Chapter Text
Shinsou moves quietly through the corridors, a thermos of black coffee clenched in his hand, his scarf tucked high against his mouth. He doesn’t need to speak as he drags his tired body down the corridor, the other students part around him anyways, everyone gives him a wide birth. He’s not feared anymore, not exactly. But there are still whispers. There always will be. Some part of him has learned to stop caring. Other parts, small and quiet, still listen. Still catalogue every side-glance, every lingering doubt about his character.
But it’s third year. He’s almost out.
The grey morning sky in Musutafu breaks as sunlight strains weakly through winter clouds, trying to warm up the frost that’s settled, but barely touches the surface. The cold air clings to his skin as he shuffles outside, bleary-eyed and yawning, shoulders hunched against the cold, uniform flecked with snowmelt. He finds himself at Ground Beta before the sun has properly risen, winter stealing what little daylight the students have. By the time they rise to the time they turn in for the night, it’s always dark. The course before him gleams with frost and there's a light dusting of snow, unmarred by footsteps. Aizawa is already there, of course. He always is. His presence is a fixed point in a world of constant flux. Shinsou sometimes wonders if Aizawa even sleeps. Then again, he’s seen him curl up in that ratty yellow sleeping bag and disappear under his desk.
“Morning,” Shinsou says, his breath misty in the air.
Aizawa only nods, arms folded across his chest, capture scarf trailing faintly in the breeze. His eyes are unreadable, half-lidded, like always, but Shinsou has learned to recognize the subtle changes. The flicker of interest. The thread of pride when he looks at Shinsou, even when it’s not noticeable to others.
“Set your timer,” Aizawa says. “Run the course twice. Then we’ll work on disarming techniques.”
There’s comfort in the routine. In the quiet rhythm of motion as he moves through the course as instructed. Shinsou moves on repetition, cutting corners with calculated precision, vaulting walls, sliding beneath spinning blades that would’ve caught him last year. He’s faster now. Stronger. More in control of the body that once haunted him. But more than that, he believes in his own body again.
When he finishes the second lap, Aizawa holds out a bottle of water without a word. Their fingers brush. It’s just a slight touch. Nothing more. Shouldn’t be read into anything more than a reaction to handing over an object.
But Shinsou feels it anyway.
By the time class begins, his pulse has returned to normal, but the ghost of that contact lingers. His eyes are fixed ahead, on nothing in particular. The lesson ended ten minutes ago, and the rest of the class has filtered out, one by one, their conversations already dissolving into the hallway. He stays not because he has nowhere to go, but because this is the quiet he’s learned to love. The space that comes after the noise.
“Still here?” Aizawa says after a while, glancing up from marking the quizzes on his desk.
Shinsou shrugs. “Didn’t feel like leaving.”
Aizawa doesn’t reply. Instead he closes the folder and stands, moving around to the front of his desk to lean against it, arms crossing over his chest. His gaze doesn’t waver from Shinsou, but there’s no weight behind it. Only observation.
“You’re overworking again,” Aizawa says. “You don’t need to stay for every optional session.”
Shinsou gives a faint smile. “Optional doesn’t mean unnecessary. Not to me.”
Aizawa watches him for a long moment. There’s something unreadable in his expression, but it seems cautious. “Come on,” Aizawa says eventually. “I’ve got something for you.”
They walk in silence and somewhere in the distance, growing fainter, Present Mic is shouting poetry at bored students. They walk through the empty west wing, where the classrooms are colder, and the light filters through broken blinds. The space feels suspended in time, abandoned and unused for years. Aizawa unlocks Room 3E and gestures for him to enter. Inside, it smells faintly of dust and chalk. Desks are stacked in one corner, the whiteboard stained with long-erased history lessons. Shinsou can’t help but think Aizawa only knows of this room because he’s come here to take a nap.
“This is where I train,” Aizawa says reading his mind. “I thought it might be a good space for you.”
Shinsou looks around, fingers tightening slightly at the strap on his bag. “You’re giving me your space?”
Aizawa gives a half-shrug. “You’ve earned it.”
Shinsou turns away to hide the way his face flushes, because it’s not just the gesture, it’s the weight of trust behind it. Shinsou shrugs off his bag and reaches up to remove his capture weapon, the one Aizawa had given him his second year, the one he wears everywhere, despite the stares and murmurs.
“What are we working on?”
“Response time,” Aizawa answers. “Specifically, learning to anticipate without relying on your quirk.”
They train together, Aizawa correcting his footing. Shinsou listens. They don’t speak much, but they don’t have to. It’s not sparring. Not exactly. But something sharper than drills. Close-quarter movements of blocks and redirections. Palms to wrists in wide swings, shoulders to forearms in attempts to knock off stance. It’s not a fight, but more like a conversation in the language of pressure and restraint, not just swinging wildly and hoping something lands.
“You’re too reactive,” Aizawa finally speaks after a particularly swift disarm. “Don’t wait to be attacked. Control the rhythm.”
“You always say that.”
“Because you still haven’t listened.” There’s no cruelty in the words, only an unyielding expectation. “I watched you spar with Bakugou the other day,” Aizawa says. “You didn’t hesitate then.”
“I’ve stopped giving him that power,” Shinsou says.
A faint twitch of a smile on Aizawa’s face, but barely there. “Good, so apply that here.”
Shinsou studies the man in front of him, not as his teacher, not as his mentor, but as if he were someone made of exhaustion and careful control rolled into one heady cocktail. Someone he has spent the better part of three years trying to imitate. “I used to wonder,” Shinsou says quietly, “if I could ever be more than the quirk people feared.”
Aizawa looks up, the coil of his scarf forgotten in his hands as he readies himself for another round.
“I don't wonder anymore,” Shinsou continues. “Because of you.”
Aizawa is quiet for a moment, before he speaks, his voice controlled, betraying nothing. “Let’s go again.”
And Shinsou, despite the ache in his arms, despite the sweat cooling on the back of his neck, pushes harder. They move around each other in ever-narrowing circles. Aizawa lunges. Shinsou redirects. Aizawa slips behind him and surprises him. Shinsou rolls his shoulder and counters.
Then it happens fast.
A misstep. A shift in his footing that's all wrong. He stumbles and Aizawa’s arm snags around his waist, halting his fall. Shinsou’s breath catches as their faces come too close. Close enough that he sees the line of exhaustion beneath Aizawa’s eyes. The subtle tension in his jaw. The thread of something, maybe hesitation, or no, more like fear.
They freeze.
It’s so quiet in the room, no students to fill the silence, no voices carrying on down the hallway since it has long since been abandoned. Just the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the sound of shared breath.
Shinsou’s hand is on Aizawa’s chest. He feels the heart beneath his palm. And maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe he’s reading everything wrong.
But he leans in anyway.
Shinsou kisses Aizawa. Not rough or hesitant in the slightest. The kiss is brief, but it lands in the center of Shinsou’s chest and blooms there. He breathes the feeling in and Aizawa’s grip tightens for a moment, not to push him away, but to hold. To anchor himself. The world tilts sideways, then Aizawa’s mouth opens to him, slow and stunned. The kiss deepens, just for a heartbeat, but in that heartbeat, something breaks free.
And then Aizawa pulls back. Sharp. Sudden. “No,” Aizawa says, voice low. “This is- this can’t happen.”
Shinsou blinks. His throat feels dry. “You kissed me back.”
“I know.” Aizawa’s hands fall to his sides. “That’s the problem.”
Shinsou doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. The air between them hums with something too sharp to name. Too dangerous.
“I’m still your student,” Shinsou answers the unsaid quietly.
Aizawa closes his eyes. “Exactly.”
Aizawa fully pulls away and then he’s gone. Out the door without another word, leaving Shinsou alone in the cold light of the forgotten classroom.
He skips the rest of his classes in favour of wandering the training fields like a ghost, scarf pulled high over his mouth to stave off the cold, fingers trembling where they press into his pockets. The snow has started falling again, slow and steady. He remembers the look in Aizawa’s eyes. The split-second of vulnerability before the recoil. The warmth of his mouth. The instinct to protect Shinsou.
Shinsou presses his back to the wall and lets his head fall against the brick.
He kissed his teacher.
His mentor.
But more than that, he kissed the only person who’s ever looked at him like he was already who he wanted to become, not what everyone saw him as. And Aizawa kissed him back. That’s the part that won’t let him go. It wasn’t rejection, not really.
Fear. That’s what he saw. And maybe, just maybe, the fear could be worked through. Shinsou knows a thing or two about overcoming fear. Maybe there’s a way forward. But tonight, he just lets the snow fall, lets it cling to his hair and lashes, and wonders if the silence he once cherished between them will ever sound the same again. Or if he’s really fucked things up.
The next day, Aizawa avoids him.
It’s not obvious, Aizawa isn’t a petty sixteen year old after-all, but it’s there. During morning homeroom, Aizawa’s gaze slides over Shinsou like he’s part of the wall. During a group spar, he offers him no feedback, no correction. When the final bell rings, he vanishes before Shinsou even gets a chance to linger.
It gnaws at him.
Shinsou spends his evening in the empty weight room beneath the dorms, hands wrapped and knuckles raw. Every strike against the bag is a substitute for a question he doesn’t know how to phrase. He doesn’t expect anything to come of the kiss, not really, but what unsettles him is how much it had come to mean. How right it had felt. How clearly it had spoken in a language he and Aizawa have both always understood: silence.
Now, that language has turned on him. Now, silence means distance.
He doesn’t talk to anyone about it. Not even Midoriya, who would probably stumble through some earnest monologue about boundaries and feelings and the right time. Shinsou isn’t sure if there’s ever a right time for this. For them. He knows what Aizawa must be thinking: that it’s wrong; that he’s still a student; that it crosses some line.
But what still frustrates him most is that Aizawa kissed him back. He’s so sure of it.
Two days later, Shinsou is in the library, pretending to study for a written exam on hero ethics when he hears someone sit across from him. He doesn’t look up right away. Only once the silence between them sharpens does he finally lift his eyes.
Aizawa is there, his hair is down, falling forward in soft waves like it always does when he’s tired. There are faint lines under his eyes, a sure sign he hasn’t been sleeping. His hands are folded loosely on the table, but there’s tension in his shoulders that betrays every inch of calm.
Shinsou waits.
“I shouldn’t have let it happen,” Aizawa says quietly. “That kiss.”
“I kissed you,” Shinsou says, matching the softness in his tone so as not to be overheard. It’s incredibly dangerous to be having this conversation in public. “You just didn’t stop me.”
“I didn’t want to.” That lands between them hard and heavy. Aizawa glances down, exhales. “That’s the problem.”
Shinsou closes his book, spine snapping shut. “I’m not going to apologize for wanting you,” he says. “And I’m not going to pretend it didn’t mean anything just because it’s inconvenient or because you think it was inappropriate.”
“It was inappropriate. You’re still my student.”
“For a few more months,” Shinsou counters.
“That doesn’t change what I am to you. What you are, my student.”
“Then what do you want me to say?” Shinsou leans forward, voice hushed. “That it was nothing? That I imagined what was between us? Because I didn’t. You know I didn’t.”
Aizawa’s jaw clenches. “I know,” he says, voice low. “And that’s what scares me.”
There’s a pause, but Shinsou doesn't let it end there.
He stands slowly, gathering his books, his voice calm as ever. “I’m not going to beg for your approval, or for your feelings. But I won’t pretend they’re not there either. I don’t need you to say anything yet. I just need you to stop running from what we both want.”
He leaves the library without slamming the door, without any drama. Just calm, deliberate steps. He doesn’t look back. But part of him hopes Aizawa follows him with his eyes anyways.
That night, Aizawa lies awake in his apartment, the room dark except for the flicker of the city lights bleeding through the blinds. The kiss replays in his mind, not just the physicality of it, but the way it made something inside him snap into place. Shinsou's mouth, confident but reverent. The way it hadn’t felt like a transgression, but like an arrival of feelings.
He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palms. He knows all the reasons to keep his distance. The power imbalance. The scrutiny. The responsibility he carries not just as a teacher, but as a figure in Shinsou’s journey. One wrong step and it’s all undone.
But he also knows that Shinsou is not a boy anymore. He’s grown into his strength, his voice, his will. He’s become the kind of hero Aizawa had always hoped he could be. And Aizawa isn’t just afraid of the ethical implications. He’s afraid of what it means to want something again.
The unfortunate truth is a simple one. He wants to kiss Shinsou again.
The classroom is dim in the late afternoon, lit only by the sinking sun that cuts through the blinds in golden slashes. The desks are empty. Echoes of footsteps and chatter fade down the hallways as school ends after another long day. Shinsou sits in the back row, textbook closed but untouched, a pen rolling idly between his fingers. He isn’t waiting for anyone. That’s the lie he tells himself. He’s just… thinking. Letting the silence settle into his skin like he does often. When the door opens, slow, almost reluctant, he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t need to look to know who it is.
Aizawa steps inside and closes the door behind him. They regard each other from across the room, the distance between them stretched with that familiar silence.
“I should’ve handled that better,” Aizawa says. His voice isn’t rehearsed. If anything, it’s frayed.
Shinsou raises an eyebrow, his tone even. “You mean not running away after I kissed you? Or confronting me in the library?”
Aizawa winces. “Yes. Both.”
Shinsou leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He watches him like someone trying not to hope, but failing at it anyway. “I meant it, you know,” he says. “It wasn’t just an impulse when I kissed you. I’ve been thinking about doing it for a while.”
“I know,” Aizawa replies quietly. “That’s why it scared me.”
“Because I’m your student?”
“That’s part of it," Aizawa answers honestly.
“And the other part?” Shinsou questions.
Aizawa moves closer, weaving between the rows of desks. He stops in front of Shinsou’s. His scarf is gone, hair tied back neatly. But there’s nothing tidy about his expression. His eyes are raw with something that Shinsou can’t quite name.
“The other part is that I wanted it,” he says. “Still do.”
Shinsou’s breath catches, having not quite expected that. He had expected Aizawa to firmly rebuke him. Chastise him about chasing after older men even, but he keeps his voice level. “Then why are you fighting it?”
“Because it’s easier to live with loneliness than regret.”
Shinsou rises slowly, his chair scraping softly against the tile. “Then let me ask you something,” he says, his voice low. “Which one of those are you going to regret more, kissing me, or walking away from me again?”
It’s not an ultimatum. Not quite. But it’s a question with a blade’s edge, and they both know it.
Aizawa doesn’t answer. Not with words. His hand reaches up, fingers curling gently around the back of Shinsou’s neck. There’s no heat to the touch, no frenzy. Just quiet intent. Something long-delayed and anticipated. And when he leans in, it’s not with urgency but inevitability.
The kiss is softer this time, almost thoughtful. It says I know what I’m doing now. I’m choosing this, even if I shouldn’t. Shinsou’s hands grip Aizawa’s waist, not pulling him closer but simply holding. Grounding himself against the older man.
They part only slightly, their foreheads brushing as they do.
“I don’t know what this is,” Aizawa murmurs.
“Neither do I,” Shinsou admits. “But I want to find out.”
Aizawa breathes out, slow steady breaths. He steps back before he can sink into whatever this is further. “This… can’t happen again. Not until you’re no longer my student.”
Shinsou nods. “Okay.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes. It's not one of defeat, because he hasn't lost. Just a clear understanding that this isn't over. Really, it's only just beginning.
Notes:
Ahh I don't know! Some might find it a bit taboo the whole student/teacher thing but what can do you do. Maybe should be tagged as Dead Dove Do Not Eat.
If you're interested in the other chapters I'd love to know. Or even just drop a kudos to let me know you're out there.
Chapter Text
In the quiet of his apartment, Aizawa stands under a cold shower, forehead pressed to the tile. The water needles his skin, but his body won’t shake the warmth still lingering from Shinsou’s lips. He’s always told his students to make the hard choices. To walk the harder path and to understand what’s right, even if it’s difficult.
So what does it mean when he is the one standing at the edge of something tender and dangerous? What does it mean when he’s the one who wants to jump, but struggles to convince himself fully that it’s a good idea? He shuts off the water. Stands there dripping, breathless, and concerned. But not for Shinsou, although he really should be. He’s concerned about what this might become if he lets himself believe it could be something.
But god, he wants to believe.
He has for a long time now.
The days return to their normal rhythm, or something that masquerades as rhythm. Classes, lessons, late-night feedback sessions. U.A. hums as always with the nervous, sprawling energy of young heroes chasing excellence. To anyone watching, nothing has changed.
But between Shinsou and Aizawa... everything has.
Shinsou watches the way Aizawa avoids his eyes for too long. The way his mouth tenses slightly when their hands brush during training. The way he leaves the classroom faster than he used to at the end of the day. Shinsou isn’t angry. He’s waiting, just like he said he would. But waiting has never felt so much like holding his breath.
So he trains harder. Pushes himself until his muscles burn and his voice grows hoarse. Throws himself into everything to avoid thinking about what they haven't talked about since that last time. He wants to close the gap between them not just emotionally, but in rank, in power, in adulthood. He knows Aizawa must feel it too, the loom of graduation fast approaching. Is he anticipating it just as much?
But he also knows what people must think when they see them together. He’s mistaking admiration for affection. He’s young and will learn quickly how inappropriate it is to pine after your teacher.
But none of those people have watched Aizawa’s hands tremble when they’re too close. None of them have heard the breath catch in his throat when Shinsou says his name softly. None of them know what it’s like to press a kiss to someone and feel them break open under the weight of wanting.
The next few months pass in a blur. Practical exams and simulations meant to challenge the students, but each more is grueling than the last. This is what they have left, everything UA has to impart upon them before they’re set free. Shinsou remains sharp, focused. He throws himself into every challenge, honing his skills, using the voice modulator to come out on top of any battle the teachers throw at him because he’s spent years underneath Aizawa’s mentorship practicing his quirk. Countless nights brainwashing the pro hero all in the name of getting better.
But Aizawa is silent, even when Shinsou performs flawlessly, manipulating the capture weapon to easily defend against the likes of Midoriya and Bakugou. But every time his eyes flick to the observation deck above Ground Gamma, Aizawa is there, but he’s unreadable, nearly inscrutable behind his tired gaze.
It drives Shinsou maVd in a way he doesn’t say out loud.
After the final exam of the week, U.A.’s campus begins to still in a quiet way that the end can only bring. Shinsou lingers as his classmates leave one by one, and he waves Midoriya off when the One for All user waits for him just outside the door. He knows he should go. Shower. Eat. Collapse into a pile of exhaustion and sleep for the next three days. But instead, he stays. He waits, as always, because he knows Aizawa will come to ensure everything is locked down.
And when Aizawa arrives, he’s startled to see Shinsou still there, thrumming with nervous energy, capture weapon threading through his hands. Aizawa is not in his usual hero uniform, just dark slacks and a gray sweater, his hair tied back loosely, a few strands falling around his face. His face is unreadable, but his eyes track towards Shinsou immediately, and the line of his mouth pulls taut with uncertainty.
They don’t speak at first. Then Aizawa breaks the silence. “What are you still doing here, Shinsou?”
“Waiting for you,” Shinsou says.
Aizawa walks towards the back of the room slowly, his hands in his pockets as he shuffles. He checks the lock on the back door, satisfied it’s latched securely. “You shouldn't have.”
“Don’t patronize me,” Shinsou snaps, surprising even himself. “I’m not one of your kids anymore, remember? Not after tonight.” They won’t fully graduate for a few weeks, when all the exams are marked, and the scores are graded. But he’s officially done with everything now.
“No,” Aizawa says quietly. “You’re not.”
Something inside Shinsou twists, something angry and vulnerable vying to be seen in the light. Shinsou steps towards him. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t see you every day and convince myself I should stay away until graduation.”
Aizawa shuffles slightly, turning towards Shinsou and Shinsou searches his face, reads the bags underneath his eyes for what they are, sleep deprivation. “How do you do it?” Shinsou asks, softer now, the anger slowly seeping from him. “Because it’s taking everything in me not to push you against this wall and kiss you.”
The silence is a living thing between them now and it starts to feel uncomfortable. Shinsou has always revelled in silence, but now it feels suffocating.
Aizawa finally answers, his voice quiet, almost as if he’s concerned the walls will listen and spill their secrets. “Not easily.”
Shinsou closes the short distance between them and kisses him again, perhaps unexpectedly. Or entirely expected because this time Aizawa doesn’t pull away right away. Doesn’t tell him not now. Doesn’t even try to push him away, so Shinsou feels emboldened. He slides his hand onto Aizawa’s cheek, pulls him close as he feels the rough stubble underneath his palm. He guides the kiss like he’s done this before, which yeah, he’s had a little practice in the first two years. But kissing Aizawa and kissing another student feels different. Between him and the other student, neither of them knew what they were doing, but Aizawa is practiced. Has years over Shinsou. Has probably kissed more people than Shinsou has had crushes on.
Shinsou feels the ache of too many weeks trying not to want. Doesn't care that anyone might walk by and see them. One of his hands buries into the older man’s sweater, clutching hard. Aizawa’s arm comes out to wrap around his waist, solid and steady, and Shinsou can feel the ache of desire where Aizawa presses into him. When Shinsou’s lips part in a soft gasp, Aizawa’s tongue presses into the space. He glides his tongue along Shinsou’s, stroking the muscle, licking across the pallet of his mouth. He explores Shinsou like he’s something to be savoured.
Shinsou’s thumb strokes along Aizawa’s cheekbone and when they break apart, their foreheads rest together. It’s intimate. But he’s known Aizawa intimately in other ways too. Has spent countless nights in this man’s presence all under the guise of training. But Shinsou knows the soft wrinkles around the man’s tired eyes. Has felt his steady hands on his body as he guided him through mastering the support equipment. Has seen this man tired. And passionate. And angry.
Aizawa’s voice is hoarse when he speaks. “I still don’t know if this is right.”
Shinsou whispers in response, “I don’t care.”
Then Aizawa says calmly, “We wait until you graduate.”
Shinsou stiffens then closes his eyes, exhales through his nose. He wants to argue. He could argue and push Aizawa, but instead, he nods.
He’ll wait.
The days that follow unravel like old threads on well-worn uniforms. Shinsou walks the halls of U.A. with nothing to do but spend time with kids he likely will never see again. But everything beneath his skin itches to see Aizawa, even when Aizawa avoids him even more now.
Shinsou expected that.
What he didn’t expect was how much it would hurt.
Graduation is like a date circled within a calendar that lives inside his mind. Every day he crosses out another day with a solid red X, bringing him one day closer to… what exactly, Shinsou doesn’t know. They don’t talk about it. Only say, after graduation, after Shinsou isn’t a student anymore.
It’s like knowing you’re about to be surprised, and not knowing what it will be. Shinsou has never liked surprises.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Present Mic says one afternoon, handing him his final grades and slapping Shinsou on the shoulder. “But if you keep leveling up at this rate, we’re all gonna have to start watching our backs.”
“I’m just ready to move on,” Shinsou says, voice even.
Yamada grins, but it’s less bright than usual. “Yeah. I guess you are.”
Graduation comes sooner than he expects considering he’s been counting down the days. Maybe that’s how it always is when you spend years dreaming of the end, and then one morning you wake up and you’re being fitted for a new graduation gown. You’re reluctantly accepting goodbye hugs from friends that you know won’t stay in touch.
Aizawa doesn’t speak to him during the rehearsal. He gives instructions, nods when Shinsou responds correctly, and keeps his distance. There’s a tiredness in his eyes that doesn’t match the celebratory air of the room.
That night, Shinsou lies awake in his dorm for the last time, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, everything will be different.
He won’t be a student anymore.
He’ll be free.
He shuts his eyes and breathes through it.
One more day.
The day glows with the golden light of late afternoon, banners fluttering slightly in the spring breeze. Rows of students sit in polished formation, gowns pressed, eyes shining with anticipation, with an eagerness that is only betrayed by their nerves. Family members and heroes alike fill the back rows, their applause a steady rhythm under the ceremony’s formal cadence.
Shinsou’s name is called late in the day.
It always is.
He walks to the stage with a measured pace, the weight of his own growth wrapped tightly around his shoulders. His diploma feels heavier than it should, more than paper, more than ceremony. It’s a key to doors yet unlocked. He glances toward the faculty row as he accepts the diploma from Principal Nezu. Aizawa is there, stoic and giving nothing away. Their eyes meet, just for a second. And in that second, Shinsou sees everything: pride buried under restraint, sorrow carefully hidden in the crease of his mouth, and something else, something raw and quiet.
He doesn’t look away.
Neither does Aizawa.
But the moment breaks when the applause begins again, washing over them both and drowning out Shinsou’s thoughts. Afterward, people flood the courtyard. Students laugh, shout, cry, and it’s not just Midoriya this time. Teachers pose for photos. Parents beam and wrap their arms around their children with expressions of relief and unspoken prayers. It’s kind of funny to watch Bakugou’s parents fawn over the explosive blonde. Sweet to see Uraraka’s parents showering her with love and adoration.
Shinsou avoids all of it. His family isn’t there. They never have been, so why would now be any different. He finds Aizawa later behind the west wing where the teacher’s usually come for a break in between classes. He’s there under a stairwell where the world is a little quieter.
“You weren’t going to say anything?” Shinsou asks, voice a little hurt.
Aizawa doesn’t turn around immediately. “You graduated. That’s what matters.”
Shinsou exhales sharply, and he’s not quite bitter when he speaks, but definitely disappointed. “I thought we were past this now. I’ve graduated, Aizawa.”
“You’re not my student anymore,” Aizawa agrees, finally turning to face him. “So let me say this clearly. I’m proud of you, Hitoshi.”
The way he says his name, his first name, not surname, not some distant formality, stops Shinsou in his place. Aizawa takes a breath like he’s been holding it for months, which yeah, maybe he has. “I’ve spent most of my life building walls I can live behind. And you… you have an entire future before you.”
Shinsou shakes his head. “Would it kill you to let those walls down?” Shinsou steps closer until their shadows overlap.
Aizawa lifts his gaze. “What happens if we try this? And you get your heart broken, hm? What then, Hitoshi?”
“Then we try,” Shinsou says, with all the certainty he can find in himself. “We try. And maybe we fail. Maybe we mess it up. Maybe my heart gets broken. Maybe I break yours. But I’m not your responsibility anymore. I’m a hero now. My own person. And I choose you.”
Aizawa reaches out slowly, like every movement risks shattering the fragile thing they’ve carved between them. His fingers brush Shinsou’s jaw. “You will always be my responsibility.” He sighs quietly. “You’ve always been so stubborn though.”
Shinsou smiles, but it’s soft. “Good. Now let’s see what happens when we both stop being stubborn.”
The kiss this time isn’t rushed, or forbidden, or haunted by guilt. It’s something quieter. Something earned. The promise of a beginning forged from restraint and waiting and something close to love that has weathered too many silences to be anything but true in the moment. Shinsou knows he doesn't love Aizawa. Doesn't really know what love is. But he thinks he'd like to find out.
When they part, the world is still loud around them. But here, under the stairwell, it's quiet.
After graduation, they fall into a rhythm that’s almost domestic. Coffee shared in the morning before they go their separate ways. Shinsou has been staying at Aizawa’s apartment, although he’s still banished to the guest bedroom. Shinsou heads to his first assignment as an underground hero while Aizawa takes time off for the summer from U.A. and focuses on his own personal work. Aizawa starts calling him Hitoshi when he forgets to be guarded.
Sometimes Shinsou comes home bruised, uniform torn, fingers still trembling from adrenaline. Aizawa barely speaks on those nights. Just hands him ice packs, wraps his arms in bandages, offers a mug of something hot. They sit on opposite sides of the couch, the air heavy with things unsaid, but it's not uncomfortable. It's familiar. And sometimes, when the silence becomes too much, they find each other in the dark. In soft kisses and still hesitant touches. Always stopping before things get too far.
One night, Aizawa falls asleep looking over papers. Shinsou finds him there, a pen slipping from his fingers. He kneels beside him, brushing the hair from his face.
“You work too hard,” he murmurs.
Aizawa doesn’t stir. In sleep, the years fall away. He looks tired still, but less haunted.
Shinsou leans forward, lips brushing the corner of his mouth.
Later, when Aizawa stirs, he finds a blanket draped over him. A note on the table: You can let the walls down now.
Two nights later Aizawa opens the door, hair damp from the rain, body tired. He finds Shinsou standing there, eyes blazing with worry.
“You didn’t answer my messages.”
“I was-”
“Don’t,” Shinsou says, stepping towards Aizawa. “Just don’t.”
The door shuts behind him and it sounds loud in the quiet of the open space. The kiss that follows is a collision. Tongues, teeth, need. Aizawa grips his jaw like he’s trying to hold him still to memorize the shape of him when Shinsou kisses him. Shinsou presses him back against the door, one hand under his shirt, the other at the nape of his neck.
“You think too much,” Shinsou murmurs against his lips.
“And you don’t think enough,” Aizawa groans.
They find the bedroom in stuttered steps, shedding layers, not quite speaking, but speaking loud enough as they kiss. Shinsou thinks they’ve waited long enough. Aizawa probably feels differently. But they’ve let graduation settle a little, so it doesn’t feel so fresh anymore. The sheets are cool against their fevered skin. Shinsou's fingers trace the curve of a scar along Aizawa’s chest and the older man shivers.
“You’re beautiful,” Shinsou says.
Aizawa laughs, bitter and disbelieving.
“You are,” Shinsou insists. “Not just your face either, although I like that too.”
Aizawa quiets. “Don’t worship me,” he says eventually.
“I’m not,” Shinsou lies, pressing his mouth to the hollow of Aizawa’s throat. “I’m trying to understand you. Every part of you. All the parts you wouldn’t let me see before now.”
There’s nothing holding them apart now, but Aizawa still hesitates for a moment. "There isn't much to see, Hitoshi."
“Stop that,” Shinsou breathes against his throat, placing a reverent kiss against his burning skin. “Enough of the self-depreciation.” He trails his mouth down further, dips his tongue into Aizawa’s collarbone, nipping at the skin gently.
Aizawa's hands flex in the sheets, and Shinsou can feel the tension within him ease. Shinsou lifts his head, pressing his forehead to Aizawa’s as his fingers glide down the length of his side. “Let go,” he whispers. “Just for tonight.”
The breath Aizawa releases is shaky, and when his hand comes up to thread into Shinsou’s hair, it’s not tentative, it’s desperate. Shinsou kisses him again, slower now, deeper. It's like the route of a map behind traced with mouths and tongues and teasing. The room blurs at the edges, heat rolling between them. Aizawa doesn’t pull away this time as his body arches into every careful touch.
And beneath it all, Shinsou marvels, not just at the man he’s learned to yearn for from afar, but the way he's being allowed in now. Past the barbed wire, and the wounds, and the walls. Aizawa flips their positions suddenly, pressing Shinsou into the bed almost as if he can't handle the tension building around them anymore. One hand reaches up to jerk open the bedside drawer and Aizawa feels around blindly, pulling out a bottle of lube, setting it beside Shinsou on the bed.
Shinsou can feel his heartbeat creeping into his throat. He’s not a virgin, not by a long shot, but something tells him things will be different with Aizawa. A man who moves through life with such sureness, why would this be any different? Shinsou imagines Aizawa fucks like he fights. Raw and without holding back, but with careful restraint at the right times.
Aizawa hooks his fingers in Shinsou’s boxers, the only clothing left remaining on Shinsou’s body. He tugs the material down, leaving Shinsou exposed to the cool AC of the apartment and Shinsou shivers, not from the cold, but from being under Aizawa’s intense gaze. Shinsou reaches down towards Aizawa’s boxers as well, but Aizawa pulls away from his grip.
“No,” he says to Shinsou quietly and the younger man frowns.
“Why not? I want to see you too.”
Aizawa doesn’t respond, instead reaches over and grabs the lube and squirts some onto his fingers. “Lean back. Relax.”
Shinsou wants to tell him he doesn’t need all this preamble. That he’d rather get right down to finally getting fucked by him, but he keeps his mouth shut. Aizawa’s voice is rough and raw and demands he obey. So he lays back into the plush bed as instructed and swallows thickly. Aizawa’s free hand, the one not covered in lube, grips Shinsou’s hip, tilts his body as he encourages Shinsou to bend his knee. Like before, Shinsou obeys and is rewarded by Aizawa placing a single digit to his entrance.
He traces the rim and Shinsou actually whimpers, then flushes deeply. He’s not a virgin, but he imagines he’s doing a terrible job at convincing Aizawa otherwise. Then that finger presses inside of him and Shinsou’s entire body tenses.
“Relax, Hitoshi.” Aizawa repeats. He leans forward and kisses Shinsou, slowly and sweetly. It’s meant to be a distraction, but Shinsou entirely focuses on the finger pressing deeper inside himself, all the way up to the first knuckle. Aizawa moves away from the kiss to place a kiss against his jaw. They’re not hurried movements. Aizawa moves like he often does through the night, slowly and methodically with purpose.
The finger sinks deeper inside of him, slowly at first, then with more insistence. His free palm slides across the stretch of Shinsou’s abdomen as he works the finger inside of him, lining the second one up to press inside along the first. Aizawa feels the rise and fall of muscle, the faint pattern of old bruises ghosting Shinsou’s pale thighs where he moves his hands. His hand is warm, but rough with calluses from years of teaching. Of protecting.
Shinsou exhales quietly, his eyes slipping shut. The stretch stings, but soon gives way to pleasure as he feels Aizawa’s fingers curl inside of him. The hand not currently busy mapping his body moves to wrap around his straining cock. Fingers skim over ribs, dip into the curve of his waist, then lower once more. He moves with intention, dragging the pads of his fingers along the inside of Shinsou’s thigh, mapping the shiver that follows.
“I used to think I shouldn’t want anything like this,” Aizawa murmurs, his voice a low rasp against Shinsou’s ear. “That I didn’t know how to touch you without breaking you.”
“You haven’t broken me,” Shinsou whispers, his voice caught in between a moan as Aizawa strokes his walls with the same rhythm he strokes his cock.
Aizawa hums, like he’s not convinced, but keeps moving, his hand slipping further down to his calf, then back up, teasing, deliberate. He’s learning with each reaction, each twitch of Shinsou’s body, each soft gasp that slips through bitten lips. He doesn’t rush. But Shinsou can already feel his body being dragged to the edge.
Shinsou turns towards him, their faces close enough that Shinsou can still smell the late-night coffee on his breath. “You don’t have to be afraid to take what you want now.” It’s a wonder Shinsou can even form coherent words as his back arches into the pleasure being pulled from his body. Aizawa closes the space between them with his mouth. The kiss is deep this time, more carnal pleasure than anything else. His hand moves, gripping, stroking, coaxing Shinsou to rise under his touch.
Shinsou groans softly, head tipping back, neck arched and offered. Aizawa takes it, lips pressed to his throat, then his collarbone, teeth grazing. Shinsou’s breath hitches. His hips rise in answer. A low moan spills out, raw, vulnerable.
“Aizawa-”
“Shouta,” he corrects.
And Shinsou says it again, wrecked, moaning. “Shouta!” There’s no way he’s going to cum just from this. From the fingers pumping inside him and the hand gripping his cock while pre-cum leaks down over Aizawa’s knuckles every time he swipes his hand over the head of his cock.
But he does.
It’s white hot and blinding, stars exploding behind his eyes and Shinsou doesn’t think he’s ever cum so hard before. He’s left panting, fingers trying to scramble for purchase on Aizawa’s forearm as the older man strokes him through his orgasm. Then the hands retreat, get wiped onto the sheets before Aizawa is up, disappearing into the bathroom, and coming back with a warm cloth.
That night, they fall asleep with their legs tangled, sweat drying on their skin, bruises where their mouths have mapped each other.
Morning comes quietly. Rain continues to drum a steady rhythm against the windows, soft and unrelenting. Aizawa wakes first, always alert, but today there’s a sluggishness to his movements. He lies still, eyes half-closed, simply watching Shinsou sleep beside him.
The younger man is curled slightly toward him, one hand near his chest, lips parted around a slow breath. In this light, all the sharp edges of him, like his voice, his gaze, his purpose, blur into something almost gentle. Aizawa lets his eyes trace the line of his collarbone, the mess of lavender hair, the way his lashes flicker as if he’s still dreaming.
He doesn’t realize he’s smiling softly until Shinsou stirs and catches him at it.
“Creeping on me?” Shinsou’s voice is still ragged from sleep.
“Observing,” Aizawa murmurs.
“Same difference.”
Shinsou stretches, then folds into him, burying his face in the crook of Aizawa’s neck. His breath fans warm against skin still marked by touch. For a long moment, neither of them speaks. It’s enough to just lie there, the outside world suspended in favour of this small, golden pocket of peace in the early morning hours.
Aizawa’s hand comes to rest on his back, thumb stroking idly. Shinsou blinks slowly, eyelashes brushing Aizawa’s collarbone. He knows he could wake up like this. Every morning. For the rest of his life. It isn’t loud, this realization, it doesn’t crack open his ribs or burn through his lungs. It’s quiet. Settled. A warmth that blooms beneath his sternum and stays.
“I like this,” he says finally, voice almost a whisper.
Aizawa turns to face him, eyes unreadable but soft around the edges. “This?”
“You. Like this. Me. Here.”
He almost still expects deflection. Silence. But Aizawa only leans forward, brushing a kiss to his temple and says nothing. It's the loudest thing he's said so far.
Notes:
Aggh.. This is my first time posting my smut online and I don’t know that it strikes right. It’s not quite as detailed as I want it to be, but I hope it was alright! I’m currently redoing a bit of chapter 3, but it will also hopefully follow shortly.
And a big thank you to everyone who stopped by and subscribed. Left kudos. Left your comments! Those were all so nice. <3
Chapter Text
The knock comes early in the morning hours a week later. Not so early that it raises suspicion, but early enough that whoever is behind the door knows Aizawa will still be home. And barely awake. Aizawa’s apartment is dim, cluttered with the quiet remnants of a long night. The window is cracked open in the kitchen, and the scent of rain from earlier still clings to the air. Muffled city noise hums beneath the open window, people going about their business in busy ways that make Aizawa want to stand still.
Shinsou’s absence is a palpable thing. He left before dawn, called in to assist on a patrol as a licensed underground hero. Aizawa had watched him dress in the half-light, moving with a confidence that still made something catch in Aizawa’s chest. That confident walk. The way he wrapped the scarf around his neck. The way he kissed him goodbye.
Aizawa opens the door without checking. Yamada stands there, hands in his coat pockets, eyes unreadable behind yellow-tinted shades. "Yo," he says, voice casual. Too casual for a house call.
Aizawa steps aside wordlessly, tired body shuffling. There’s a quiet scrape of boots on the floor as Yamada enters. He shrugs off his coat, hangs it on the familiar peg like he’s done hundreds of times. "Where’s the coffee?" Yamada asks casually.
Aizawa moves to the kitchen and doesn’t ask why he’s here. He doesn’t need to. The kettle takes its time, steam beginning to hiss after a few minutes. The cups are the same chipped mugs they’ve used a dozen times. Aizawa pours the water into them and adds the instant coffee, stirring the contents and just biding his time. When they finally sit, it’s at the small table near the window. Aizawa has to shuffle files and papers away, but Yamada cradles the mug as Aizawa moves around. He doesn't drink the coffee, not yet.
"You’ve been different," he says. Aizawa says nothing in return. Yamada takes a sip, then sets the cup down with a soft thunk. "Is it that purple haired kid? Shinsou?"
Still Aizawa does not respond. Yamada exhales sharply, a tired, pained sound. "You know... I never asked. I figured, hell, I hoped, this wasn’t going to be a thing. But here we are."
Aizawa closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them and steadies his oldest friend with a familiar gaze. "He’s not my student anymore."
"Didn’t ask that," Yamada says matter of factly, leaning forward to stare at Aizawa over the rim of his sunglasses. "Tell me the truth, Sho. Are you sleeping with him?" The question lands hard in the centre of Aizawa’s chest. Now that it’s said out loud, it just hits differently.
Aizawa’s voice is quiet. He should lie to Yamada. Knows that he should, for both their sake. "Yes."
Yamada doesn’t react at first. He stares out the window, watching the light shift on the buildings across the street as the sun begins her early morning rise. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady, although it seems to take some effort. "Since when?"
"After graduation."
"You sure? Or is that just when it got physical? Because that doesn’t just appear because the calendar flipped." There’s concern in Yamada’s voice and Aizawa hates it. Yamada’s expression darkens when Aizawa doesn’t elaborate. His chair scrapes harshly against the floor as he stands. "You’ve got to be kidding me."
Aizawa doesn’t rise.
Yamada’s voice lifts, sharper than before. "You thought I wouldn’t find out? That I wouldn’t see the way you look at him and wonder? I haven't seen you in months, Shouta.”
"I wasn’t hiding it from you," Aizawa says.
"You weren’t telling me either. That’s the same damn thing."
"It’s not."
Yamada laughs, but it’s a hollow sort of sound. "Shouta, you mentored him, and now what? Now he warms your bed? Is that what it is?"
"Don’t say it like that.” Aizawa can feel his own voice turning irritated.
"How the hell am I supposed to say it? Help me understand this. You, of all people, Shouta, uphold standards. You draw lines. And then you cross the biggest damn one I can think of?"
Aizawa finally rises, standing to his full height as he sets his gaze on Yamada. "What would you have me say, Hizashi? That I realize that this is wrong? That along the way, the knowledge that my pride in this man had turned into something needier? That love, or want, or whatever this is, bloomed out of my authority over him? Out of something that maybe I shouldn’t have touched? Well I don’t feel that way. I have never forced Hitoshi into anything. I tried to keep my distance and it broke something in both of us.”
"And what? That makes it okay? That makes it all clean and neat? You think that erases the power you held over him? The responsibility you carried?"
"No. It doesn’t. I know it’s messy. I know it looks bad, but I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Aizawa growls, finally throwing his hands up in frustration. Yamada really could hold a grudge. There was a time in their lives where he didn’t talk to Shirakumo for three entire days over a misunderstanding. And this… this was so much worse.
"Oh, spare me the excuses, Shouta! You didn’t trip and fall into his arms. This… this is a choice. You chose not to tell me. You chose to keep it from the one person who’s always had your back. Tell me this isn’t just loneliness. Tell me you’re not using him to fix the pieces in you that never healed from losing-” but he cuts himself off.
Aizawa looks away. That hesitation is its own answer. Yamada’s jaw clenches. Aizawa reaches up to press the palms of his hands against his eyes. If he had known this was how his day was going to start he would have just stayed in bed. It was a mistake letting Yamada in, especially considering things with Shinsou were still so fragile. They are still learning what they are to each other. Still trying to understand what is it they want from all of this.
"I didn’t tell you because I knew you'd react like this,” Aizawa finally says.
“It’s easier to believe I’d judge you than admit you’ve screwed something up," Yamada shoots back. “You didn’t trust me enough to handle it, because deep down you know how this looks.”
"I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t your business!” Aizawa growls, posture taut and defensive. "I didn’t feel like I needed to ask for your permission. I already hate myself enough, I don’t need you hating me as well.”
"Don’t do that." Yamada’s voice softens, but it’s no less sharp. "Don’t martyr yourself in the middle of a mess you made. You let it happen, Shouta. Maybe you didn’t mean to, but you let it grow in the shadows and now it's out in the light and people are going to know."
"What would you have me do?" Aizawa says quietly, voice staring to wear down. "Break it off? Hurt him to make it easier for you to look me in the eye again? Pretend he didn’t mean anything? He’s strong. He’s kind. He’s more self-aware than most pro heroes I know."
Yamada exhales harshly. “If this is real, then face it. Own it. But don’t come crying to me when the consequences finally catch up. You chose him, Shouta. Just make sure you’re ready to choose everything that comes with that."
And yeah, it’s not as if Aizawa’s blind to the history that brought them here. He knows exactly how it looks from the outside, how closely their paths have always been tangled. He didn’t spend years watching Shinsou just to end up here, standing on the edge of something that could cost him everything. But it didn’t start with desire, and whatever followed after has never been easy for him to understand. Choosing him now means accepting the fallout. The scrutiny. The questions he doesn’t want to answer.
The fight goes out of Yamada’s shoulders all at once, and he drops back into the chair, rubbing his face with both hands. "God, Sho. What are you doing?"
Aizawa finally speaks again, honestly this time. "I’m trying… I’m trying to figure that out still."
Yamada looks at him long and hard. "Does he know? How deep your damage runs?" It's not meant meanly, but it feels sharp all the same.
Aizawa’s eyes snap onto Yamada, glinting something dangerous. "He sees more than I want him to."
"You think it’ll last?" Yamada asks as a silence settles over the pair at the implications of what goes unsaid.
Aizawa doesn’t answer right away. He thinks of the quiet mornings, of Shinsou’s hand on the back of his neck, grounding him with a tenderness that undoes something deep inside. He thinks of the way the world softens when they’re together, how even silence becomes something warm, something sacred. He remembers the way Shinsou looks at him, as if he sees the frayed edges and still chooses to hold on. There’s a gravity to it. A comfort he hadn’t let himself believe he deserved.
"I don’t know," he says finally, but it comes out like a confession. Like maybe he does, and it just scares the hell out of him.
The conversation lingers in Aizawa’s apartment, the same way the smell of morning brewed coffee and rain often does. Yamada leaves without anymore questions, but his words press in heavier without him there. Aizawa moves through the rest of his day like he's wading through fog. He showers, folds a blanket thrown across the couch, picks Shinsou’s clothes up off the floor. He remembers to eat halfway through the day. Everything feels quiet. He ends up on the balcony with the wind picking at the edges of his shirt, cigarette in hand. A bad habit he thought he had gotten over. The smoke curls in the air from the burning end as his phone buzzes on the table inside. He doesn't have to check it to know who it is at this hour.
Aizawa doesn’t reply right away, even when he eventually reads it. He rereads the message twice. Then three more times. His thumb hovers over the screen, but he sets it down, leaving the text unanswered.
Later that night, he finds himself standing at the foot of his bed. Lately, things have begun to shift. Rearrange themselves. It used to be “his” coffee cups, now they were theirs. At one time it was “his” couch, now Shinsou has made his home there too, curling up under a blanket watching some game show while Aizawa reads beside him.
But it still feels like “his” bed, even though Shinsou sleeps there more often than not these days. And it still feels like “his” apartment, even though Shinso has hung up a jacket at the front as if it's always belonged there. And Shinsou now leaves half a dozen hair ties in every room that Aizawa no longer knows which are his and which belong to Shinsou. He has to think the bright pink one in his own hair tonight can only be Shinsou's.
He lies down slowly. The sheets are still warm from the dryer, and he turns his face toward the empty side of the bed, breathing in. He thinks of lavender and coffee kisses and the way Shinsou had whispered his name, breathless and needy, the night before he left. Outside, the city never sleeps. But for the first time in hours, Aizawa closes his eyes and lets himself rest. He dreams of hands brushing his jaw. A breathy laugh he’s come to memorize just by sound, as he makes dinner for the two of them, and Shinsou stays bundled on the couch wearing nothing but Aizawa’s shirt.
He dreams of the weight of someone steady beside him.
When he wakes, there’s another message waiting for him.
[I miss you.]
He reads it twice. Then rolls away from Shinsou's side of the bed and falls asleep again.
The rain starts again sometime after midnight. A steady, insistent patter against the windows that threads its way into Aizawa’s sleep and tugs him gently into waking. He lies still for a moment, eyes closed, listening. The rhythm is a balm, familiar and unthreatening. The apartment is dark, but not empty. He can hear the subtle sounds coming from the other room, the low creak of the floorboards, dishes clattering together. Shinsou is back. He must’ve come in while Aizawa drifted off. The man moves like a shadow now, silent and practiced in a way Aizawa recognizes all too well.
He shifts and the sheets rustle around him. A moment later, soft light floods the bedroom in a narrow beam.
“You’re awake,” Shinsou says, surprised when he sees Aizawa.
“I couldn’t sleep anymore.” It’s nothing new for Aizawa, but seems to occur more frequently when Shinsou isn’t around.
The soft thump of boots being toed off, the whisper of a jacket peeled from damp shoulders, sounds in the darkness. Shinsou walks barefoot to the bed and climbs in beside him. He’s warm. Damp hair, rain-slicked skin. He smells like asphalt and earth.
“You’re late,” Aizawa murmurs.
“Stopped by the precinct. Had to give a statement.”
“Trouble?”
Shinsou sighs and stretches out. “Saw someone. A villain I’d seen before, a month ago. Just... watching. Didn’t engage, but it didn’t feel random.”
“You tell the station?”
“Yeah. They’re pulling footage. Nothing concrete yet. I didn’t want to worry you, just wanted you to know.”
Aizawa nods, more a gesture of understanding. He turns towards him, studying the shadows of Shinsou’s face in the dim room. There’s an urge pressing against his ribs, something unsaid trying to claw its way free.
“I spoke to Hiza- Yamada,” he says.
Shinsou stills beside him. “About us?”
Aizawa nods again. “He figured it out. I didn’t deny it.”
Shinsou draws in a breath, then lets it out slowly. “And?”
“He wasn’t...” Aizawa hesitates, unsure of what to share exactly. This isn’t something he felt he needed to needlessly burden Shinsou with. “Did you ever notice the way I looked at you at U.A.? If I’d linger too long? Correct your stance more often than necessary? Anything… out of the ordinary?”
Shinsou props himself up on one elbow, eyes shadowed but steady on Aizawa. “I noticed everything. But I didn’t think it meant what I wanted it to mean. Not then.”
Aizawa’s throat tightens. “I shouldn’t have let it start. I should’ve walked away when you graduated.”
There’s silence for a moment, then Shinsou speaks, quiet but sharp. “Why do you keep doing this? Don’t do that. Don’t end things with me just because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared of being with you. I’m scared of being bad for you. I’m worried that when people find out, this will land on your shoulders.”
“You’re not bad for me.” Shinsou sits up now. “You’re the reason I got here. You’re the reason I didn’t give in to the worst parts of myself. You were the first person to believe in me when I didn’t even like myself. That doesn’t turn into a poison just because you think you’re too old or too complicated or too damn wounded to deserve it. And I can handle myself, Shouta.”
Aizawa looks away, rolling onto his back to watch the shadows dance across the ceiling. “Yamada thinks I’ve crossed a line.”
"He’s treating this like a scandal when it’s not. I’m not a student. You’re not my teacher. We’re adults. We know what this is and we’re not hiding from it. If you keep treating this like a mistake, that’s what it’ll become. But don’t put that on Yamada if you decide you're done."
“You matter to me,” Aizawa says. “More than I know what to do with.”
Shinsou leans in slowly. “Stop overthinking this then.”
The kiss that follows Shinou's words is soft. Shinsou pushes him back against the pillows, straddling his hips. “You’re not allowed to run from this,” he murmurs between kisses. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Say it.”
Aizawa’s breath shudders. “I’m yours.”
The air in the room shifts. Fingers drag across skin, slow, as if mapping old scars and new muscle. Shinsou leans down, mouth finding the hollow of Aizawa’s throat, tongue dragging against his skin.
“I missed you tonight,” he whispers. “Missed the way you taste. The way you sound.”
Aizawa moans low in his throat, one hand gripping Shinsou’s thigh, the other tangled in violet hair. Aizawa lets himself feel it all, lets the guilt dissolve beneath the weight of Shinsou’s mouth, his hands, the heat of his body against his own.
“You’re not broken,” Shinsou murmurs. “You’re just tired. Let me be the place you rest.” Aizawa exhales, fingers trailing slowly down Shinsou’s spine. Then they doze off for a while, bodies still tangled, Shinsou's head resting on his chest. Maybe this isn’t what he thought he deserved. But maybe it’s what he needs. And maybe, just maybe, it is love.
The rain continues outside, soft and ceaseless, but the storm inside his own mind finally quiets, at least for a little while.
Chapter 4
Notes:
Thank you to everyone who who has stopped by and subscribed, and left a comment, or popped in a kudos! We're at the point where I haven't fully fleshed out the chapters and that's why the updates are a tinnyyy bit slow (plus I have a million ideas for a bunch of ShinZawa / ShinZawaMic one-shots.)
Hopefully this double smut makes up for the lack of chapters!
Chapter Text
The apartment is dim when Shinsou comes home late one evening after working on a case with the police with Eraserhead. While he had been stuck behind paperwork, he finds Aizawa home, bare feet on the coffee table, sleeves pushed to his elbows, nursing a whiskey while he tilts his head back against the couch. The TV flickers blue light across his cheekbones, but it doesn’t look like he’s that invested in whatever program is playing. Shinsou watches him for a moment, how relaxed he looks, how his throat moves when he swallows the dark liquor.
Then he drops the keys to Aizawa’s apartment onto the counter, loud enough to be heard. “You beat me home.”
Aizawa glances over his shoulder, smirking. “Got tired of waiting around for you.”
Shinsou crosses the room, pulling his jacket off and drops it carelessly over a chair as he reaches up and starts unbuckling the rest of his hero costume, removing it piece by piece. He unravels the scarf and sets it down tenderly like he always does with great care. There’s something simmering in his chest, always is lately. It’s like he’s not used to wanting someone this much and he doesn’t know where the edges are yet. Like they’re still learning each other’s boundaries. But seeing Aizawa like this, relaxed and in his element, that simmer turns to a downright boil. When he reaches the couch, Aizawa shifts to make room, but Shinsou doesn’t sit. He just stands in front of him, close until he touches Aizawa’s jaw with the back of his fingers, then curls them into his hair. Aizawa doesn’t say anything, just looks up at him, eyes half-lidded. Shinsou presses his thumb of his other hand to Aizawa’s lower lip, dragging slowly.
“Open your mouth.”
Aizawa cocks an eyebrow but obeys, lips parting, tongue brushing the pad of Shinsou’s thumb. He sucks it in easily, and Shinsou’s breath catches, not from surprise, but from the way it hits him, that lust, that heat that radiates off Aizawa.
“Fuck,” Shinsou whispers, thumb still in Aizawa’s mouth. “You always this obedient?”
Aizawa pulls back, grinning slightly. “Don't be such a brat.”
Shinsou grins and then hauls him up from the couch by the collar of his shirt, mouth crashing into his. Aizawa groans into it, fingers fisting in Shinsou’s tank top. The kiss deepens quickly, messy and needy, both of them tugging and grinding, pushing into each other like they can’t get close enough. Shinsou shoves Aizawa backwards, feeling a little brave as he guides him towards the bedroom without breaking the kiss. They stumble a little, and Shinsou laughs against Aizawa’s mouth. Their shoulders knock into the hallway walls as they clumsily move. Clothes come off in pieces. Aizawa’s shirt is yanked over his head and tossed aside. Shinsou’s pants are half undone when Aizawa drops to his knees, looking up with heat in his eyes. It’s quite the sight to see his former teacher on his knees in front of him and it causes a deep flush to spread across Shinsou's bare chest.
“Are you sure?” Aizawa asks, hands on Shinsou's hips, thumbs pressing firmly into the tender exposed skin.
“If you’re going to ask me this every time, I’m going to stop letting you fuck me.”
Aizawa chuckles, a quiet sort of sound as he tugs the fabric the rest of the way off his body along with his boxers. His hand wraps around Shinsou’s cock and he strokes him slowly before leaning forward to take the head of his cock into his mouth like he’s been waiting all day to do it. Shinsou braces against the doorframe, jaw slack, breath shuddering out as Aizawa works him over, it’s warm, and wet, and controlled. He uses his hands, too, teasing, squeezing, making Shinsou curse under his breath.
“Jesus, Shouta-”
Aizawa hums around him, and it nearly buckles Shinsou’s knees. He pulls back before Shinsou can come, mouth swollen, eyes dark with want. “Bed,” he says roughly. “Now.”
They fall into the bed, tangled limbs, bodies twisting into each other like it’s natural. Like this isn’t one of the few times Aizawa lets his walls down and lets Shinsou in. Shinsou rolls them over so he’s on top, pinning Aizawa’s wrists above his head with one hand. Their chests brush and he ruts against him slow, purposeful, grinding their hips together as he kisses down his throat.
“You feel so fucking good,” Shinsou groans, dragging his teeth along Aizawa’s collarbone. “You don’t even know.”
“Shinsou,” Aizawa warns.
But Shinsou just laughs and leans over him further, tugging open the drawer with the lube and condoms. He slicks his own fingers quickly, then reaches between his legs, coaxing himself open as he leans against Aizawa’s chest. He watches him through heavy lids with a mix of care and hunger. Aizawa is quiet beneath him, only the quiet sound of his breathing as Shinsou stretches himself, slow at first, then rougher when Aizawa’s hips rise to meet his and he slips a hand between their bodies to start stroking himself.
“I want you in me,” Shinsou moans, removing his slick fingers after a few minutes. It's probably not nearly enough, but Aizawa isn't going to argue. Not this time.
Aizawa curses, grabs the lube where it was abandoned on the bed and rolls a condom over his cock. He lines up against Shinsou’s hole, Shinsou gripping the base to help him, and it’s like he’s barely holding himself together. He pushes in slowly, watching every flicker of expression on Shinsou’s face, the parting of his lips, the tension in his jaw, the moan that spills out when Aizawa bottoms out.
They stay there for a beat, both trembling.
Then Shinsou starts to move, pulling off Aizawa’s cock only to slam his hips back down. It’s a rhythm they find together, slow thrusts downwards, Aizawa’s hips meeting his, deep and dragging, then harder ones that knock the breath out of Shinsou’s lungs. Aizawa kisses him through all of it, pulling him down as he bites at his mouth, whispering.
“You feel fucking perfect. Let me see you fall apart, Shinsou.”
Shinsou clutches at him, nails digging into his shoulders, crying out when Aizawa angles just right and grinds into him. The bed creaks. The air smells like sweat and sex and something sweeter, something like affection. When Shinsou comes, it’s with a sharp gasp and a hand tangled in Aizawa’s hair as he clings onto him, his body tightening around him. Aizawa follows a few thrusts later, burying himself deep, groaning Shinsou’s name into his throat.
They collapse into the sheets together, breathless, hearts pounding against each other’s ribs.
After a long silence, Aizawa runs a lazy hand down Shinsou’s spine. “You’re getting better at that.”
Shinsou laughs, pressing a kiss to Aizawa’s shoulder. Shinsou nuzzles closer, voice barely a whisper. “Let’s keep practicing.”
It’s early. Aizawa wakes to the scent of coffee he didn’t brew. The sun is shining brightly, soft and the air in the room is cool, the curtains blowing gently in the breeze from the open window. Aizawa wakes to the familiar weight of the quilt tangled around his legs and the faint scent of coffee, and sex, and Shinsou lingering in the air. The bed beside him is empty, still warm. A lazy stretch confirms the ache in his thighs and the bite-marks blooming beneath his collarbone, Shinsou had been restless last night, demanding. Not with words, never with words, but with his mouth, his hands, the way he rode him like he was trying to carve permanence into the marrow of his bones.
Aizawa hadn’t minded. He never does. He lingers in bed for a few more minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the soft light filtering through the curtains, then finally drags himself out from under the covers. His shirt is still on the floor where Shinsou tore it off the night before. He pads barefoot down the hallway, yawning. In the kitchen, Shinsou is already moving through the space like it’s his own, which at this point, it is. He’s in a loose pair of sweatpants and nothing else, hair tied up in a low bun with one of Aizawa’s black bands, his broad back flexing subtly as he stirs something in the pan, eggs, by the smell of it. A pan of scallions and rice are warming on the stove. Coffee brewed fresh sits in a mug on the table.
“You’re up early,” Aizawa rasps, voice rough with sleep.
Shinsou glances back, eyes soft. “You looked like you needed the extra hour.”
Aizawa exhales and crosses to the table, picking up the mug waiting for him, black coffee, no sugar. Just how he likes it. He doesn’t thank Shinsou out loud, but his fingers brush the younger man’s bare back as he passes, a quiet sort of affection passed skin to skin.
“I figured you’d be sore,” Shinsou adds, smirking slightly.
“I’m old. I’m always sore.”
Shinsou snorts and flips the rice.
They eat together at the table, legs brushing underneath, both barefoot, both shirtless. Neither of them seems in a rush to do anything about the rest of the day. Aizawa eats slowly, elbow propped on the table, watching Shinsou scoop rice and tofu into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in days. There’s a hickey blooming on Shinsou’s throat, half-hidden beneath his collarbone, the shadow of teeth low on his ribs.
“You’re covered in bruises,” Aizawa says casually, sipping his coffee.
“You’re the one who put them there.”
“People are going to notice.”
Shinsou shrugs. “Then let them.”
Aizawa reaches across the table, thumb brushing the edge of Shinsou’s jaw, and leans in to kiss him, soft, and just once. When he pulls back, Shinsou looks dazed and satisfied, hair slightly mussed in his ponytrail, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Don’t shower yet,” Aizawa murmurs, setting his mug aside. “I want to leave new bruises before patrol.”
Shinsou grins. “You’re going to kill me.”
They fall into a rhythm that neither of them name, spending nights together and sometimes early mornings if Shinsou isn't out late.
Then the air conditioning breaks. Neither of them have the time or energy to fix it. It’s nearly midnight now, and the apartment is still sweltering. Even with the windows cracked open, the air barely moves. The heat presses in from all sides, humid and thick. The only thing louder than the cicadas outside is the quiet whirr of a fan oscillating weakly in the corner of the living room.
Aizawa steps out of the shower, towel slung low around his hips, wet hair clinging to his neck. His skin is flushed pink from the cold water soak, and he pads barefoot into the kitchen to find Shinsou already sprawled across the couch in the livingroom, shirtless, a bottle of water pressed to his temple. Aizawa sighs, grabs another water from the fridge, and joins him on the couch, the fabric hot beneath his skin.
“You know,” Shinsou says, opening his own bottle of water to take a sip, “a year ago I wouldn’t have imagined this is what your domestic life looks like.”
“And what did you imagine?”
“Honestly? Cats. Instant noodles. Zero evidence of human warmth.”
“Harsh.”
“True, though,” Shinsou laughs.
Aizawa huffs. But there’s a quiet smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. They drink in silence for a while, watching the fan struggle valiantly against the heat. Shinsou’s hair is half-tied, loose at the ends, and damp at the roots. His chest glistens faintly with sweat, stomach rising and falling in a slow rhythm that Aizawa’s eyes keep getting caught on. There’s no hesitation anymore. Aizawa shifts over with the calm of a man who’s done it a hundred times before. He rests his water on the side table, leans in, and presses their foreheads together.
“But it’s so hot,” Shinsou whines quietly.
Aizawa leans in, nose brushing his jaw. “Too hot to fuck.”
And then Aizawa kisses him. There’s no urgency, not at first. Just the press of lips and slow increasing heat. Hands traveling over slick skin. A tongue teasing at the seam of a mouth. Their sweat mixes; their legs tangle. It’s too hot to go fast. Too hot to care about anything except the way Shinsou groans low when Aizawa’s mouth moves to his neck, finding the spot just below his jaw he always shudders for.
Shinsou's voice is wrecked when he whispers, “Don’t stop.”
Aizawa doesn’t. He kisses lower, teeth grazing the curve of a collarbone, then down the center of Shinsou’s chest, tongue following the salt and sweat. Shinsou sinks further into the couch, thighs tense, one hand finding the back of Aizawa’s head, threading through wet hair and holding him there. Aizawa peels the waistband of his boxers down slowly, fingers teasing over hip bones, and watches the way Shinsou’s cock twitches against his stomach. Already leaking. Already flushed red and aching, desperate from nothing but the weight of summer and anticipation. He starts with a kiss to the inner thigh. Then another, higher. His stubble scrapes gently, and Shinsou shivers, hips twitching.
“Don’t tease,” he breathes.
“You want it rough?”
“I want your mouth,” Shinsou says, already breathless. “Please.”
Aizawa licks a stripe up the underside of his cock earning a hiss from Shinsou. His hands fist in the Aizawa’s hair tighter. When Aizawa takes him in, lips stretched wide, tongue flat and firm, the groan that tears out of Shinsou is raw and immediate. He works him with practiced patience, mouth sliding down inch by inch, nose pressed to soft skin, one hand curled around the base, the other bracing on Shinsou’s thigh. The fan hums somewhere behind them, the world outside full of cicadas and city lights and the slow collapse of another summer night.
Shinsou gasps, back arching. “Fuck… Shouta!”
Aizawa hums in response, low and rough. The vibration makes Shinsou buck, eyes fluttering shut, sweat dripping from his temple. It’s messy. Loud. Hot in every sense of the word. Spit drips down Aizawa’s chin, catches on Shinsou’s thighs, mixes with the sweat that’s already pooling there. But he doesn’t stop, not even when Shinsou’s hand fists his hair, not even when his thighs start to shake.
Aizawa pulls off with a gasp, lips shiny, catching his breath. Shinsou looks wrecked. Glowing. “You close?” Aizawa asks.
“Yeah,” he pants. “Fuck, yes. Don’t stop.”
So Aizawa doesn’t. He sinks back down, deeper this time, hand working the base, tongue flattening again as Shinsou’s hips jerk and his voice breaks on a low moan. The sound he makes when he comes is desperate, like something’s being torn out of him. He spills hot into Aizawa’s mouth, and Aizawa swallows it down like it’s nothing, wipes his chin with the back of his hand, and leans back on his haunches, satisfied.
Shinsou is still panting when he grips his arm and kisses him, the taste of himself still fresh between their tongues. “I’m gonna die,” Shinsou mutters against his mouth.
“You’ll die hydrated and satisfied.”
They collapse together, limbs tangled, chests still sticky with sweat and spit. The fan keeps spinning uselessly.
Summer bleeds away and before long Aizawa returns to teaching at U.A. Shinsou tells himself he’s not lonely. He works weird hours, usually not getting off until the early hours of the morning. On those days, he slips underneath the blankets beside Aizawa, no longer pretending to sleep in the guest bedroom, and warms himself against the older man’s body. But this morning, Shinsou slips through the east gate, hair still damp from the rain. Patrol had run late, a villain high on a quirk booster causing more of a problem than what was first anticipated. Shinsou should be in bed, should be making his way back to Aizawa’s apartment and curling up to sleep through the morning and into the afternoon. Instead, he walks down U.A.’s polished hallways, boots echoing too loud on tile, hands buried in his hoodie pockets. He’s had the foresight to at least change out of his hero costume to draw less suspicion.
He pulls his hood up as he approaches the cracked door of class 1-A’s homeroom. Inside, Aizawa’s standing near the whiteboard, drawing the day's exercise instructions in careful strokes. His capture weapon coils lazily around his neck and his hair’s tied up messily, a few strands still clinging to the curve of his cheek. He hasn’t shaved since Shinsou said goodbye to him the night before.
He looks up the moment Shinsou steps into the room. There’s a flicker in his eyes that is gives away his surprise at seeing him.
“What are you doing here?” Aizawa says, his voice scratchy from still waking.
Shinsou tugs off his hoodie as if he’s meaning to stay. “Didn’t feel like going home.”
He doesn’t say I missed you. I wanted to see you.. He doesn’t need to say these things, Aizawa knows.
Aizawa watches him for a beat longer than he should. Then turns back to the board, but his hand stills midway through a word. “You shouldn’t be seen here.”
“Why?” Shinsou crosses the room slowly. “Afraid someone might think I actually care about my old teacher?”
“Afraid someone might be right,” Aizawa gives him a sideways glance.
Shinsou walks until he’s close enough to smell the coffee on Aizawa’s breath. He leans against the teacher’s desk, tilts his head and studies his former mentor. “I like this room better before the kids get here,” he grins and checks the time on his phone.
Aizawa doesn’t move. But his gaze drops, to Shinsou’s lips, then lower, to the small bloom of purple on his throat, just peeking over the collar of his shirt.
“You didn’t cover that,” Aizawa says accusingly.
Shinsou smirks, “Didn’t want to.”
There’s something dangerous in the air now. A heat curling behind Aizawa’s eyes that really shouldn’t be there in this setting, a flick of want that burns past restraint. He steps forward. “You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats, but his hand reaches out all the same. Fingertips skim Shinsou’s jaw, then trace the side of his neck, pausing over the bruise his own mouth left days ago.
Shinsou leans into the touch. “Then tell me to go.”
Aizawa’s fingers slide around the back of his neck and he pulls until their mouths meet, slow at first, then with more demand. Shinsou sighs into him, hands gripping the front of Aizawa’s shirt, dragging him close until there’s no space between them. His shirt rides up as Aizawa presses into him, and Aizawa's palms slip under the material to roam over his chest, down his sides, until Aizawa pushes the material up to his collarbone.
Aizawa exhales sharply. There are more love bites than either of them realized. Down his throat, across his collarbone, one fading purple mark just above his heart. Evidence.
“You like marking me,” Shinsou teases.
Aizawa’s thumb traces one bruise. “I like forgetting I probably shoudn’t.”
That’s when the door opens. “Shou, do you have that file on- oh, holy… holy shit.”
Yamada freezes mid-step in the doorway, holding a folder, expression sliding from casual to horrified to stunned in half a second. Aizawa jerks back and Shinsou tugs his shirt down, cursing under his breath. Yamada just stands there, wide-eyed. No one speaks for three long seconds.
Then Yamada swallows and says, voice high and thin, “Tell me I didn’t just walk in on my best friend making out with his former student at seven in the goddamn morning.”
Aizawa opens his mouth. Closes it, unsure of how to respond to what is obvious. Shinsou looks away and mutters, “Maybe I should go.”
“You think?” Yamada bites back.
Shinsou turns and grabs his hoodie before disappearing out the door in a hurry. Aizawa still stands behind his desk, hero uniform wrinkled and half unzipped. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to, Yamada’s face says everything.
Yamada closes the door behind him carefully, like it’s the only thing keeping him from yelling. Then he turns towards his best friend. “You serious right now? Here, Shouta? In a classroom?”
Aizawa drags a hand through his hair and says nothing. Yamada doesn’t wait for a response. “What the hell were you thinking? Anyone could’ve walked in. A student. Nezu.”
Aizawa leans back against the desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks older than usual. Worn down and tired. “It was early. No one’s here yet.”
“Early doesn’t mean invisible,” Yamada throws a hand out toward the door. “You could’ve at least made it to a goddamn office or locked the damn door. This… this is your classroom. Our school. It’s not a hotel room, Shouta.”
“I know that,” Aizawa snaps, lifting his head. “I wasn’t- I didn’t plan for it to happen like that. I didn’t know he was coming here today.”
“No,” Yamada says, pacing now, running a hand through his loose hair. “You never plan it, do you? It just happens, and then suddenly you’re making out against the whiteboard with your clothes undone and his nearly all the way off.” He turns sharply, fixing Aizawa with a look that cuts deep.
Aizawa exhales, bitter about the whole situation. Embarrassed even. “I didn’t mean for you to walk in.”
“That’s not the point,” Yamada says. “You shouldn’t have been doing it at all. You’re still a pro hero. A teacher. People look up to you. You think if word gets out about what I just saw, anyone’s going to care that he’s not a student anymore? No. They’ll care you were kissing him where kids sit to learn.”
Yamada’s tone softens at the look on Aizawa's face. “Man, I’m worried about you. You think this won’t get twisted? Headlines don’t ask for context. They’ll say you seduced your student in your classroom. They’ll say you used your position. They’ll say everything but the truth.”
“I know,” Aizawa says.
Yamada studies him. “Then why risk it?” When Aizawa doesn’t speak, Yamada continues “Don’t burn your whole life down for five minutes in the wrong place.”
He walks out without waiting for a reply. And Aizawa doesn't stop him.
Chapter 5
Notes:
Well thank you to all the subscribers to this story and I'm sorry it's taken so long to post the continuation! I wasn't sure exactly where to take these boys, but here we are. A bit angsty, but there's always rain before the rainbow, right?
You are all the best, truly, and thanks for sticking around while I Updated Eventually.
Work has begun on chapter 6 so maybe, just maybe, there won't be such a big gap.
Maybe...
Chapter Text
Sunlight slips through the open window, soft and hazy, gilding the hardwood floors in gold. Outside, cicadas buzz low in the trees, their drone steady, almost meditative. A wind chime stirs, lazy and out of rhythm. It’s early morning, the kind of morning that Aizawa used to associate with aching joints and cold coffee and student reports spread across his dining table that he’s been putting off marking. Now it’s the kind of morning he wakes into with a full breath, his hair loose, his limbs warm, and Shinsou’s weight tucked against his side.
Aizawa doesn't move. Not while Shinsou's breath is steady against his shoulder. He stares at the ceiling, then lets his gaze drift down to the man beside him. It floors him sometimes, how much he’s come to care about this man. Not in the same way he cared about others during his youth, he never had time for that, but he cares for him in the slow, relentless ache of knowing someone for a long time, but not being able to act. It’s not just in the way their bodies fit together, but in how habits have shifted. How the mornings are no longer just for him. How his apartment has an extra toothbrush. How his nights have warmth now.
He doesn’t always know how to say it. He rarely does. Shinsou never pushes him either. Never demands the words. But Aizawa has caught himself smiling, soft and a little surprised, when he brushes Shinsou’s hair out of his eyes without thinking, or when he packs bentos before a long patrol. It’s in those moments that Aizawa realizes he’s saying it all the time.
You matter.
He says it in the way he reaches for Shinsou before he falls asleep, and the way he memorizes his schedule even though he says he won’t, just so he knows he'll be safe. It’s in how he looks at him now, all half-asleep and still slightly frowning, like he’s never quite dropped the weight of his old fears and they keep him awake, even if his dreams.
“You’re not your past,” Aizawa had told him once, years ago. Shinsou didn’t believe it then. But he’s better now. Stronger. And god, Aizawa admires him for it, for surviving. For choosing this life. For choosing him.
Outside, a siren wails and fades. The day is pulling them both back to duty, Shinsou to hero work and Aizawa to his teaching. But for now, Aizawa presses his mouth to the crown of Shinsou’s head, just once, just lightly. He’ll never say the word adore. It’s too sweet on the tongue. Too exposed. But he’ll leave the coffee pot on for him. He’ll keep the lights dim when he knows Shinsou’s coming home late. He’ll offer his quiet, worn hands in the dark when the nightmares come.
And Shinsou will know.
He always does.
The kiss to Shinsou’s hair doesn’t wake him, but he stirs, shifts closer, rubs his cheek against Aizawa’s chest, and exhales. There’s a crease between his brows, and Aizawa smooths it away with the pad of his thumb. He lets himself stay like that a minute longer. Two minutes. Maybe more. He always tells himself he’s going to get up early and stretch, maybe do some light training to stay active before the morning classes, but the reality of Shinsou in his arms tends to override his best intentions. Eventually, he sighs and starts to move.
Shinsou makes a low sound in protest, thick with sleep. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles, voice gravelled and soft in a way it only ever is first thing in the morning.
“You say that every morning,” Aizawa says, gently disengaging himself.
Shinsou blindly gropes at the sheets where Aizawa used to be. “Yeah, well. I mean it every time.”
Aizawa chuckles, a rare, low sound, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold against his feet. He scratches lazily at his stubble and pads out of the bedroom, pulling his hair up into a low, loose tie as he goes. Their apartment is quiet, the soft lighting marrying well with the natural light and their simple furniture, with the occasional potted plant resting on the kitchen sill. Shinsou insists they won’t kill it this time. Aizawa has stopped arguing.
He moves on habit, coffee machine filled, gas burner turned on. He opens the blinds just enough to let in the faint sliver of morning. The city outside is slow to rise, wrapped in that lull between exhaustion and motion. Aizawa leans against the counter, arms crossed, and listens to the water boiling. There’s a scuff of feet behind him. Shinsou appears, wearing one of Aizawa’s old shirts, hair in total disarray, eyes still bleary. He doesn’t speak, just yawns into the side of Aizawa’s neck and stays there, arms sliding around his waist.
“You’re clingy in the mornings,” Aizawa murmurs, sipping his coffee when it’s ready, not making a move to push him away.
“Only with you.”
Aizawa pretends not to let that affect him, but he can feel the warmth of it settling in his chest like softly burning embers. But something else is also taking shape there. Yamada’s words. Warning him not to throw his life away for five minutes in the wrong place.
He tips the mug toward Shinsou. Shinsou takes a sip and makes a satisfied noise. He rests his chin on Aizawa’s shoulder and they stand like that, quiet and comfortable, their bodies worn smooth by each other’s presence. The clock ticks. Somewhere, a horn honks and Shinsou reluctantly pulls away. Aizawa moves, grabbing the travel mug off the counter and presses it into Shinsou’s hands. Shinsou sighs and grabs his gear from the rack by the door. It’s starting to feel routine, being here together.
As they pass each other in the hallway, Aizawa on his way to the bathroom, their hands brush. Neither says anything, but they both feel it. This is what adoring someone looks like, Aizawa thinks. And he likes to think he’ll keep choosing him. Again. Tomorrow. The next day. However long he’s lucky enough to have him.
Don’t throw your life away for five minutes in the wrong place. He can't stop thinking about it.
The water is scalding enough to raise the skin along his back in gooseflesh. The steam clings to the mirror in a thin film when he steps out of the shower, fogging Aizawa’s reflection as he leans over the sink, hands braced on the counter. He’s watching his own eyes, older than he wants to admit. A bead of water slides down his temple and he doesn’t bother wiping it away.
Shinsou’s laughter drifts faintly from the other room, muffled, distant, the sound of a man on the phone with a friend or maybe a news reporter calling for a quote. The younger underground hero’s name has been making headlines lately: Nighthide Saves Eight in Metro Tunnel Collapse. He should have left for work by now, but he's always running behind in some way or another.
Shinsou's handling it well, all of it. Smiling more. Holding himself with a quiet strength that Aizawa always knew was there, but just needed a chance to show. And it hits him, sudden and hollow, that he’s going to hold Shinsou back. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday.
He grips the edge of the sink harder.
Shinsou is kind, and loyal, and patient. He makes Aizawa coffee without being asked. Rubs at the knot in his shoulder with a calloused thumb when he thinks he’s asleep. He tells him things like you don’t have to fix everything alone and you matter. And Aizawa believes him. Most days. But lately, beneath the warmth of routine and affection, a sour thought has started to spread its roots.
What if you’re only good for him because he hasn’t seen what better looks like?
He’s twenty years younger, still moving up, still dazzling in ways Aizawa no longer is. There are nights when Shinsou comes home glowing from victory, a new bruise blooming under the edge of his collar, and Aizawa is proud, yes, always proud, but a deep, secret part of him curls away in shame. Not jealousy. Never that. Just… the sense that he’s standing still while Shinsou flies. What is he offering, really? A tired body. A career half-spent. A long list of ghosts. A man too weary to always say the things he feels. Sometimes not even brave enough to let himself feel them.
Maybe love isn’t enough.
He presses the heel of his palm against his eyes. His breath fogs the mirror. The room feels too small. He thinks, not for the first time, about ending it gently. Just a soft letting go. A slow pulling away. He could tell Shinsou that he needs space. That they’re moving too fast. That it was good, but maybe it’s time. Shinsou would fight him on it, of course. He’d furrow his brow and ask if something happened, if he’d done something wrong, if Aizawa was hurt. And Aizawa would lie. Because the truth, you’re too good for me, and I hate that part of me still thinks it’s true, is worse than silence.
But even as the idea stirs, even as it tempts him with its clean edges and self-sacrificing logic, a familiar sound cuts through it. Footsteps, boots on the tile. A pause in the doorway. Then the bathroom door opening. “You alright?"
Aizawa looks up, towel slung loose around his waist, hair still damp and wild from the shower. Shinsou’s holding Aizawa’s scarf, the older one, threadbare from years of use, like he means to hand it over, but forgot the moment he saw his face.
Aizawa opens his mouth. Closes it. Nods once. “Fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” Shinsou says gently, crossing the bathroom in three long steps. He sets the scarf down and reaches for his face. Aizawa flinches. Just barely. Shinsou brushes his thumb along the curve of his jaw, tilts his head to meet his eyes. “Whatever it is,” he says, voice low, steady, “don’t try to protect me from it.”
Aizawa’s throat feels tight. Shinsou stares at him for a long moment. Then he huffs, not quite a laugh, but close when Aizawa says nothing. Aizawa leans into him. The morning has shifted into something rawer, something that cuts closer to the bone. It’s the strongest he’s felt to just ending things. But Shinsou’s arms are around him, strong and sure, and Aizawa lets the thought of leaving die in the space between them.
It’s been days.
He spends every spare moment thinking about how he’s going to do it. How to make it clean. Painless. How to convince Shinsou that this is mercy. He replays it in his head during class, during paperwork, while brushing his teeth. He imagines himself being calm. Controlled. Gentle.
Reminds himself that loving Shinsou is selfish. And that letting himself be loved by him is worse.
It had taken Aizawa hours to do it, not because there was much to pack, but because he kept stopping. Standing in doorways, staring at things. Thinking. Folding and refolding Shinsou’s hoodie until the seams were perfectly aligned, smoothing the edge of the duffel bag. It felt absurd, absurd and cruel, but also necessary. This would be his mercy. His last act of care. He’d placed everything with quiet ritual, as if arranging Shinsou’s life into a bag could somehow make the fracture cleaner. He carefully folded his hero uniform with precision. The book Shinsou had been reading tucked carefully into the outer pocket. Even his favorite coffee mug, swaddled in a hoodie to keep it from cracking.
Aizawa sits at the kitchen table now, back to the door, a half-drunk glass of whiskey in his hands. He hasn’t touched it in an hour. The city hums behind the windows, all traffic and sodium light, but the apartment has gone still. There exists just a familiar ache at the base of his skull that tells him he hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time. He hears the key turn just after midnight, the click of the door shutting, but he doesn’t turn around. The guilt has grown like mold, slow, invasive, feeding on the soft parts of his heart now.
“Honey, I’m home,” Shinsou calls out jokingly. “I brought food. Don’t worry, it’s not curry again-” He stops mid-sentence. Aizawa knows the exact moment he sees it. The duffel. The precise stacking of his hero gear. There’s a long silence, followed by a soft thud as Shinsou sets the takeout on the counter.
“You packed my things,” he says, not a question. “What the fuck is this?” Shinsou asks, voice low, a thread of disbelief wrapped in rising anger.
Aizawa had rehearsed what he might say, but now he doesn’t answer right away, just turns around and studies him, memorizing him one last time. The damp hair curling around his ears from the rain, the soft bags under his eyes from late-night patrols, always trying to catch up in his sleep.
“You should go,” Aizawa says finally, quietly.
“I don’t understand,” Shinsou says, voice careful, like he’s picking his way through a minefield. “Did I miss something? Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Then why?” Shinsou knows his voice is bordering on a little hysterical.
“Because this isn’t sustainable,” Aizawa says flatly.
“You’re lying,” Shinsou spits back, more hurt now than angry. “Is it because of what people are saying? Because of what Present Mic said?”
“You deserve someone who won’t hold you back, someone who can grow with you.”
“That’s a beautiful speech,” Shinsou says, eyes burning. Then quieter still, “Don’t do this...” Aizawa’s jaw tightens and Shinsou steps forward towards him. “You told me that it didn’t matter. That we don’t owe anyone an explanation. What happened to that?” Shinsou crosses the room slowly. He kneels beside the bag, fingers hovering just above the zipper, but he doesn’t touch it.
“You’re going to be a top hero,” Aizawa says, voice strained. “You already are. You don’t need this. An old man with a half-broken body and a list of enemies longer than his friends.”
“You don’t get to decide what I need!” Shinsou’s voice is wavering, like he doesn’t know whether to scream or cry at Aizawa.
“I do when I’m the one holding you back.”
Shinsou’s expression shatters. There’s no grace in it. No heroic poise. Just bare, open devastation. “You think you’re doing this to protect me?” he spits. “You think I need protecting from you? From loving you?”
Aizawa doesn’t answer. He can’t. He looks at the floor. The wall. Anywhere but at Shinsou. And that’s when the begging dies. Shinsou’s breath stutters and his fists clench. He crouches, grabs the duffel bag like it weighs nothing, slings it over his shoulder with a sharp, violent movement.
“Coward,” he says, trembling. “I begged you not to run. I fucking begged.”
The door rattles in its frame when it slams behind him. The echo is the loudest thing the apartment has heard in days. And then it's just Aizawa again, alone with the packed-up silence, and the ringing space where Shinsou used to stand. He wonders for the first time, not if he made the right choice, but if he made it for the wrong reason.
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