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He hooks a finger against the frame and tugs. The window doesn’t budge. Shōta’s frown deepens, he knew he’d purposely left it unlatched for this very reason.
He hunkers down on his heels, looming ominously atop the too small window ledge. He pushes his forehead to the glass and sighs, it’s cool against his flushed skin.
He can’t leave his spot, he’s trapped. Let down by his beaten body. He knows he can’t make the leap back to the trees below, and quite frankly doesn’t want to expend the effort. Walking through the front lobby of the dorms now would only lead to more trouble.
So he swallows deeply and taps with the knuckles of his still outstretched hand against the glass. His right stays firmly pressed to his collarbone, a one armed hug.
He peers through the glass, inching his forehead away lest he leave any further evidence of his unceremonious entrance.
It’s not a long time before narrowed green eyes blink back, but it’s long enough that he finally mentally admits to himself that the student entrance was a much better idea.
The window slams open, dragging upwards with a grunt from the man inside. A terrible idea, then, Shōta muses, already clambering through the window like a thief in the night. He can’t even offer a wry comment as his husbands hand loops around his waist and pulls him inside.
‘You promised,’ Hizashi hisses and Shōta spares a glance to the window, quietly relieved he hasn’t left any blood. ‘Stubborn…’ he can hear Hizashi murmuring to himself, taking great efforts to keep himself relatively quiet. Unhelpfully his mind is tuning out the noise and he’s focusing on the uneven weight of his feet, how he’s curling into himself before the pair have even made it to the lounge.
‘Sho!’ Hizashi scolds, snapping his fingers in Shōta’s face.
He hadn’t even realised he’d been carefully placed on the sofa until now. He sinks into the cushions and praises Cementoss for having given the family their own home away from home; a comfortable flat, a private space away from the students shared space.
‘It’s a scratch,’ he sighs back, keeping the bite from his words. It’s not Hizashi’s fault he decided to patrol, let alone skulk home without a phone call first. He understand his husbands feelings.
He allows his husband to pry his arm away from his collarbone and hisses at the stiffness of his limb. He truly hadn’t meant to alarm Hizashi, but the man gasps anyway, his face morphing into one of gentle concern.
‘It’s not broken,’ he supplies, prodding the inflamed collarbone for emphasis. He resists demonstrating further. ‘Took a tumble.’
Hizashi squats before Shōta’s open legs, expression too pinched for Shōta to try and ease the mood with an attempt at humour. ‘Considering you took a tumble,’ Shōta really doesn’t like where this is going, ‘you’d think my husband would use the front door like a normal person. And, oh, I don’t know. Not try to let himself in through the fucking window.’
Shōta opens his mouth to playfully chide the man, make an attempt to move the conversation elsewhere even for a moment.
Hizashi punches through the silence, voice now too loud to contain. ‘I barely heard you, Sho!’. Shōta breathes in shakily, the smallest amount of guilt beginning to gnaw at him. ‘I took out my hearing aids for one second. A second ! And I could have missed you. You could have fallen and, and-‘
‘I’m sorry,’ Shōta whispers and wills his heavy hand to seek his husband. He cups the man’s face, running his thumb along the jawline, as Hizashi himself had done so many times before. ‘This is on me, ‘Zashi,’ he can feel his husband trembling, ‘I can’t promise I won’t come home injured,’ Hizashi hiccups around a scoff and paws at his eyes, ‘but I’ll – if I can’t make it through the door, I’ll call for help.’
‘Aizawa?’ both men turn to take in Shinsō, bleary eyed and frowning, in the doorway. He looks momentarily puzzled before scratching idly at his neck and reschooling his face, ‘What happened?’ he asks gently, already moving around Hizashi with a first-aid kit.
Shōta didn't question as to why the teenager already had the supplies, it wasn't uncommon for his students to have multiple tucked away in their rooms. Just the knowledge that Shinsō had one ready for him, probably having waited up for him, brought a strange feeling to his chest.
‘Did I wake you?’ Shinsō shakes his head at Hizashi and gently nudges him aside. Shōta holds his breath as his adopted son bats away the hand clamped to his side, and begins unzipping the hero costume to pool at his waist.
Months ago the teenager would flinch away from direct contact, only recently allowing himself to enjoy Hizashi’s constant cuddles and Shōta’s own head-pats. Now here his son crouches, cleaning the smallest scrapes and bandaging wounds Shōta had willingly ignored, all while distracting Hizashi with classroom gossip he would usually claim not to care about.
‘They got lucky,’ Shōta exhales with a small quirk of his lip. His chest alight with pride.
Hizashi moves, making himself busy, and Shōta watches him shuffle around the kitchen, humming as he begins to prepare tea.
‘You should take more care of yourself, old man.’
Shōta snaps his head back to Shinsō, retort on his tongue.
‘We’d be lost without you,’ Shinsō says in a small voice, ducking his head. ‘And I kinda like having two Dad’s.’
Shōta can’t breathe. He's trapped to the sofa under the weight of the words. He can’t even blame the sting of his eyes on dryness.
As though the world wants to keep Shōta quiet a little longer; Hizashi re-appears and seeing that his husband is bandaged, and a cooling pad haphazardly bound to his collarbone, he places the three mugs of tea atop the coffee table.
‘You’ve done a good job, kid,’ Hizashi ruffles his son’s hair and Shōta can see how his husband basks in the sleepy smile he gets in return, how Shinsō minutely moves quickly into the touch.
Knowing wholeheartedly that he’s going to regret the headache that’s sure to come, Shōta shirks his costume back over his shoulders with a small wince and makes himself as comfortable as he’s going to get.
‘Shinsō called you his-‘ it’s as though time has truly slowed now as Hizashi’s green eyes blow wide, and Shinsō blushes furiously, ‘Dad.’
There’s no taking it back now. He snaps his eyes wide as Hizashi cries uncontrollably. Even without his own quirk, Hizashi is still impossibly loud. But right now, Shōta can’t feel annoyed. He’s tired, sure. Beaten and bruised, check. But as Shinsō spins wildly around the room, laughing, as Hizashi guides him in dramatic twirls, he wouldn’t change a thing.
‘He called us Dad!’ Hizashi shouts, a very dizzy Shinsō trapped to his side as they stop.
‘Technically I called you both Dad,’ Shinsō grumbles.
‘Oooh, Sho! We’re officially Dad’s!’ Shōta can’t blame Hizashi for vibrating where he stands, the excitement infectious. It had taken months for the teenager to stop being so formal. ‘Well you’ll need to call me something else. Like Pops or Papa. No. I don’t know, we’ll think of something.’ Shinsō nods slowly.
‘’Zashi, let him breathe...’
Shinsō doubles down, cheeks as red as Shōta's, and takes Hizashi’s hand, pulling him to sit the opposite side of Shōta. With an amused huff, Shinsō leans against Shōta’s shoulder, mindful of the abrasions.
'I think he's taking it well.'
Shōta scoffs, pushes himself back into the sofa and burrows down further. He allows Hizashi the space to drape himself across his legs.
He’s too tired to ask him to tone it down. Instead he furrows his brows and schools his face - but Hizashi is there, staring wide-eyed and knowing.
Shōta closes his eyes, blinking away the effort. Quirk dropped, injuries forgotten for the morning, he gingerly places his hands over his ears, careful not to warn Shinsō.
‘The Dad jokes are gonna be SICK!’.