Archive of Our Own

“Shōta!” Hizashi puts on his best grin, leaning an elbow on his friend’s desk as he points a finger gun at him. “Come out drinking with me this weekend?”

Shōta regards him with a calculating gaze before eventually responding, “I thought you had a work thing.”

“That is the work thing,” Hizashi circles around the back of Shōta’s chair to get to his own seat and sits down heavily, kicking his feet up onto the desk and crossing his arms behind his head. “A bunch of folks from the station are going out for drinks together and I want you to come along.”

Shōta raises an eyebrow. It’s an excruciatingly long minute before he drawls, “why?”

“Uh, because I enjoy your company?”

“You’re going to be surrounded by work friends,” Shōta says with a furrowed brow, “you don’t need the extra company.”

“But I want you there,” Hizashi pouts, and Shōta huffs in annoyance.

“Too bad.”

Usually he’d laugh off the rejection but today Hizashi feels his temper rise at that. He’s been looking forward to this party ever since they’d first started planning it, and Shōta rejecting it so offhandedly rubs him entirely the wrong way. He takes his feet off the desk, folding his arms and glaring the other man in the eye.

“Are you even gonna give me a decent excuse why not?”

“I don’t need an excuse,” Shōta snaps, pushing his chair out from his desk and climbing to his feet. “I’m not spending my weekend drinking with strangers and babysitting you while you’re drunk. Ask someone else.”

“Maybe I will!” Hizashi yells childishly at Shōta’s repeating back as he watches them leave the staff room. He’s left sitting at his desk, fingers digging uncomfortably into his elbows.

---

The first thing Hizashi is able to pinpoint when he returns to consciousness is that his whole body feels weird. Not painful – though the feeling of asphalt underneath his side isn’t particularly nice – just sort of non-specifically weird. His fingers won’t flex like they should and his knees bend awkwardly, and the sounds of civilization around him are uncomfortably loud, and also he maybe might be naked.

After that observation it only takes him a moment or two longer to realise that he is in fact naked, and also covered in fur. Because he’s some sort of small animal.

The inevitable freak out is short but explosive, and he puts his new vocal chords to the test by attempting to holler as many expletives as possible as he struggles out of the puddle of fabric and accessories that used to be his outfit. This is what he gets for not wearing his directional speaker, he scoffs bitterly to himself – or tries to, but it comes out as a pathetic little spitting hiss. Walking feels weird and he probably looks as idiotic as he feels, waddling awkwardly to the edge of the sidewalk he’s woken up on, but it allows him to reach a puddle and stare into it at his reflection.

Two large, round, feline eyes stare back.

Hizashi’s fuzzy rear hits the pavement with a soft thump as he desperately tries to remember as much as he can. He remembers going out drinking with his co-workers from the station; it had been a relatively large gathering for once because it was the senior sound guy’s birthday. They’d been mischievous and arranged to go out on a Saturday evening because that was when Mia’s shift was, and her show was mostly dance tracks without breaks so they’d convinced her to set up a long queue and sneak out to the bar with them for most of an hour to avoid her feeling left out. Their manager would kick their ass if he knew about it, so they’d all conspired to buy him as many drinks as possible to get him blackout drunk before she arrived. It was such a genius plan flawlessly executed that Hizashi had spent the whole evening buzzing with energy, even after throwing back an irresponsible amount of alcohol. After that…?

After that, he remembered sourly, he’d had the misfortune of interrupting a jewellery store robbery on his way home. Obviously he should have called in for assistance – he wasn’t even in his costume, let alone the fact he was drunk – but the left-over energy from the Master Plan and a good night out and the residual annoyance from talking to Shōta yesterday had made him confident. And then… then…?

Then it all gets a bit too fuzzy. A bit like himself, currently.

Judging by how it’s still dark out, he figures not much time must have passed since he was transformed. That would also explain why he still feels a little drunk, which is a weird sensation to pair with being trapped in the body of a cat. Could actual cats even get drunk? Was the alcohol in his system going to clash with his cat nervous system and kill him? Knowing his luck tonight, probably.

Hizashi’s mind is running a mile a minute and he has to remind himself to take it slow and formulate a plan.

He doesn’t like leaving his clothes behind – he had his wallet on him, and the headphones are practically brand new – but he needs to get help. The area he’s in isn’t unfamiliar, he’s walked around here a good few times, and he knows that Shōta’s apartment isn’t too far. He’s not a bad choice – he’s probably smart enough to figure this out, as long as Hizashi gives him a good enough hint. He’ll probably tease him for being hit with such a silly quirk, but maybe the weirdness of the situation will completely overshadow the fact that they’re not on good terms right now. All in all, this could work in his favour.

Getting to Shōta’s place is a weird experience when it’s being viewed from such a different angle, but the lingering drunkenness and the uniqueness of the situation mean that Hizashi’s able to appreciate it a little. Being a cat seems to mean being able to hear things much more loudly than a human; in the stillness of the early hours he can hear every little detail, from cars several streets away to wind rustling through hedgerows. As well as that, walking along the top of people’s garden walls is pretty fun, even if he does wobble and almost fall a couple of times.

He’s never been a big fan of Shōta’s apartment – it’s not homey like his own, which is warm and usually messy. Shōta’s place is about as small and Spartan as a place gets, and Hizashi suspects that the only reason he even rents it is so he has somewhere he’s legally able to eat and sleep when he’s off the UA campus. He does know how to find it though, thanks to his regular schedule of stopping by in the mornings to give Shōta a lift to work.

There’s an empty animal food dish on Shōta’s balcony when he gets there, which gives Hizashi a moment of pause. Shōta didn’t own a pet – at least he’d never mentioned owning one, and Hizashi’s never seen one the few times he’s been over. Briefly he wonders if he’s going to have to worry about interacting with an actual real cat while stuck in this inconvenient body, but it doesn’t take long to decide that it’s something he can put up with to change back faster.

Through the glass of the balcony door Hizashi can see that the lights are off in the apartment, though it’s hard to tell if Shōta’s not home or just asleep. The latter is the obvious answer, but then Shōta tends to keep irresponsible hours while doing hero work, so the odds are pretty evenly split. Either way there’s not much he can do besides wait. It’s excruciatingly dull and completely at odds with Hizashi’s current desire to run around and yell until everything is fixed.

He’s pacing back and forth across the concrete floor of the balcony when the lights flicker on and Shōta appears in the lounge, tossing his scarf onto the back of the sofa. In an instant Hizashi is on his feet, slapping his front paws against the glass door and yowling as loud as possible. Shōta’s head snaps up to look in his direction and their eyes meet.

There’s a gentle click and then the door slides open, and Hizashi dives inside so fast that he hears Shōta let out a surprised sound. He sounds tired enough that Hizashi feels a little mean for causing him hassle, but if it gets him back in his regular body then he’s willing to annoy his best friend. He scrambles up onto the coffee table and turns to face Shōta, letting out a long, loud meow.

Shōta regards him with a calculating stare for a moment before sighing and shuffling over to collapse face-down on the sofa. One of his hands reaches up and Hizashi can’t resist giving it a gentle headbutt as an attempt at of reassurance. He must have been out doing hero work until now; he looks ready to pass out.

Hizashi makes a command decision in that moment; clueing Shōta into his situation can wait until the guy has at least had some shuteye. Shōta’s fingers gently smooth down the fur along Hizashi’s spine and the feeling is pleasant enough that he allows it, even allows a short rumbling vibration of sound to leave his throat before the weirdness of the sensation of purring freaks him out and it stops, comfort overridden by anxiety.

Shōta makes a gentle shushing sound and massages his fingers against Hizashi’s back, and he automatically melts into the reassuring touch. He can’t help but think that cats have got it easy, if Shōta’s willing to be this touchy-feely with them so soon after meeting them.

The next thing he’s aware of is waking up on Shōta’s coffee table to warm sunlight, the sound of a pan sizzling and a thudding headache. The noise is crisp and clear even though it’s a room away and it drums against his consciousness so forcefully that he lets out a miserable groan, which leaves him as a pathetic yowl.

It’s bad enough being turned into a cat. Dealing with a hangover on top of that is honestly going too far. Whoever the villain was that did this is officially on Hizashi’s shit list.

Shōta’s head appears in the kitchen doorway to look over at him curiously and Hizashi drags himself to his (four) feet, plodding miserably towards his friend. He’s ready to collapse again on the pleasantly cool kitchen floor when the man towering over him crouches down and all thoughts of hangovers and vengeance are blasted out of existence by the blissfully sweet image that is a warmly smiling Shōta.

“Rough night for you too huh,” Shōta mumbles, fingers rubbing the top of Hizashi’s head. Hizashi can’t help but feel weird for the enjoyment he gets from the attention; is it bad to secretly enjoy your best friend slash long time target of unrequited affection petting you because they think you’re a cat? Is that situation too weird for there to be moral standards in place for it?

Also, is that bacon he can smell? Because holy shit.

Shōta makes a gently scolding sound as Hizashi makes a leap for the kitchen countertop, and the pan is pulled away before he can investigate further. Hizashi wails pleadingly, reaching out a paw as if hoping he can claw the delicious smelling object back towards him. Unfortunately the only response from Shōta is to turn off the stove and set about plating his breakfast, completely ignoring the very urgent matter of Hizashi’s absolute requirement for bacon in his mouth right this moment.

The continued meowing and shrieking must clue Shōta in eventually, however, because he breaks into a quiet laugh and concedes, “Alright, alright.” Hizashi isn’t sure which makes him feel better – the promise of breakfast or the sight of Shōta grinning and laughing.

When Shōta reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a can of cat food, however, the spell is broken. Oh hell no.

Hizashi waits until Shōta is rummaging in a drawer – assumedly for a can opener – before diving across the stovetop onto the next counter and snatching a piece of bacon off Shōta’s plate. He watches delightedly as the man’s eyes widen, expression the very picture of shock.

“Hey-!”

Hizashi leaps away just a moment too soon for the attempt to grab him and scrambles out of the kitchen, flattening himself onto his belly and crawling under the lounge coffee table with his prize. His automatic whoop of victory comes out high pitched and warbled but who cares, he has breakfast and he has the mental image of Shōta looking so surprised he can’t help but find it hilarious.

And it turns out cats’ taste receptors can still enjoy bacon.

Eventually Shōta sits down cross-legged at the table and Hizashi briefly wonders if he should be ready to defend himself from being forcibly ejected from the apartment, but Shōta opens a lowered hand to reveal another small piece of bacon. It takes what feels like less than a second for Hizashi to pad over and appreciatively snatch it.

“You’re kind of spoiled, aren’t you?” Shōta asks quietly as the hand that had been delivering food curls upward to scratch at Hizashi’s chin. The whole thing is so adorably domestic that Hizashi feels a pang of guilt when he remembers that he came here to try to get Shōta to realise his situation, not to steal his food and live vicariously through physical affection he wouldn’t normally have access to. Pulling away from the touch, he resolves to get back on task.

Unfortunately it’s more of a challenge than he’d originally assumed, trying to communicate with someone when you’re trapped in the body of a cat. His first idea is to use a computer to type out some sort of message, but an investigation of Shōta’s rather Spartan apartment reveals none.

It also reveals no sign of another cat – not even a pet bed or toys – which raises questions, but since he’s trying to stay focused Hizashi internally files that away for later.

He makes an attempt to manipulate the touch screen of Shōta’s phone with his paws, but it’s confiscated from him without even a word, and using his claws to try to climb up Shōta’s body to re-acquire it accomplishes nothing except to make Shōta tut patiently and pry him off.

He’s placed carefully down onto the sofa and is about to try the strategy of yelling and never stopping when the device rings. The sound is so shrill that it reverberates through his skull like a physical strike and Hizashi recoils, back arching automatically and muscles tense.

Shōta sits down beside him as he answers it, one hand reaching out to Hizashi.

“Have you heard from Yamada today?” Nemuri’s voice crackles through the phone, and once he settles down Hizashi is impressed that he can hear it. It reaches his ear as tinny but he can understand the words.

“No,” Shōta replies curtly, fingers raking slowly through the fur along Hizashi’s back. “Why?”

“He was supposed to bring over a file I need for tomorrow.” She sounds unhappy, and Hizashi watches as Shōta rolls his eyes.

“And why are you calling me about it?”

“He’s not answering his phone. I wondered if you knew where he is.”

“Probably still hungover from last night,” Shōta snorts and Hizashi feels the need to roll his eyes at how disapproving it sounds.

“So you didn’t go in the end, then?”

“Why would I?” Shōta sighs, body deflating to sink back into the sofa cushions.

“Because you enjoy going out drinking with Hizashi?” Nemuri sounds amused, but Hizashi doesn’t see what’s amusing about the situation. The way Shōta is acting makes him suddenly feel very self-conscious; was his company that much of an annoying hassle?

“Yes, I enjoy going out drinking with Hizashi,” Shōta responds what can only be described as peevishly, “not with a bunch of people I don’t know that he’ll be busy entertaining.”

Hizashi is surprised by the confession. Is that why Shōta turned down his invitation? Because he was worried Hizashi wouldn’t have time for him when there are other people around? The notion is automatically ridiculous to Hizashi himself – he knows that Shōta is usually the centre of his attention, after all – but the idea that it’s something Shōta is anxious about lodges a strange feeling in his chest, a mixture between being sad that Shōta would expect that of him and pleased that his attention is considered important.

“You’re such a hermit.” Nemuri’s voice teases.

“I’m going to hang up on you now,” Shōta scolds forcefully in response.

“Alright, alright. Just- if you hear from him before it gets too late, can you remind him for me? Otherwise I’ll make tomorrow a living hell for him.”

Shōta hums noncommittally and hangs up, but instead of putting the phone down he stares down at the screen for a moment. Curious, Hizashi steps over onto his lap but Shōta’s thumb is already in motion bringing up his messages and composing a text to…

To him, to Hizashi.

Nemuri wants the file you owe her, he types excruciatingly slowly and Hizashi is tempted to try to swipe the device from his hand and try to type himself. After what seems to be a moment of deliberation he adds, hope you didn’t overdo it last night.

Hizashi watches with a touch of disappointment as Shōta snorts and deletes the latter part before pressing send. He allows himself a minute to try to picture how his day might be going if he hadn’t fucked up; waking up with a regular human non-cat hangover, drinking coffee, getting Shōta’s text… since he’s already daydreaming, he decides to pretend that Shōta had sent the full version. He’d respond with something friendly to try to test the water between them and by lunchtime on Monday it’d be like they’d never argued.

He’s still mulling over what cafeteria food he’d buy Shōta as a peace offering when he’s surprised by the sound of a camera shutter. Hizashi looks up to see Shōta watching him, phone raised.

Hizashi’s breath catches when Shōta’s eyes subtly light up, and the shutter sound goes off again.

He’s taking photos of a cat. What a damn softie.

Hizashi spends the rest of the day trying everything he can think of to get a message to Shōta, no matter how ridiculous, but ultimately only succeeding in being a pest. He harmonizes determinedly until his throat is hoarse, trying to achieve some sort of sound that he can manipulate into human speech. He tries knocking over objects in order of the first letter of their name to spell out a message. He tries scratching words into the wall with his claws and is picked up and relocated with more gentleness than he would have expected, surprised by the patience on display from Shōta. He knew his friend liked cats but damn, if he were this sweet to his students Hizashi would assume he’d been replaced by a doppelganger.

In the evening Shōta starts marking tests, and Hizashi tries to steal the pen from his hand. Shōta responds by simply moving the pen to the side, and Hizashi follows it – Shōta then moves it the other way, and Hizashi dives after it again. It’s only after it’s happened a good five or six times that Hizashi realises Shōta thinks he’s trying to play. Feeling like an idiot he stalks circles around the table and attempts to pronounce every English curse word he knows; he almost doesn’t notice that Shōta looks a little disappointed that the game is over.

When the sky outside has turned dark he’s eventually placed in front of the open balcony door, Shōta looking down at him expectantly as he stares back up in confusion.

“It’s been nice,” Shōta snorts wryly, “but I have work tomorrow. Time to go.”

Hizashi walks back into the apartment, but is picked up and deposited by the door again.

“I’m closing the door for the night,” Shōta explains as if he’s expecting a cat to be able to understand him. “Time to leave.”

Hizashi meows in a way he hopes is persuasive and walks back inside.

The third time he’s picked up, Hizashi digs his claws into Shōta’s shirt and yells as long and loud as he can. He semi-expects Shōta to finally lose his temper and throw him off the balcony entirely, but instead the man just sighs and holds Hizashi against his chest as he uses his other hand to close and lock the door. The amount Hizashi seems to be able to get away with while a cat is awe-inspiring.

When Shōta drops Hizashi onto his futon and starts to shed clothing, though, Hizashi gets so flustered that he scurries out of the room. The petting is unavoidable, he reasons, but creeping on a friend getting changed is going too far. He’s not tired anyway – the lack of progress he’s made on fixing his situation has given him a feeling of itchy energy under his skin that he usually only experiences when he’s manic – and even if he was, he’d rather be sleeping on his own bed than Shōta’s roll-out futon. Instead he patrols around the apartment with quick little steps, trying to focus on thinking of more ideas and not on how he’s going to be a damn cat forever.

By the time the sun begins to appear again outside the window Hizashi is at least an hour into his new pastime of rubbing his head against the wall in the lounge and clenching his teeth to stop himself shouting. Or as close to shouting as he can currently get, anway.

It occurs to him that Shōta usually carpools to work with him, so maybe when he doesn’t appear to pick him up for work Shōta might realise he’s missing. Not receiving a response text yesterday didn’t seem to set off any alarm bells – though, he thinks with a sinking feeling in his gut, that could be because the last time they spoke to each other they argued. Maybe Shōta assumes he’s still mad at him. Hell, maybe he doesn’t even expect Hizashi to drive him to work.

Which is bullshit, because he totally would have. He might have sulked the entire drive to try to get Shōta to apologise, sure, but he’s not a complete dick.

This whole ordeal is such an out-of-body experience that by the time Shōta disappears into the bathroom, Hizashi has taken to staring out of the kitchen window to the street below just to make sure that his car isn’t about to pull up outside. Maybe he didn’t get transformed, maybe he swapped bodies with a cat and that cat is living his life right now. Maybe the cat is going to go to his job and teach his classes. Sure, it doesn’t explain him waking up surrounded by his own clothes, but maybe the cat planned this entire thing. Maybe the cat is also harbouring feelings for Shōta and wants to use his body to finally get together with him.

Good luck with that you furry little asshole, Hizashi thinks bitterly.

“I did try to let you out last night,” Shōta says as he enters the kitchen, apparently mistaking Hizashi’s vigil for desire to leave. Hizashi’s so glad for the company he sets aside his conspiracy theory and rushes over to headbutt Shōta’s leg, meowing in greeting.

He’s less enthused when Shōta withdraws a box from the same cupboard as the cat food and pours some little fish-shaped biscuit-looking things into a dish, placing it on the floor. Hizashi tries his best to convey the message ‘nice try dipshit’ as he flicks his paw and knocks the dish over, sending the dry food spilling across the tile. Shōta raises an eyebrow at the display but says nothing.

When he reaches the door, bag in hand and putting on his scarf, he turns to look back. Hizashi had been following him like a duckling, and he’s surprised when Shōta crouches down to bring them closer to eye level.

“I’ll be back later,” he says, patting the top of Hizashi’s head. Then he’s back up and opening the door, and apparently he has experience with cats because he’s careful to use his legs to prevent Hizashi from following. Hizashi yowls and screams for all he’s worth at Shōta – and at the door when he’s disappeared behind it – but it achieves nothing.

Well, ok, fine. Maybe with Shōta out of the way he can focus better on delivering a message. Sure he didn’t come up with any new ideas since last night, but there’s got to be something.

An hour later Hizashi is lying on his side on the kitchen floor, seeing how far he can bat the little fish crackers under the oven. He hits one so far into the tiny space that he apparently disturbs a spider living under there, and when it scuttles out into the light right beside his face he just about has a heart attack.

He resolves to not come down from the top of the fridge for at least an hour – just to be safe – but it’s difficult to time when there’s no clock around.

Hizashi has never been good at being patient. Sometimes people ask him if it tires him out to be a teacher, a radio host and a pro hero; of course it does, how couldn’t it? But it’s good that it does that. It means he’s doing something, and it keeps him busy. And yeah, maybe sometimes he gets so full of that nervous energy that his scalp itches and he can’t sleep and time moves too fast or too slow, but that’s ok too because by some divine blessing that’s usually when Shōta invites him out drinking or asks if he wants to get takeout and mark tests together.

But this – being trapped in a tiny apartment, with no plan and no ideas and no way to communicate and spiders that look bigger than they usually do – this is torture. Maybe when Shōta gets home from work Hizashi should take him up on his offer to throw him out this time, he thinks, and just hunt down the villain himself. It’s idiotic and it’ll never work but at least it’s an idea.

The sunlight outside takes an excruciatingly long time to shift to the softer orange-purples of evening, and Hizashi has resorted to breathing on the glass of the balcony door and trying to write a plea for help in the condensation when the front door opens again for the first time since that morning.

“His apartment’s completely untouched, like he never got home,” Shōta is practically growling into the phone at his ear, “for all we know he could have been missing since Friday. Somebody needs to go to the radio studio and ask when they last saw him-”

There’s the muffled sound of talking across the line, but the phone is too far away for Hizashi to make sense of who it is or what is said. Whatever it is doesn’t seem to reassure Shōta, as he responds by snapping, “You think I don’t- I’m perfectly capable of managing my own schedule.”

Shōta looks beyond frustrated. He’s completely tensed up, expression a dark scowl as he throws his folders from work onto the coffee table. It’s the sort of body language Hizashi’s familiar with seeing when Shōta is stressed about something, and in that moment he wants desperately to comfort him. He gently nudges his head against one of Shōta’s ankles, letting out a loud meow.

Shōta looks surprised to see him, as if he’d completely forgotten that he impromptu adopted a cat the day prior. Then the surprised expression shifts to something else – something determined but also a little pained, and Hizashi feels his anxiety mount. He chases Shōta into the apartment, watching as he enters the kitchen and busies himself opening the dreaded cat food can from yesterday.

“I know you don’t like it but I don’t have time to wait on you,” Shōta states firmly as he places a plate of the awful meat mess onto the kitchen floor, next to the upturned bowl from earlier. Then he’s off again, moving through the apartment so quickly that Hizashi can only watch as he storms back out through the front door, a scratchy sound indicating that he locks it behind him.

Well great. At this rate Hizashi’s going to die of boredom inside this damn apartment.

It’s well into the night by the time Shōta reappears – most likely the early hours of the morning, by Hizashi’s best guess. Hizashi’s not happy about it; the guy has work in what can’t be any more than four hours, and he already looks like a zombie most of the time.

He sheds his shoes and scarf as he moves through the apartment, sighing when he enters the kitchen. He nudges the two dishes on the floor aside so he can plod over to the fridge and Hizashi hops up onto the counter to see what he’s doing.

“If I have to eat then you have to as well,” Shōta grouses humourlessly. Hizashi watches quietly as Shōta fries up some dinner (or is it technically breakfast?) and he tries to take in every detail of the man’s current appearance. He looks drained – more so than usual, if that’s even possible – and there’s an undercurrent of anger that makes Hizashi feel anxious.

Once it’s cooked Shōta divides some fish between one plate containing the rest of his meal and another, which Hizashi assumes is for him. At least he hopes so, because he’s god damn starving. He follows Shōta into the lounge and watches as he sits down heavily at the coffee table, placing the smaller plate onto the ground beside him.

Hizashi wastes no time in descending on the offering; he’s so ravenous that he doesn’t even notice that he’s being petted until he’s licking the last remnants of fish from his lips. When he looks up Shōta is staring down at him, eyes slightly unfocused as if he’s not really seeing, staring into space instead. Hizashi meows loudly and watches as Shōta snaps back to reality with a small jolt. He seems to take in his surroundings for a moment before retracting the hand on Hizashi’s neck and turning to face the table.

Seconds pass and Shōta makes little to no attempt to actually eat the food in front of him, instead just idly twiddling a chopstick in his fingers and zoning out. Hizashi hops up onto the table and yowls pointedly at him, patting the plate with a paw.

Shōta must interpret the motion as begging because he huffs and pushes the plate towards Hizashi, apparently content to give up the entire thing to a demanding stray. Part of Hizashi is tempted – the past two days haven’t exactly been great in terms of sustenance – but the idea of Shōta starving himself through stress overrules and Hizashi nudges the plate back towards him. The situation is apparently strange enough to rouse a genuine chuckle out of Shōta.

“You’re as bad as everyone else,” he smirks sleepily, but Hizashi is relieved to see that he starts actually eating. It fills Hizashi with pride to know that even as a cat he can at least still be useful to his best friend.

Shōta disappears under his comforter not long after that, but Hizashi doesn’t make any move to follow. He’s trapped between exhaustion from his lack of sleep and overflowing with energy from being forced to do nothing all day – the result makes him antsy but spacey, and it takes him a while to realise that he’s been staring at nothing for a while, flexing to make the claws on his front toes appear and disappear.

He’s got to think of something. He’s got to think of something.

Dawn comes quickly this time, so quickly he wonders if he fell asleep without realising it. He’s been walking circles the whole time though, so it’s not really possible. At the very least he’s managed to come up with an idea for how to avoid being trapped inside for another day.

Sneaking into Shōta’s work bag is actually a lot easier than he anticipated, though that’s probably due to how distracted the poor guy seems to be. Hizashi kind of wishes bags had windows though, because being jostled around in a small dark space for an unknown amount of time is a pain. He finds himself wondering if today will be the day that Shōta accidentally drops his bag onto train tracks or into a river.

His luck must be on the up and up though, because eventually he hears the tell-tale sounds of chatter and he can’t resist poking his head out from the bag, blinking in the sudden light. He can see the familiar corridors of the UA campus, some students turning to double-take as Shōta walks by.

“Aizawa-sensei!” a familiar voice cries out excitedly, “is that your cat?!”

Hizashi feels the man carrying him come to an abrupt stop and turns to look sheepishly up at him. Shōta is glaring down at him with a mixture between surprise and complete exasperation.

“No,” he eventually grinds out.

Uraraka is standing in front of them, bright eyed and smiling. Shōta’s answer makes her expression twist in confusion.

“But then, why-“

“Excuse me,” Shōta interrupts and pushes past, marching onwards. One of his hands shoves Hizashi’s head back into the bag and Hizashi meows indignantly in protest.

He leaps out of the bag as soon as it’s next opened, landing awkwardly on the desk next to him and almost tripping on a pen. He’s in the staff room, which is mostly unoccupied.

Hizashi meows triumphantly up at Shōta, who looks at him as if it was an insult.

“Since when did you own a cat?” Nemuri’s voice asks from across the room, and when Hizashi glances over he sees her looking surprised.

“I don’t,” Shōta huffs in response, “he showed up at my apartment and didn’t want to leave.”

“And you brought him to work because…?”

“I didn’t,” the annoyance in Shōta’s voice makes Hizashi wish he could laugh. “He stowed away in my bag.”

Hizashi expects Nemuri to have a snarky response for that, but instead she regards Shōta with a look that is surprisingly sympathetic and soft. Hizashi sort of feels like he’s missed something.

“How much sleep have you had?” she asks eventually, but the sentence is barely out before Shōta is making an annoyed growl and swiping a pile of papers up from his desk.

“I’m fine,” he snaps as he leaves the room, “can you try to keep the door shut so he doesn’t get out? I’d rather a student didn’t accidentally blow up a cat in one of the classrooms.”

Hizashi watches him leave with a pang of concern. Shōta looks tense, like a coiled spring. When Nemuri strolls over to Hizashi and lifts him into her arms, he allows it without much wriggling.

“Don’t take it personally,” she coos down at him as two of her fingers gently rub the tip of one of his ears, “we’re all a little stressed out right now.”

Hizashi takes a moment to study Nemuri’s face. She’s right, the stress is there – though to a lesser degree than Shōta, but still noticeable in her eyes and posture.

“Let’s hope Nedzu doesn’t have anything against cats,” she smirks, and Hizashi feels a bolt of anxiety shoot through him.

Hizashi makes a few attempts to escape the staff room, but they’re half-hearted due to his lack of energy and the fact that he’s just happy to be somewhere other than the same tiny, empty apartment. He meows determinedly at every staff member who enters and tells himself that it’s on the off chance one of them has a secret talking-to-cats quirk, but really he’s just desperate to communicate with anything at this point. He’s even starting to wonder if it’s worth seeking out other cats just so he has someone to talk to.

During the morning, while the staff room is temporarily empty except himself, Hizashi is surprised to see three of Shōta’s students peek around the door.

“See!” Uraraka whispers excitedly, eyes fixed on Hizashi as he’s frozen mid-way through his current activity of trying to uncap a pen (which is proving difficult without opposable thumbs). “I told you he brought a cat!”

“It did sound pretty unbelievable,” Asui responds, head tilted curiously.

“Well, now you’ve seen it, so entering the staff room isn’t necessary,” Īda enthuses anxiously. Uraraka rolls her eyes and runs into the room, ignoring the dismayed sound the boy makes when she does.

A squeal of “You are so cute!” is the only warning Hizashi gets before there are hands squeezing his cheeks, rubbing his ears and ruffling the fur on his neck. It’s loud enough that it makes him flinch, and he’s tempted to run and hide.

“Ochako-chan,” Asui calls patiently from where she’s still stood beside a mortified Īda, “we should get going before next class starts.”

The three of them disappear as quickly as they’d appeared and Hizashi is left feeling a bit like he just got whipped around by a friendly tornado.

At one point he manages to turn on one of the computers, but then he gets to the login screen. He’s trying unsuccessfully to type his username with clumsy paws when Shōta reappears, looking worn down.

“Don’t you ever stop moving?” he scolds quietly as he lifts Hizashi in his arms, walking further into the room. Hizashi’s placed down on the ground and he watches as Shōta tucks himself into his sleeping bag and crawls under his desk.

It’s not an unusual sight for Hizashi – god knows he’s seen Shōta nap under his desk many times when he has some free time during the day – but something about the way he looks today makes the sight a little sad. Since Shōta is lying on his side Hizashi curls up against his chest, overcome with a sense of peace when he feels a hand gently stroke along his back.

The next sensation Hizashi is aware of is that he’s warm and comfortable to the point that there’s a deep rumbling emanating from his chest. He’s so content that he doesn’t even feel inclined to stop purring, instead rolling over to stretch languidly. He’s about to surrender to the comfort and go straight back to sleep when he’s alerted by a small gasp and he opens his eyes to see two faces staring down at him.

Shōta is nowhere to be seen. In his place are two more of his students, kneeling beside the desk to be able to reach Hizashi beneath it.

“See, I told you it’d be ok!” Midoriya whispers, grinning widely. Todoroki glances over at him and Hizashi feels the hand on his side stop moving, warm palm resting against his fur.

Todoroki’s expression is far from the one Hizashi usually sees in class; the boy looks shockingly defenceless, eyes wide and expression unsure. It’s a surprising development to see such a competent young hero nervous about something as simple as petting a cat.

Midoriya’s hand joins the one already on Hizashi’s side, scarred fingers gently bumping against the other boy’s.

“Did you warm your hand up?”

“Yes, I thought it’d be more comfortable.”

It feels strange seeing how different the students are when they think a teacher isn’t present. Hizashi can’t help but feel a little guilty, but at the same time he feels like getting up and interrupting the moment these two are having would be cruel. Instead he stares at them dumbly as they continue to pet the soft fur along his side, Midoriya glancing between Hizashi and Todoroki as if he can’t decide which he wants to pay more attention to.

It makes Hizashi think about a thing he read about during teacher training, the concept of support animals; animals trained to be docile so as to work as a reassuring presence for people with illnesses or trauma. He’s so used to seeing the students being little shits in class or training hard that he sometimes forgets that kids are so vulnerable.

Eventually the tiny bubble of content surrounding the three of them is burst when a familiar voice says, “can I help you boys with something?”

Midoriya lets out an anxious squeak as the two of them jump to their feet, and Hizashi glances over to see Principal Nedzu standing nearby, teacup held delicately in one round paw.

“Um, no, principal! We were here to… uh…”

Nedzu cuts the pathetic sentence off with a thoughtful hum, taking a sip from his tea. After a moment he responds, “I’m afraid the staff room is off limits to students during the day, unless you’re looking to find a teacher.”

They kind of are, Hizashi thinks with an internal snort.

The two apologetically excuse themselves and Hizashi is left staring up at Nedzu, who looks back with two large beady eyes. It’s never easy to tell what the principal is thinking by his expression – it’s not exactly a human face, after all. Hizashi thinks back to Nemuri’s earlier comment and feels himself tense up. He wonders if he should he be fearing for his life right now.

Before Hizashi can get too worried Nedzu breaks into a chuckle and quietly comments, “Humans can be a little overbearing, can’t they?”

Hizashi almost wonders if he’s expecting a response but a moment later he wanders by and disappears behind his office door. Hizashi is left in silence for a while to ponder the weird feeling of fondness that today is instilling in him for everyone on campus.

Later that same lunch break Snipe crouches down beside the desk and Hizashi is again made to wonder if he’s about to regret stowing away. Instead he’s presented with a lump of cafeteria napkins that turns out to be concealing a couple of chicken legs. Hizashi had never pegged Snipe as the type to sneak food to an animal, but he can’t say he’s not grateful. It does feel a little weird having Snipe attentively stare at him as he shreds tender meat off chicken bones, but at least he doesn’t try to pet him.

Not long after Snipe has gotten back to his feet and left again, Thirteen comes by and cautiously places a teacup of milk down beside the chicken remains. Watching the strange suited hero react with poorly concealed glee when he laps from the cup would make Hizashi laugh if he had the voicebox for it.

Hizashi could get used to being spoilt like this, he smirks internally.

The next time he’s disturbed is when Shōta reappears at the end of lunch. He doesn’t look any happier than earlier but he’s at least calmer, though his brow furrows when he notices the offerings. He reaches to confiscate them and Hizashi jumps to his feet, meowing in indignation.

He watches sulkily as Shōta pours the milk down the sink and throws the chicken remnants in the trash, before marching back over to his desk. He stands over it for a minute, doing something out of sight, before crouching down and placing a piece of paper on the ground.

Do not feed cat, the note warns in Shōta’s quickly-written scrawl, cats are lactose intolerant and they will choke on bones.

Well damn, Hizashi wishes he’d known that himself before drinking some of the milk.

“Spoilt little idiot,” Shōta sighs, rubbing a couple of knuckles against the back of Hizashi’s neck. For some reason he’s too distracted to identify Hizashi thinks about support animals again.

Finally feeling rested, he gathers his thoughts as he watches Shōta mess with some things at his desk and leave again. He feels pathetic that it’s his third day as a cat and he still hasn’t managed to make anyone the slightest bit suspicious; do cats just usually behave this erratic? He’s never really owned one, so he really has no idea. The closest he ever came to owning a cat was when he and Shōta briefly had shared ownership of a secret cat for about week while living in dorms. And even then, the ‘shared ownership’ was him just making excuses to be able to hang out with Shōta while he played with a cat because the sight of Shōta letting his guard down for once was cute as hell. Hizashi had even insisted on being the one to get in trouble for it when they were found out; it was worth it anyway, if only for how unexpectedly touched Shōta had seemed about the entire affair.

Man, he’d really had it bad for a long time. He inwardly slaps himself for how easily he’s able to be distracted from important tasks by the possibility of getting Shōta’s attention, even now.

Absolutely pathetic.

He makes a few more attempts to get past the login screen of his computer throughout the afternoon, but he’s always either lifted off the keyboard by a well-meaning co-worker or he gets so frustrated about accidentally pressing extra keys with his paws that he has to spend a while storming around the room trying to curse. It’s frustrating but it’s at least better than the aching hopelessness that had been settling into his body yesterday, so he always grits his teeth and tries again.

When the end of teaching hours rolls around Hizashi wonders if he should try to find a way to avoid being taken home by Shōta; maybe staying on campus would present more opportunities to get a message across to someone. It’d at least be more interesting to explore at night than the same few rooms.

But then he remembers Shōta staring down at his plate last night, refusing to eat until he was pushed into it, and there’s a nagging sense of guilt that tells him he should be there, if only to make sure Shōta isn’t running himself into the ground.

Even though he clearly is, and not that he can stop him.

“You’re following up the jewellery thief lead tonight right?” Shōta nods towards Nemuri across the room, “I’m coming with you.”

“Absolutely not,” Nemuri responds immediately, waving him off as if he’s nothing. Hizashi notices the subtle shift as Shōta’s entire body becomes tense.

“That’s not your decision.”

“It is if I think it’s going to make us less effective,” Nemuri says as she fixes him with a piercing glare, and Shōta scoffs angrily.

 “We’re not doing this here,” he growls in a warning tone, but Nemuri only becomes more adamant, marching closer.

“Yes we are,” she snaps, “I know you’re worried but you’re being an irresponsible dick-“

“It’s been three days, Nemuri!” Shōta yells, and it’s as if a dam inside him has broken, expression pained and body tense. “And we’ve only actually been looking for two of them. We’ve found nothing-“

“We’ve got leads, that isn’t nothing! You know that-”

“Nothing concrete! God damn it he’s vanished into thin fucking air- We could keep looking forever and find nothing-“

“We’re going to find him,” Nemuri sighs and the fury seems to be draining out of her rapidly, replaced with a tired sort of despair. She places a hand on Shōta’s shoulder and he reacts by grabbing her wrist like a lifeline.

“The last time I saw him I acted like a selfish prick,” Shōta chokes out angrily, seemingly unable to meet Nemuri’s pitying gaze. His eyes are cast away to the side, shoulders shaking. “If I’d been there-“

“Turning down an invitation isn’t selfish,” she reassures quietly. “I know I tease you about being a hermit but that doesn’t make you an asshole. You couldn’t have known something would happen.”

Shōta doesn’t seem to have a response for that at first, deflating visibly. Eventually he mumbles, “Something did happen. And now he’s gone, and the last thing I said to him was that I didn’t give a shit about spending time with him.”

“We’re going to find him,” Nemuri repeats forcefully, squeezing Shōta’s shoulder. “And when we do, you can have another chance. Make sure to be honest to him this time for once, hmm?”

Hizashi watches as Shōta finally meets Nemuri’s eyes, giving an almost unnoticeably tiny nod. Nemuri smiles in response, though it doesn’t meet her eyes.

“I’m still coming with you tonight,” Shōta mumbles as he releases her arm and backs away. Nemuri tuts in response.

“At least go and ask Nedzu for tomorrow off then,” she sighs, “Yamada’s not going to be impressed when he realises how close you got to expelling your whole class because looking for him all hours made you insufferable.”

Watching the whole thing play out makes Hizashi feel like there’s a hook embedded in the organs in his chest, trying to forcefully yank them out through his skeleton. Seeing Shōta this scared is doing uncomfortable things to his heart and in this moment he’d be willing to do anything to fix it.

The things Shōta’s saying are way too close to how Hizashi had felt, after Nomu had put Shōta in hospital. But back then, when Shōta was recovering and Hizashi could finally stop feeling like his best friend was going to keel over and die at any second, Hizashi didn’t take the opportunity to be honest about his feelings. He’d been so happy to return to the status quo that the idea of jeopardising it felt selfish, like it was asking too much for Shōta to survive something like that and to accept his feelings.

And that’s how it’s different, he reasons miserably. Because here and now Shōta is afraid that Hizashi has gone forever without knowing that Shōta considers him a close friend, which is sweet but ultimately ridiculous – Hizashi knows they’re close, he treasures it. But back then, Hizashi couldn’t stop thinking about how Shōta had never known that Hizashi loved him.

Hizashi wonders which of them that made more pathetic, as if it was ever really a contest.

When Shōta lifts him up to place him into his bag Hizashi behaves himself for once, because he’s honestly not sure what else he can do. Shōta doesn’t bother trying to convince him to eat any more cat food abominations today, just places the open bag containing Hizashi down and is gone.

Even though he’s spent most of the day sleeping Hizashi stretches out on the sofa, staring up at the sky outside. Even with all the windows and doors shut he can still make out muffled sounds – kids walking home from school, traffic, a train passing by, a dog barking – and it feels so idyllic and peaceful that it’s surreal. He’d never thought his own personal hell would turn out to be in Shōta’s apartment.

He’s not sure when he falls asleep; he feels like he spends hour after hour watching the sun slowly descend, brain feeling like it’s too full of cotton to think or feel. When he regains consciousness he has the giddy realisation that it’s not the first time he’s woken up on Shōta’s sofa with only a fuzzy grasp of how he got there, but it is the first time he’s done so while completely naked.

Human naked, not cat naked.

Hizashi sits up quickly and glances around but the room is dark, only light the faint glow of streetlamps from outside. There aren’t any sounds of movement from anywhere in the apartment around him so he figures Shōta must still be gone. He breathes a sigh of relief, staring down at his hands as he appreciatively flexes his fingers. He’d never realised how much he enjoyed having thumbs until they were gone.

He borrows a pair of faded sweatpants and an old shirt from the drawers in Shōta’s bedroom, hoping he won’t mind. The shirt isn’t a great fit – the chest is too broad but the length is too short, so whenever he moves his arms it rides up a little on his stomach – but it’s an improvement over being a cat, so he can’t really bring himself to care.

He wants to get in touch with Shōta to let him know where he is, but Shōta’s phone must be with him because it’s nowhere around. Instead he decides to raid his friend’s fridge and make enough dinner for both of them – if Shōta comes back late he can always reheat it, and he’ll replace the stuff later if he’s upset. It’s only fair that people who have had to spend days living off table scraps get to steal and cook whatever they want.

Being able to speak again feels novel and Hizashi finds himself belting out songs as he cracks eggs into a pan, hollering without much regard for maintaining polite volume. He’s so in the zone that he almost jumps out of his skin with a high-pitched yelp when he turns around and Shōta is stood silently in the kitchen doorway.

Shōta’s expression is… a lot. His eyes are wide, a rare and unguarded mixture of surprise and something more vulnerable, more delicate. Hizashi smiles nervously and salutes him with the spatula he’s holding.

“Hope you’re in the mood for eggs,” he quips lamely, feeling a little anxious under the intense scrutiny.

A second later Shōta is up in his space, hands grasping desperately at Hizashi’s upper arms and chest leaning against his. Shōta makes a brief attempt to spit out something resembling a word, but his voice is strained and in the end he just presses his forehead against Hizashi’s chest, exhaling a long shaky breath.

“H-hey, you ok?” Hizashi asks quietly, thinking to reach out to switch off the stove before bringing his hands to rest on Shōta’s hips, thumbs rubbing his sides in a way he hopes is soothing. Shōta barks out a short laugh that sounds more like a scoff, and suspiciously wet.

“You disappear for days and then you ask if I’m ok,” Shōta mumbles. Hizashi can feel the other man’s body shaking under his palms and he slowly brushes his hands past Shōta’s hips to wrap his arms around his middle, resting his head on a shoulder. Shōta seems to melt into the embrace, moving a little so that his face is resting against the side of Hizashi’s neck. It feels suspiciously intimate, but Hizashi can’t bring himself to feel excited because he’s too busy rubbing small circles into his friend’s back in an attempt to calm him down from what seems to be a quiet freak out.

“Where the hell have you been?” Shōta eventually growls, raising his head to look Hizashi in the eyes. He doesn’t move away though, and Hizashi almost brings their foreheads together when he laughs in response.

“I’ve been here the whole time. You tried to feed me cat food.”

Shōta’s brow furrows in confusion; Hizashi tries valiantly not to find it endearing. He watches with a grin as Shōta’s dark eyes widen and he glances at the ground around them, as if expecting a certain animal to come jumping out at them.

“That was you?”

“Sorry for stealing your food,” Hizashi wants desperately to lean just an inch further and rub their noses together; he’s overflowing with affection in this moment and dangerously close to doing something sappy. “And scratching your wall.”

Shōta shakes his head in disbelief, eyes sliding closed as he huffs out another pathetic damp laugh. Being so close is doing weird things to Hizashi’s brain and he tries to stay focused on the fact that Shōta is still noticeably shaking, though whether it’s from anxiety or pent up anger he can’t be sure.

“How about I finish making this and we catch up?” he suggests a bit awkwardly, trying not to get distracted by just how intently Shōta is staring at him right now;  it makes him feel as if he’s something rare and precious, but the fear that he’s projecting fills him with worry that’s dangerously bordering on hysterical.

Hizashi turns around in place to resume cooking and Shōta’s arms slowly shift from their place at his sides to loop around his waist. It doesn’t really feel platonic, standing at the stove with Shōta’s chest flush against his back, but the subtle quivering and unsteady breaths he can feel against him make it feel not really romantic either. It’s for reassurance, he reasons. When he leans back into the touch he feels the arms around his waist squeeze ever so slightly, Shōta sighing shakily against the back of his neck.

Ok, that definitely doesn’t feel platonic.

Hizashi tries to ignore his blush as he busies himself with plating the food, waiting until it’s all completely good to go before reaching to gently pull one of Shōta’s hands from his middle. The other man disentangles himself without argument to take a plate, but it doesn’t go unnoticed to Hizashi how up in his personal space Shōta stays, as if worried that loss of physical closeness will cause him to disappear.

Whatever is affecting Shōta seems to wear off a little as they hit the sofa cushions, since Shōta sits a little further away than Hizashi would honestly have preferred him to. They both place their food on the table before turning to look at each other across the short distance, suddenly both fumbling for where to start.

“Should we call in with-“ Hizashi starts.

“I’m sorry,” Shōta cuts him off sharply, and Hizashi’s mouth snaps shut. “About… When you invited me out, last week. I was an asshole.”

Hizashi can’t help but grin, the gesture touching him more than it might have if the hug in the kitchen hadn’t left him feeling raw and tender on the inside, like his chest cavity has been scraped out with wire wool.

“It’s ok,” he says, “I know you’re not big on social gatherings like that, I should have expected you to say no. I guess I overreacted because I…”

Hizashi bites his lip, teetering awkwardly on the precipice between just being placating or truly honest. The attentiveness of Shōta’s stare darting down to his lips and back up to meet his eyes gives him courage, and he exhales slowly before saying, “I was excited and I wanted to share it with you.”

Shōta looks pained by his comment, diverting his gaze as if he’s ashamed. “I don’t mean- I don’t want to push you away,” he mumbles, “I just can’t- I’m bad at- this.”

“I know,” Hizashi responds in a way he hopes is comforting, inching forward a little on the sofa to close some of the gap between them. He knows that Shōta’s never been great at communication – what kind of friend would he be if he didn’t? Shōta’s eyes dart back up to meet his gaze, and he watches as Shōta swallows thickly.

“No, you don’t-”

“I do,” Hizashi raises his voice defensively, “I’ve know you for fifteen years. I understand you.” Shōta looks frustrated, brow furrowed as he brings his hands up to grasp the sides of Hizashi’s face, holding it still.

“You still don’t get it,” he says, though it comes out so quiet it’s almost whispered. Hizashi is about to argue that he does – he does get Shōta, of course he does, he always has – but then there’s a mouth pressing against his own and he’s speechless.

The contact is so unsure, so fleeting that by the time Hizashi’s brain catches up with reality Shōta is already making a move to pull back. Hizashi moves forward to catch his lips again, hands coming up to hold Shōta’s wrists in place, just wanting to prolong this moment for as long as possible. Shōta makes a surprised sound against him and Hizashi grazes his lip with his teeth, delighting in the subtle shudder that he can feel pass through Shōta’s body.

It’s slow, and painfully timid, Hizashi gently coaxing Shōta into allowing himself to be bolder, reassuring him. Shōta responds by bringing the two of them closer together, tangling quivering fingers into the hair at the base of Hizashi’s skull, lips and tongue moving with an aching tenderness that makes Hizashi feel like he could to melt.

When they pull apart Hizashi can feel Shōta’s breath against his lips, and he feels like everything has ceased to exist outside of the two of them and the couple inches of air between them. Shōta’s hand brushes free of his hair and Hizashi makes a disappointed whine, nudging their noses against each other.

“I need you to know,” Shōta says, hands still pressed either side of Hizashi’s face holding the two of them a little further apart, “this isn’t- I don’t just want a physical relationship. I love you.”

And he looks so damn serious, like he’s conducting a business meeting or something, that Hizashi can’t help but duck his head down to laugh. His face is tingly with how much he must be blushing and he nuzzles against one of Shōta’s palms, surprised that when his own voice comes out it’s a little choked.

“You can’t just say stuff like that!”

Shōta looks like he’s going to complain, and Hizashi is quick to add, “I love you too. I have for years.” It feels so surreal to admit it that he laughs again, breathless and quiet. He thinks he must be bright red by now but Shōta’s gaze is soft, too soft for him to handle and Hizashi closes his eyes for a moment, placing a little kiss on the edge of Shōta’s thumb.

“I can’t believe it took me turning into a cat for you to let your walls down a little.”

“It’s not because you were a cat,” Shōta grumbles, obviously flustered, and Hizashi can’t believe how cute it is. When Shōta’s expression becomes more distressed, though, his grin falters. “I couldn’t find you. When I thought about not seeing you again-“

He cuts himself off with a frustrated sound, and Hizashi takes the opportunity to gently pull Shōta’s hands away so he can lean forward for another kiss. He doesn’t expect Shōta to react so quickly and is surprised when he’s pushed backwards to half-lie across the sofa, arm rest digging into his shoulder blades as Shōta presses down onto him, kissing him with a sort of desperation that threatens to make Hizashi lightheaded. It’s not rough but it’s intense, frantic, Shōta biting and sucking and bringing his tongue against Hizashi’s while barely allowing him brief pauses to breathe, as if he’s forgotten that’s a necessity. Shōta can’t seem to decide what to do with his hands – one second they’re pushing up the poorly-sized tee as Shōta strokes up Hizashi’s ribs, the next they’re clutching the fabric at Hizashi’s shoulders to try to pull their bodies as close as physically possible, then there are fingers pressing against the pulse in his wrist. It’s overwhelming and he should probably stop it before it goes much further but the feeling of Shōta pinning him down as if he wants the two of them to fuse into one being is so much, almost too much.

“So,” Hizashi eventually gasps like he’s breaking the surface of water, hands gently holding Shōta’s shoulders away. He has to clear his throat before continuing with a lopsided grin, “I hear you’re free tomorrow. I probably owe you dinner, considering you’ve cooked for me twice this week.”

Shōta’s mouth twists into a small smirk. “Too bad you’ll be busy catching up with two days’ worth of missed work.”

Hizashi groans at that, and begins to wriggle in place until Shōta lifts up a little from lying over him. He takes the opportunity to readjust so the two of them are lying on their sides on the admittedly cramped sofa before shuffling closer again, arms wrapping around Shōta’s middle as he nuzzles against his throat. Idly he remembers that the food he made is probably going cold, but right now he can’t bring himself to care.

“You cannot be tired,” Shōta drawls, lips brushing against the top of Hizashi’s head, “I know for a fact you spent most of the day sleeping under my desk.”

“Looks like I’m the new Shōta,” Hizashi smirks in response, nestling further into the other man’s chest. “Enjoy your job at the radio station.”

“Maybe I’ll be able to get home without disappearing.”

“How cruel! We’ll see how you like being given cat food!”

Shōta doesn’t bother to answer, apparently content to focus on stroking Hizashi’s cheek with his thumb. It takes a moment for the joke to make something to occur to Hizashi, and he adds, “Hey Shōta?”

“Mm?”

“Why do you have cat food and no cat?”

When his question is met with silence, Hizashi tilts his head to look up. Shōta is avoiding his eyes, face dusted with pink.

“I… like to leave food out for strays.”

It’s said grumpily, as if the words are being dragged out of his body by force, and it makes Hizashi grin. He catches Shōta’s eye and watches as he blushes more, adamantly averting his gaze.

“You’re so damn cute,” Hizashi exhales in borderline disbelief, head collapsing back down onto Shōta’s chest.

“Shut up.”

---

Hizashi discovers later that it seems the villain’s quirk allowed them to either transform another person or themselves, but only one at a time; he’d changed back when they had changed themselves into a cat to escape Shōta and Nemuri and disappear into the night. Part of him was ok with that; he kind of felt like he owed them for their assistance. If he ever fought them again he’d be sure to recommend that they give up heisting and become a relationship counsellor.

He also offers to buy lunch for Snipe and Thirteen, but avoids elaborating on why.