Philza, before she disappeared along with all the other eggs?)

Through his fading senses, his comm buzzes with what he knows is his first death message in a really long time. He can make out the sound of rapid footsteps, clickety hooves and heavy, leather work boots. Tubbo and Pierre. He closes his eyes, not that he needs to anymore for darkness to cradle him. He lets go.

He doesn’t see Kristin this time, only hears a faint sigh and a gentle breath sending him off into the void. He hopes they find his seed soon. He doesn’t wanna stay missing for too long, after all.

***

His personal death-void is not so bad of a place. Boring, obviously, but there’s a familiarity to it, to the way the darkness shrouds him like a heavy blanket, pushing against him from all sides. Not oppressive but comforting. Cradling, instead of crushing.

It reminds him of the dirt patch he was born in — he had been asleep and new, just ripe for the picking, dirt-stained hands pulling at his stem with the roughness of a long-repeated gesture. He had screamed, he thinks, not in pain, but to show the world he was here and alive, hello, hello sun, hello dirt, hello person! Had given poor old Théo a heart attack too.

Ah. He could remember, now. Théo, his leathered face and kind eyes with crow feet, wary at first before this walking, talking little legume with the night sky in his eyes, flower-covered vine-tail like some sort of umbilical cord trailing behind him as he follows the old farmer around, asking him endless questions in barely-legible French. But… yes, he’d been kind to him, Étoiles thinks. The first face his face saw. Makes sense it would be one of the first things that came back to him. Maybe remembering was easier in the void? Maybe he should die more often.

…Nah. Dying wasn’t his style. And having to regrow a whole new body over a week was annoying. He had things to do in the island! Like talking with people (eurgh), and giving them things (yes) and fighting with Philza (yes! yes! yes!) and have fun!

So he waits, oblivion pulling at him like gravity. The void is a quiet place, sometimes, but more often it’s not, with the song of supernovas and wailing stars far away keeping him aware, listening. He hums along to it with no mouth or vocal chords (not yet, still growing, still so small, unripe), and sometimes he swears he can hear another voice singing with him. Off-key, awful really, almost crow-like, but it sounds like someone he cares about, so he’s happy to listen to its drone.

Other times, he sleeps. And he dreams of tiny hands and quiet chirps and clicks, of the yesyes uncle Phil taught her, of the chrr-chrr-peep that means him, when she calls Étoiles’ name in her own little language. And he curls around the memory, softness, and lets it carry him up into the stars glittering behind still-forming eyelids.

***

“Étoiles.”

He hums — warmth, the slow beating heart of the earth. The choir of stars constantly burning far, far away. He could listen to it forever, because he had been listening to it since the birth of the first star, he knew.

“Mate. You with me? C’mon, s’been a week already. Come up here, you can do it.”

The voice scratches pleasantly at the back of his brain. But the earth is so warm, so comfy, a cocoon of peace and respite he’s not sure he wants to leave. He sighs with no lungs to breathe, no need for them, when all he could ever need is right there — perfect temp, perfect moisture, glucose, carbon dioxide, rich nutrients all around. Who needs gapples, really. Or thoughts. Or responsibilities. This is the best.

“...Mh. Alright then.”

The voice grates on his ears, ears that try to flick but are stopped by the soil packed around them. He groans in drowsy irritation, curls in on himself in an attempt to shield himself from it and from the world. It seems to work, the noises fading into nothing, and Étoiles feels his thoughts scatter as a faint scratching sound seeps through the earth and into his mind like white noise. Sleep pulls at him again, and he lets it.

He’s startled back into wakefulness by something pulling harshly, somewhere that feels a bit away but is still part of him. His eyes fly open in pained surprise because ow, ow, that’s my— “Come here, you lazy fuck!” That voice — high-pitched, that heavy accent he’s come to love, amusement and exasperation combined, Phil, his Phil, his GOAT, his brother in arms, his Death-touched angel.

Étoiles blinks, unseeing. Étoiles remembers. And with awareness comes something else, something that shimmers and calls his name in gentle whisper-echoes, as he feels himself being pulled up, and up, dirt parting to let him ascend back to the surface. Aah. Goodbye mama. Hello problems. “Get harvested, idiot!” Philza Minecraft grunts with effort somewhere above him, and the tug gets stronger, prompting a pained ow out of him as the ground crackles and breaks above him, and he feels air-sun-outside on his back as he’s forcefully pulled from the ground like the fresh crop he is. He flails a little bit, kicking off dirt and soil (it’s everywhere, in his hair and between his toes and a little in his mouth and nose, bleh!), then rolls onto his back with a groan, frowning up at the sky he knows is there, blue and clear, because it doesn’t smell like rain and the surface soil is dry and warm.

He’s back. And he sees nothing at all. Welp, better close his eyes again then. He feels a shadow fall on him, feels a sandaled foot nudge his side. “Helloooooo. Hello Phil,” he greets the other leaning hard on the deadpan because he knows it makes his friend laugh when he does that. It lands. “What, that’s it?” the elytrian caws, kneeling beside him and poking at his face, talons dulled to a gentle roundness. Étoiles wishes he didn’t trim them, but Phil is too nice, too careful, too eager to smooth himself down for others, for the eggs. Docile.

Étoiles despises it, but he keeps quiet because he knows Phil doesn’t like to talk about those things. “You get yourself killed by a fucking Code of all things,” Phil keeps going, “make everyone freak the fuck out because you won’t respawn like a normal fucking person, and that’s all you have to say for yourself?”

“Antoine knows. And I’m here now, so it’s okay.”

“Antoine barely logs on, you absolute dumbass. You’re lucky Lullah told me about the seed thing, because you would’ve been fucked six ways to Sunday.”

He opens his eyes, if only to shoot Phil a halfhearted glare. And then immediately forgets about it, blinks owlishly. Sits up to get closer to the other man. “Phil. Why are you stars?”

“What.”

He sees stars. (And not in the sex way, because he doesn't do that.) It’s not night, but there are stars in his vision, where pitch blackness used to be, and the constellation is Phil-shaped.

Philza is a cosmic cluster, a nebula shining bright in the darkness that has become his world. He can see nothing beyond him, not the plants surrounding him, not the long vine attached to his lower back Phil used to pull him out. He can tell it’s there, though, lightly thumping at the ground in agitation. “You, are stars. That’s how I see you now.”

“Wait. Can you, like, see again?” Phil asks, uncharacteristically soft. “I know it was getting… bad. And your eyes are like, all greyed out. Did the code stuff on your arm do that?” Étoiles sees a cluster of stars approaching his face — hand — and feels fingers brushing just under his right eye. He’s a bit startled by the contact, the area usually covered by his trust bandana (he needs it back, needs his stuff back, hopefully someone held onto it for him). Phil draws away, an apology ready from the way his constellation-body shifts, but Étoiles doesn’t let him. “I can’t,” he answers, tilting his head, ear flicking in focus — the stars that make up Phil sharpen, and he can almost make out the shape of the wings bound behind his back. “But I can See. I think.” He also wouldn’t mind Phil’s hand on his face again. It feels nice. Scratches at something long-buried, and denied.

Philza makes a confused sound. “Okay, I heard that capital S there. What’s that mean? Are you pulling a Daredevil?”

Étoiles grins, sharp-toothed and playful. “Oh, oh! He thinks I’m a superhero? He thinks I’m cool, Felipe Minecraft? Big win for me.” Phil rolls his eyes, which Étoiles can tell because the crow always makes that low warble when he does. “But no, it’s not like that. I still need my eyes to see like this, and I don’t hear or smell better than before.” Although his status as a hybrid means his baseline is still higher than the average person’s, but that’s irrelevant. “FF.”

“So no cool blindfold for you, ey?”

“No cool blindfold. I will just do a Pomme and drown myself later, to make up for how uncool I am.” (He cannot drown. No lungs. But he can pretend.)

He squints. There’s a little cluster, right there at the side of Phil’s head. He can connect the dots, identify the shape of the elytrian’s bucket hat, but there’s something else there too. “What’s that on your head, Phil? I can’t make it out well.”

“Oh— here,” the other takes his hand and guides it towards his hair, and Étoiles feels a familiar texture under his pads. He makes a noise of surprise. “That’s. Mine.”

“Do you want it back?” Phil hums, brushing at the large cucumber flower tucked in the band of his hat. “It bloomed this morning, on top of the plant you were growing under. Took it as a sign you were, uh, done cooking.” Étoiles snorts. Good guess. “But uh, I guess the plant was also you, cuz it’s at the end of your tail now. Dragging.” Ah. Yeah. He really ought to cut it. “Is it weird? That I’m wearing a piece of you? I don’t know what… fuckin’... cucumber etiquette is.”

“It’s not weird,” Étoiles says, because he doesn’t think it is. “You can keep it.” He kind of likes it. That Phil’s wearing a piece of him. It makes him, happy? “You know, that I am your weapon. Yes? So it makes sense, that you show it.”

“You’re my friend. Don’t call yourself a weapon, man.”

“Same thing for me.”

Phil’s response is wordless, a simple, noncommittal mmh. But Étoiles can hear the hidden fondness in it. He pushes a little further, crudely imitates that  one bird sound Philza makes when he’s happy. Whoops internally when Phil puffs out his feathers and trills out a yesyes in return. Héhé. “Yes yes, Philza? Fight me, right now?” he slips into his usual stance, just a bit offset by the lack of armor weighing him down. “1v1, no weapons, no armor? Fistfight, let’s go.”

Phil cackles, crow-like. “I am not fighting you right now, you little shit. You menace. What’s wrong with you?”

“Aww, Phil hates me,” the warrior whines. “He hates me. He won’t 1v1 me, he must hate me. Sad.”

“Oh my god, stop being a baby.”

“I was literally born five minutes ago. I am baby, and Felipe Minecraft hates me,” he sasses back, and Phil throws his arms towards the sky in exasperation. “Oh come on. I spent a week protecting your green ass! Making sure you got enough sun and water and shit, it was like doing egg tasks all over again. Antoine even talked me into fucking singing, pretty sure he was pranking me with that one by the way, and still you think I hate you?”

“Nice caulk, Phil.”

He can’t see it, but Étoiles knows Phil’s eyelid is twitching. “Mate. I got a faceful of ass pulling you out of here, you’re on thin fucking ice.”

The cucumber snorts. “Héhé, got mooned by the stars.” That was kinda funny. “You were pulling me by the tail, I do not know what you expected. You’re lucky I’m a plant, or there would have been full cock and balls there.”

“Bruh. I thought it would be connected to your… plant belly button, or whatever, like an umbilical cord.”

“It’s an ass button, GGs.”

“Jesus Christ, please don’t call it that. I didn’t even know you had a tail. You didn’t before.”

“That’s because I always cut it,” the warrior huffs, said tail lashing behind him from the restless energy that always accompanies a new body. Its leaves drag around the loose dirt in little swish-y sounds. “Give me a sword, Phil, it’s already annoying me.”

The crow peers down at the vine, then back at him. “I dunno, man. You look kinda fun with it.” Étoiles squints. He can’t quite make out Phil’s expression like this, all stars and nothing between them, but he can hear the hidden laughter in his voice. “...I will cut it with my teeth then.”

“Won’t that hurt more than with a blade?”

“It doesn’t hurt. Only the base. Like when you pulled on it.”

“Why not keep it? It’s a part of you.”

Because it speaks for me, he considers replying. Because it says and shows things that I don’t want people to see. Even now, it wags, because Phil is here and now brushing stray dirt out of his hair and it’s very nice. (Is he touch-starved? He might be. Pomme is gone, and he doesn’t trust people to touch him, other than with blunt force and sharp diamond blades.) But Étoiles hasn’t kept his tail since he was a child, still wide-eyed and showing his innermost self to the whole world without any shield. He feels weird. Exposed. And it’s okay with Phil, because Phil is Phil, but it’s not okay because they’re out in the open and anyone could come and see. He doesn’t like that. “Because people can grab it, and it gets stuck in things, and it’s annoying. I cut it, now.” He tugs at the appendage, bringing it up to his mouth. “Nope,” Phil snatches it away, and Étoiles hisses at him. “Calm down, dude. At least let’s do it cleanly.”

“Eeeeuugh. Okay.”

”Then we’re getting your stuff back from Antoine’s, good god. You’re still butt-naked and I won’t have you strut around like that.”

“He has my things? Comms, armor, my backpacks?”

“All of it, yeah,” the older man huffs, and Étoiles can hear the telltale sound of an item being summoned of an inventory. Enchanted axe, he parses, recognizing the ozone-y smell of the sharpness enchant and the sound of the air being sliced downward. He doesn’t feel anything when the vine is severed, frowns when he realises Phil left a good… fifty centimeters of it, still attached to his body. “Phil. You misclick? You aim like shit today?”

“You said it hurts near the base,” the elytrian huffs, finality lacing his every word. “Keep it or cut the rest later, your pick, but I’m not hurting you.”

Étoiles’ ear flicks in confusion, and so does his tail. It moves faster, easier now without the rest of the plant weighing it down. “...We fight each other all the time, that hurts more. I don’t care.”

Phil stays silent for a few seconds. Nebula-Phil shifts before him. “It’s. Different.”

Étoiles hums. Philza has the Tone™ again, the one that means he’s thinking of things that hurt. He thinks of clipped feathers, of matted down that he wishes he could run his fingers through and fix, fix, let me fix it, let me do this for you. But he says nothing. Maybe another time, when they’re both ready for that conversation. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Maybe I keep it this time. Maybe.”

That was their plan; Hitoshi was supposed to stay and he was supposed to stay for the entire weekend, because by some kind of miracle their schedules aligned like that. And Katsuki had asked.

It was Katsuki who had asked him to stay for several days in a row, it was Katsuki who invited him to his place and Hitoshi had been looking forward to it.

But that was when he was still under the clearly false assumption that this was more than it clearly is, that he means more to Katsuki than he clearly does and right about now, Hitoshi wants to do nothing more than to flee.

And so he shakes his head.

"I think I'll head out," he says, his voice still so much stronger than he actually feels and Katsuki's brow furrows.

"Are you going to throw a fit over this?" he then sneers out, crossing his arms in front of his chest and staring Hitoshi down.

"I'm not," he easily gives back, because he's not sure he can find enough energy to even raise his voice with all the numbness inside of him. "I'm just going to go back home now," he then adds and turns around on his heels, mechanically putting on his shoes and leaving the apartment without a look back.

He's not going to come back, that's for sure; there are things in this apartment that belong to him, personal things he left behind when he was still under the impression that they were in a relationship—however secret it might have been—but none of them are important enough to him to turn back or even ask Katsuki about it.

Bakugou. He should probably call him Bakugou again. He's not sure secret, shameful fuck-buddies get first name privileges after all and Hitoshi fears that if the numbness wasn't still there he'd probably be crying right about now.

Instead, he makes his way home, into an apartment that holds traces of Ka—Bakugou as well and for very long minutes, he just stands there.

And then his thoughts starts to run wild.

Bakugou clearly doesn't care for him beyond the occasional, convenient fuck. The Bakusquad can't stand him for several outings in a row and only invites him to like every third one they actually have, so he would be hard-pressed to talk about being friends with them, too. Monoma usually only talks to him when he has to boost his own ego.

Aizawa and Yamada—and here Hitoshi's breath hitches for the first time—promised him a home, a family, and now can't be bothered to call him more than once every other week.

He knows it's his own fault; Hitoshi is self-aware enough to know that all of this is inherently his fault, that he's stand-offish and distant and that no one lo—likes him and that he does precious little to change any of that, that he was the one who shot a stable home down in the first place, and normally he doesn't care.

But normally he doesn't ask what he believed to be his boyfriend to go public only to have it all thrown in his face.

And now, all these little things are adding up, all these little things suddenly sting and hurt and flay him wide open and Hitoshi's hand reaches for his phone.

He needs an out; he needs to be gone, right this instant, and apart from throwing himself off a very high building there's only one other choice he sees.

"Nighthide," his handler says the moment they pick up and Hitoshi barely hears them through the static in his ears.

"I'm taking the mission." His voice comes out flat and lifeless, just like he feels himself and his handler is quiet for a moment.

"You said you wouldn't."

"I changed my mind."

"Nighthide—"

"Is the mission still a go or not?" he snaps and he thinks if this is being taken away from him as well, the rooftop might be his only option.

"You'll leave the country in nine hours," his handler tells him and then hangs up, his phone immediately chiming with mail after mail, no doubt all the documents he needs for the airport and America.

Hitoshi opens them, prints them like he's supposed to before he deletes everything and then trashes his phone, too. He packs the bare necessities—one set of clothes, some money, his hero license and then he's gone.

His agency will handle his apartment and it's not as if Hitoshi has anyone he needs to tell that he's going anywhere.

He is a mere ghost in his own life anyway and he slips away like one, too.

~*~*~

Hitoshi feels wrong, almost as if he doesn't fit right into his skin anymore and he guesses that's what happens when you walk the streets of your childhood after six years of absence.

Most things are still the same, as if no time at all had changed, as if six years truly did nothing to this city but there are enough changes that Hitoshi can’t fight the urge to claw off his own skin.

He didn't want to come back; didn't see the sense in it when he was doing good work in America but his agency was very clear on it. Either he comes back and takes some time off or they'll drop him and Hitoshi still likes this agency too much to simply switch like that.

There's no doubt that he would have had a place at any American agency but deep down Hitoshi missed his home country anyway and three months isn't so bad.

He can pretend to be a normal citizen for three months and then they'll send him back out anyway; his skill-set is too valuable to keep him off the streets forever.

Hitoshi has just left the store around the corner, bag with food tightly clutched in his hand, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone and the potential new mission his handler is informing him about when he crashes into someone.

"Shit, sorry," Hitoshi mutters, switching to English on instinct because that has been more comfortable for him these past few years but when he's met with an "Oi, watch where you're going," he freezes.

How? How is this his life? He has only been back two days, why is he already running into someone he knows? And why does that someone have to be Bakugou of all people?

"Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," he mumbles, now consciously deciding on English in hopes that it throws Bakugou off because it's not as if he's going to recognise Hitoshi.

His hair is more gray than purple these days—stress, life-threatening situations and constant changes of hair colours will do that to a guy—and his eyes are still green from that appearance changing quirk they used on him. Apart from that Hitoshi has filled out over the years—gone is the gangly string-bean he used to be.

He is now all muscle and broad to boot and it's not as if Bakugou cares anyway. So he should be safe, he should be able to just slip away and—

"Hitoshi?" Bakugou breathes out and his voice comes out shaky in a way Hitoshi is pretty sure he has never heard before and before he can deny anything, Bakugou's hand clasps around his wrist. "Hitoshi?" he asks again, much more firmly this time and Hitoshi knows that there's no denying anything when their eyes meet.

Somehow, Bakugou recognised him instantly.

"I thought you were dead. We all thought—"

"You should," Hitoshi says, cutting Bakugou off. "You all should. Let's just pretend this never happened."

Hitoshi tries to brush Bakugou off, tries to get his arm back but Bakugou's grip doesn't falter for an instant.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Bakugou almost yells out and great, people are already watching. "We thought you died."

"Maybe it's better this way," Hitoshi gives back and his stomach drops out when Bakugou's gaze blazes in anger.

Fuck, he's missed him, missed this, and he thought he was over it, that he's a changed person by now but it seems that nothing at all has changed, at least for Hitoshi.

"Better for who?" Bakugou demands to know and Hitoshi is tired of this.

He will be gone in three months again anyway and there's no need for him to put himself through this—again—and so he finally breaks Bakugou's hold on him and takes a step back.

"For everyone," he says and then turns around and walks away, leaving Bakugou behind spluttering and shocked and enraged.

Still, Hitoshi doesn't trust it; he stays out for hours after the encounter, because while he's pretty certain that Bakugou is not following him, he can't be too careful. He doesn't want to compromise his apartment after all, no matter how short he'll be staying there, because with what he's been doing the past few years he has enemies everywhere now.

He still makes his way home eventually and when he enters the hallway to his apartment, he really wishes he hadn't, because his door is being haunted by Aizawa, Yamada and Bakugou.

And it seems as if they've been there for a while already, because Bakugou is seated on the floor and Yamada is leaning against the wall as if he merged with it and Hitoshi turns around on his heels, every intention of simply walking out again and squatting at the agency if he has to, but Aizawa's capture weapon winds itself around him.

So much for fleeing then, Hitoshi thinks with a sigh, even though he's reasonably certain he could get out of it.

Aizawa taught him, and he taught him well, but Hitoshi made his own experiences underground and the capture weapon is hardly a threat for him anymore.

He doesn't want to cause a commotion though, his entire goal is to fly under the radar here and if he fights three pro heroes then that would be very noticeable.

Instead of twisting himself out of the capture weapon he turns around and decides to be thankful for his resting bitch face, because while Bakugou is glaring at him just as much as expected, Yamada is openly crying and even Aizawa seems close to tears.

"Hitoshi," Yamada breathes out and in the next moment he has the other man hanging off his neck, clinging to him as if he means the world to Yamada and Hitoshi is—confused.

And hurt, but mostly confused and he hopes that his face at least conveys that.

"You're alive," Yamada cries out and instead of wiggling out of the capture weapon and hugging him back, Hitoshi glares at Bakugou, because it's more than obvious that he's at fault for all of this.

"Don't give me that look, troll doll, you can't expect to just show back up again and for us to ignore that," Bakugou roughly says as he pushes himself to his feet and Hitoshi scoffs.

"Ignored me well enough before, don't see how this would be different," he mutters and Yamada lets out an agonised sound.

"Ignored you? Hitoshi, you just vanished," Yamada almost wails out and now Hitoshi starts to push him away, because it's not as if anyone would have wanted him to stay.

"It's my fault, right?" Bakugou says and Hitoshi sighs even as he wishes he was over it.

He has been working very successfully for the last six years, he's seen so many horrible, horrific things that these days barely anything fazes him anymore and he spent his years apart from deeper connections and he should be over it.

And yet his heart hurts in his chest just like it did all these years ago because what does it matter? What does all of this matter? They didn't want him, they barely even liked him and instead of moving past that, he's still the same hurt, small child he was back then.

Hitoshi hates it. And he hates them for making him feel that way.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Hitoshi sneers as he untangles himself from Yamada and the capture weapon, which has suspiciously gone slack. "You don't get to take all the credit here."

It's enough to make everyone freeze and then Bakugou clicks his tongue.

"Open the goddamn door, we're not going to hash this out in the open here," he demands and expectantly stares at Hitoshi until he gets moving.

Yamada is still slightly sniffling and Aizawa is still carefully silent and Bakugou's anger is so very palpable and Hitoshi hates every goddamn second of this. He opens the door anyway, because what else is there to do for him and everyone moves into his apartment as if they are afraid he's going to kick them out if they are too slow.

He wishes he could kick them out anyway, but Aizawa positions himself in front of the closed door and he seems more than ready to pick a fight with Hitoshi, should he try anything.

At this point it almost seems easier to let his happen, so Hitoshi sighs and moves deeper into the apartment, the others quietly following along.

Or, well, as quietly as a crying Yamada can be.

"Toshi, where have you been?" Yamada cries out once they reached the living-room and Hitoshi crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"Working. What's it to you?"

"You were gone for six years," Aizawa says as if that must mean something and Hitoshi shrugs. "We thought you were dead."

"That seems to be a theme and I think we should all stick to it," Hitoshi gives back, because he has no intention of staying.

Nothing has changed, after all, and he no longer has the patience to try and appeal himself to people who don't want him.

"No!" Yamada yells out and steps forward as if he wants to hug Hitoshi and never let him go again but Hitoshi warily steps back.

"I didn't mean to drive you away like that," Bakugou says and Hitoshi rolls his eyes, because it's easier than admitting to the hurt that still spreads out when he remembers their last conversation.

"Again, Bakugou: you might think you're hot shit but you're hardly the only reason I left," Hitoshi repeats because he really, truly isn't but instead of making everyone back down, it only seems to fan the fire.

"Then tell us about the other reasons," Aizawa speaks up for the first time and Hitoshi's gaze flicks to him, before he forces himself to look away.

Aizawa has always been someone he looked up to, someone whose approval he desperately wanted and remembering that nothing he did was ever enough to get it—it still hurts.

"As if it matters," Hitoshi gives back and the crackling of Bakugou's quirk fills the room.

"Tell us, you damn coward!" he shouts and a clear display of aggression like that is something Hitoshi can't ignore.

"How about you shut the fuck up," he yells right back. "Why the fuck would you even care if I left, huh? Couldn't be bothered to be seen with me anyway, so just be glad I took it out of your hands!"

He shouldn't be this angry, he shouldn't still care about it that much but he can't help it. Bakugou discarded him like a shameful secret and it hurts, even after all this time.

It still hurts.

"I—I was stupid back then," Bakugou says into the silence and he sounds more hurt than Hitoshi expected. "It wasn't about you, or my feelings for you, it was all me. I didn't want people finding out and scrutinising our every move because clearly they would come to the conclusion that I’m doing this whole relationship thing wrong. I didn't want that for us."

"Right," Hitoshi scoffs out. "You called it a thing, Bakugou, that hardly speaks about love. Or even care. And it's not as if anyone would have cared how you treated me anyway. It's a lame excuse. You can just say that you didn't want me."

"Hitoshi," Aizawa cuts in, his voice effortlessly shutting both of them up. "Why do you think no one else would have cared how he treated you?"

Trust him to hone in on the weak spot, Hitoshi bitterly thinks and he grits his teeth.

"Can we just admit that we were all happier when I wasn't here and move on with our day?" he asks, tired and done but of course no one grants him any mercy.

"I don't think so, Hitoshi," Yamada sniffles out. "We mourned you. All those years we thought you were dead. There's a grave and a death date and everything and we—you left behind such a big hole."

Now that makes Hitoshi laugh, much to the confusion of everyone else apparently, because he gets nothing but blank stares for it.

"How big of a hole could it have been? You barely talked to me more than twice a month anyway, so what does it matter to you if I'm there or not?"

"That was your choice!" Aizawa seems distressed in a way Hitoshi has never seen him before and it's surprising enough that it shuts him right up. "You shut us down when we asked you if you wanted to live with us. You blew us off when we asked you to meet for lunch or dinner. You never picked up the phone. We called you plenty; we even wrote you but nothing ever came back. So yeah, eventually we took the hint and only called twice a month but at least like that we could talk to you. It's not as if you allowed us to do anything else!"

"The squad is the same," Bakugou adds, his voice for once devoid of all anger. "You shut them down so often, that they decided they would have better results inviting you only every other time. You showed up to every invite if we only asked you like once a month. When we asked you all the time you shut us down and we didn't see you for weeks."

"Shut up," Hitoshi breathes out, his head spinning.

It's not true, none of it is true. They didn't want him. No one wanted him, least of all Aizawa, Yamada and Bakugou and for them to spin it like this now—

"You didn't allow us to love you," Yamada softly says and there are still tears streaming down his face.

"And I fucked up, I can admit that, but we could have talked about it. I tried to find you, to apologise, that same evening but you weren't there," Bakugou adds and Hitoshi drags a hand down his face.

"Left an hour after our talk," he admits and Bakugou makes a noise that almost sounds as if he's been injured.

"Kid," Aizawa says, stepping forward and Hitoshi flinches at the familiar nickname. "We love you. We all love you and you disappearing on us like that it was—harrowing. Horrible. The worst thing that ever happened to us."

Yamada is quick to nod, his hair flying around, and even Bakugou nods, which—it can't be true.

It can't be.

"You're lying," Hitoshi whispers out because no one wanted him, no one wants him but before he can find the words to lay that out, he finds himself with an armful of Yamada again.

"Please, kiddo, we love you. We have missed you so fucking much, please don't leave us again. We can stay out of your way, don't bother you more than you're comfortable with, but please don't vanish on us again," he cries out and it's exactly not what Hitoshi wants, what he never wanted, but just like back then he doesn't know how to voice that.

Doesn't know if he has a right to even say it anymore, after everything.

"We can also bother you so much," Bakugou chimes in. "All the time. The squad is gonna camp in here when they find out and we could—I wouldn't want to hide anything."

He says it as if them being a them is still an option and when even Aizawa nods and adds "There's still a room for you at our place," that finally does him in.

Hitoshi hasn't cried in six years, was too busy fighting for his life most of the time, but here, with them, it all comes bubbling over and he cries and cries like he has never done before.

Yamada doesn't let go of him even when he gets snot and tears all over him and soon enough Bakugou and Aizawa are right there, too, and Hitoshi has no idea what to do with all the love and affection he's getting right now, so he buries his face in Yamada's shoulder and holds on tightly to Aizawa and Bakugou and cries until there are no more tears left.

"Don't leave us again," Aizawa finally says, when everyone calmed down at least a little bit and there's a hand in his hair, scratching at his scalp exactly how he loves and Hitoshi doesn't even have to look to know that it's Bakugou and it melts him down to the bones.

"Stay," Bakugou adds and Yamada promises him "We're here, for you, always," and Hitoshi doesn't know what to say at all.

It's not as if he even could, with how he's all clogged up, but he tightens his grip and dares to give one, almost hesitant nod but they must have noticed anyway because they all let out a relieved breath.

"Thank you, thank you," Aizawa mutters and pats him as if he needs to make sure he's still there and no one moves away and instead they hold on to Hitoshi as if they are truly afraid of him vanishing again.

But maybe there's no reason for him to leave again, not anymore.

Maybe there's a place for him where he can truly stay.

Series on AO3