Chapter Text
The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and lemon cleaner, an oddly comforting mix that had become the background hum of Hitoshi’s new life. It was late afternoon, the kind of lazy hour where the city’s noise softened into a steady lull. Light spilled through the balcony window, catching the edges of scattered papers Aizawa had been in the middle of gradin, a mug shaped like a cat (a gift from Hizashi to Aizawa), and Eri’s art supplies still littering the low coffee table.
Aizawa leaned against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. Not from apathy, but because he’d been awake since five a.m. grading papers and wrangling Class 1-A’s collective chaos. Beside him, Hizashi hummed something upbeat under his breath while flipping through the stack of printed “meeting notes” he’d made for tonight’s ordeal. They weren’t actually meeting notes. They were flashcards labeled things like Don’t tease Hitoshi too early and Remember: Bakugou bites.
Shinsou sat on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, staring at his shoes like they held the secrets of the universe. His hair was half-tied, his hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands. Every few seconds, his leg bounced—a small tell, one Aizawa caught but didn’t comment on.
He’d been warned. Many times, actually.
“Don’t fall for loud blondes,” Aizawa had said flatly one night, voice the sort that carried years of experience and maybe a little regret. “It’s not worth the migraines.”
Hizashi, from across the room, had thrown a popcorn kernel at him. “Hey! I’m delightful and you love me!”
Now, months later, Shinsou could only think about how deeply, spectacularly, he had failed that advice.
Because somehow, he’d fallen for three of them.
Three blondes. Three very different kinds of chaos.
Denki Kaminari: too much energy in one body, a smile bright enough to make your brain short-circuit even before his quirk kicked in.
Katsuki Bakugou: explosive temper and all, but underneath that sharpness, there was something solid, something real that Shinsou couldn’t quite stop being drawn to.
And Monoma Neito: from Class 1-B, perpetually smug, infuriatingly sharp-tongued, and entirely too pleased with himself for “winning over Aizawa-sensei’s son.”
It was a miracle Aizawa hadn’t quit teaching altogether after finding out.
A knock came at the door.
Hizashi was halfway to answer before Aizawa could stop him. “I’ll get it, Sho! Gotta make a good first impression, yeah?”
“You’re going to scare them,” Aizawa muttered, sipping his coffee.
Hizashi grinned over his shoulder. “Nah, kids love me!”
That was… sort of true.
When Hizashi opened the door, the first thing that hit was the noise. Kaminari was talking a mile a minute, something about how he brought snacks. Monoma was smirking like he owned the building. Bakugou looked like he’d rather set the floor on fire than be there.
“Yo!” Hizashi greeted, voice already cranked up to eleven. “Welcome, welcome! Shoes off, manners on—Sho’s rules, not mine!”
Bakugou grunted. Kaminari laughed nervously. Monoma offered a dramatic bow that only made Aizawa’s sigh deepen from the kitchen.
And then Eri peeked out from her room.
She blinked at the newcomers, three tall boys, loud and awkward and strange, and pointed directly at Bakugou. “You’re the one who yells a lot,” she said solemnly.
Bakugou froze. “…Yeah? So what, kid?”
Eri held out a tiny pink teacup. “Tea party.”
The silence that followed could’ve shattered glass. Hizashi bit back laughter. Aizawa looked dangerously close to smirking. Kaminari snorted outright.
“Pfft—Baku-bro, man, you gotta say yes.”
“Shut it, Pikachu!”
Shinsou buried his face in his hands. This is my life now.
Dinner was chaos incarnate.
Hizashi had insisted on “something fun and casual”, which meant homemade curry, mismatched plates, and music playing faintly from his phone speaker to “set the ambience”. The ambience of what? Hitoshi’s failing dignity?
Eri sat proudly between Kaminari and Monoma, happily spooning rice onto Bakugou’s plate every time he wasn’t looking. Aizawa kept refilling his coffee cup.
“So,” Hizashi began cheerily, elbows propped on the table, “how’d you all meet my kid here, huh? Who made the first move?”
“Don’t you dare—” Shinsou started.
Kaminari raised his hand. “Oh! It was totally me!”
Bakugou rolled his eyes. “You? He ignored you for weeks.”
“Because I was nervous!”
Monoma smirked. “Technically, it was me who—”
“—no one cares, Monoma,” Bakugou snapped.
Shinsou, meanwhile, considered whether it was too late to fake a power outage.
From the corner, Aizawa finally spoke. “So. Three blondes.”
Hizashi choked on his curry.
Shinsou groaned. “Please don’t.”
“I warned you, Hitoshi,” Aizawa continued, tone deadpan but faintly amused. “You ignored me. Three times.”
“Not… on purpose,” Shinsou muttered, cheeks coloring.
“Uh-huh.”
Hizashi patted Shinsou’s shoulder, grinning like a proud dad. “Don’t listen to him, Toshi. You’ve got great taste! Loud blondes have the best energy!”
“You’re biased.” Aizawa retorted without looking up.
Eri giggled, holding her teacup. “Papa Sho’s grumpy again.”
Hizashi winked, patting her head. “He’s always grumpy, sweet bean.”
“Not always,” Shinsou murmured. He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but Aizawa’s faint glance made him shut up fast.
***
After dinner, the chaos shifted to the living room. Frozen played on the TV because Eri insisted, and the boys, much to their collective suffering, were roped in. Kaminari sang along. Monoma added dramatic commentary. Bakugou muttered something about “this being hell” but didn’t move from his spot beside Eri.
Aizawa sat back on the couch, arms crossed, expression unreadable but eyes quietly fond. Hizashi leaned into him, head on his shoulder, whispering something that made Aizawa’s mouth twitch upward just slightly.
Hitoshi sat there, quietly watching it all.
Not soon enough, Frozen’s end credits played softly in the background, the snow-covered kingdom fading away into something warmer, now into blue-tinted stillness on the screen. The apartment was dim now, only the low hum of the heater and the faint glow from the kitchen light framed the room in warmth. Eri had long stopped watching, her little head drooping somewhere between after Let It Go and the evil prince dude doing evil things.
She’d fallen asleep against Bakugou’s lap halfway through the movie, small fingers clutching the edge of his sleeve like it was the most natural thing in the world. To his credit, Bakugou hadn’t moved since. Not a word, not a complaint. Just a quiet, almost careful stillness that made Kaminari glance over every so often like he couldn’t believe it.
Monoma, on the other hand, was fighting to stifle laughter behind his hand. “The great Bakugou Katsuki… guardian of small children,” he whispered.
Bakugou shot him a glare sharp enough to melt ice. “You say one more word, I’ll—”
“—wake her up?” Monoma finished, smug.
Bakugou scowled but didn’t move, because Eri stirred slightly, letting out a small sigh before nestling deeper into his lap. That shut everyone up immediately.
From the doorway, Hizashi grinned. “You guys did good,” he murmured. “Didn’t even blow up the place.”
Kaminari whispered back, “Can’t promise anything if Bakugou moves.”
“I heard that, Dunce Face.”
“See?!” Kaminari squeaked.
A low chuckle slipped from Hizashi’s throat before he turned toward Aizawa, who was still half-sitting, half-slouched against the arm of the couch. His hair was messy from where Eri had tugged at it earlier, and there was a hint of something unreadable in his eyes as he caught Shinsou’s gaze.
That look.
The one that said we need to talk.
Shinsou felt his stomach drop.
“Kid,” Aizawa said quietly, voice even but firm. “A minute.”
There were words in that sentence that didn’t need to be spoken: alone, now, no escape.
Shinsou swallowed. “Now?”
“Now.”
He glanced desperately toward Hizashi, who only mouthed, You’re fine, promise! before gesturing to the three blondes as if to say I’ll keep them busy.
Which somehow didn’t make him feel better. Because now it was four blondes together.
Aizawa pushed himself off the couch and motioned toward the hall. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, the kind that echoed authority even without his capture scarf. Shinsou followed reluctantly, shoulders hunched, his mind already spiraling with every possible scenario.
He hadn’t done anything wrong… probably. But Aizawa’s tone always made him feel twelve years old again, like he was about to be asked something he didn’t know how to answer.
The spare room was small down the was part office, part storage. Mostly a quiet retreat when either Aizawa or Hizashi needed space from the chaos of life. There were stacks of graded papers on a desk, a folded sleeping bag in the corner, and a window cracked open just enough to let the crisp night air in.
Aizawa leaned against the desk, arms crossed.
Shinsou stood in the doorway, fidgeting with his hoodie strings.
“Sit,” Aizawa said, not unkindly.
He did. What else could he do? Run away, probably. He thought, dryly.
The silence stretched. Too long, too heavy. The kind that made Shinsou’s throat tighten.
Finally, Aizawa spoke. “You’ve adjusted well here.”
Shinsou blinked. That wasn’t what he expected. “Uh. Thanks?”
Aizawa nodded slightly. “You’ve done better than most would, given… what you’ve been through.”
Shinsou didn’t know what to do with that. Compliments always felt like landmines, something that could blow up if you stepped wrong. “I guess I’m trying.”
“I know,” Aizawa said, voice quieter. “Which is why I’m not… upset. Just cautious.”
That word, cautious, made something twist in Shinsou’s chest.
He hesitated. “Because of… them?”
Aizawa’s brow raised slightly, but his gaze softened. “You already know the answer.”
Shinsou exhaled, rubbing his hands together. “I know. I just—look, I didn’t plan to like them, okay? It just… happened.”
Aizawa’s mouth twitched, almost a smirk but not quite. “No one plans for things like that. Trust me, I didn’t plan for Hizashi either.”
That pulled a reluctant snort out of Hitoshi.
“Exactly why I didn’t,” Aizawa replied dryly.
For a moment, they both quieted. A silence built by a newfound unity and less… stifling.
But Aizawa’s tone shifted again, low and steady. “You know I’m not angry, Hitoshi. But I need you to understand something.”
Shinsou’s fingers stilled.
“You’re still learning how to handle people,” Aizawa continued. “How to trust them. How to let them in. And that’s not something to rush. Especially when you’re figuring yourself out.”
There was no judgment in his tone, just a firm kind of care, the kind that pressed right up against all the old walls Shinsou still hadn’t fully taken down.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I just… didn’t expect anyone to actually like me back.”
Aizawa’s expression softened completely then, the tired lines around his eyes shifting into something that looked like pride. “That’s because for a long time, you weren’t around people who saw you clearly. They do.”
It was quiet for a while after that, only the faint hum of the city outside, a soft clink from the living room as Hizashi probably moved a plate.
Shinsou shifted. “You’re not gonna tell me to break up with them, are you?”
Aizawa sighed. “I should. But Hizashi would yell at me for being ‘emotionally stunted,’ so no.”
Shinsou actually smiled. “Sounds about right.”
“I will, however,” Aizawa added, “reserve the right to glare at all three of them until they understand that if they hurt you, I’ll bury them in detention.”
“That’s… fair.”
“Good. Then we’re clear.”
When Shinsou looked up again, Aizawa’s expression had changed, softer still, something close to fatherly warmth lingering behind the exhaustion. “You’ve got a home here, Hitoshi. Don’t forget that. No matter who you’re with or what happens.”
The words hit deeper than Shinsou expected. He nodded, quickly, because anything more would make it obvious how much it meant.
“Alright,” Aizawa said, standing. “Go on. Hizashi’s probably telling them stories I don’t approve of.”
That was enough to make Shinsou hurry out.
Back in the living room, the chaos was quietly resumed in half-volume form. Hizashi sat cross-legged on the rug, animatedly whispering to the boys about “the Great Capture Scarf Incident of Year Two,” complete with sound effects. Kaminari was hanging on every word, Monoma was pretending not to, and Bakugou was still motionless, head still resting peacefully on his thigh.
“—and that’s how he ended up dangling upside-down from a flagpole for two hours because he underestimated me,” Hizashi finished proudly, earning a stifled laugh from Kaminari.
Shinsou leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re really telling them that story?”
Hizashi’s grin was instant. “It’s a classic! And good bonding material, yeah?”
“Right,” Shinsou muttered, but his lips twitched despite himself.
Monoma looked up. “So, how’d your interrogation go?”
Bakugou shot him a look. “Shut it, Copycat.”
“It wasn’t an interrogation,” Shinsou said, heading over to reclaim his spot on the couch. “More like a… life lecture.”
Kaminari tilted his head. “He mad?”
“No. Just… Aizawa.”
Hizashi chuckled, knowing exactly what that meant.
Eri stirred then, blinking drowsily. “Is the movie over?” she mumbled.
“Yeah, kiddo,” Hizashi said softly. “You fell asleep.”
She rubbed her eyes, looked down, then blinked up at Bakugou. “You didn’t move.”
Bakugou frowned, half-defensive. “Didn’t wanna wake you up.”
Eri smiled, small and sleepy. “Thank you.”
That earned silence. Then Kaminari whispered, “She just thanked Bakugou. That’s—wow.”
“Shut your damn mouth,” Bakugou muttered, but his ears were pink.
Later that night, after the guests (hiw three loud ass boyfriends) had gone, the apartment was quiet again.
Eri was tucked in, clutching her stuffed bunny. Hizashi was in bed already, hair tied up, scrolling through something on his phone. And Aizawa, passing by Shinsou’s room, paused when he saw the light still on.
Hitoshi sat at his desk, fiddling with his homework, headphones around his neck but no music playing.
“Can’t sleep?” Aizawa asked softly.
“Not really.”
A pause. “You’re thinking too loud.”
Shinsou smiled faintly at that. “Sorry.”
Aizawa stepped closer, setting a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Don’t apologize. Just… remember you’re not alone in it anymore, alright?”
Shinsou nodded. “Yeah. I know.”
Aizawa gave a short nod, then turned toward his room.
As the door closed, Shinsou looked around: the stacks of books, the little gifts Eri had drawn for him taped to his wall, the faint hum of Hizashi laughing at something in the next room.
***
The week after the great Frozen incident (as Hizashi had proudly dubbed it) was, for the most part, calm. His boyfriends had passed introductions, Hitoshi had gotten sued to the teasing from Hizashi and stares from Aizawa.
Everything was fine. And calm. And perfectly fine.
Or, as calm as one could expect in a household with a professional hero, a pro hero-slash-radio host, a small child with a penchant for forcing people into tea parties, and a teenage boy who still hadn’t learned that communication was a valid survival skill.
Hitoshi had almost convinced himself that things were normal. He’d gone to class, trained, did his homework (half asleep most of the time) and pretended everything was fine.
It wasn’t that he was lying, not really. He just… didn’t want to bother anyone.
The dull headache that had started the night before was easy enough to ignore. Heroes didn’t take sick days, right? His dads worked through worse all the time, and besides, he’d survived far worse before moving in with them. This was nothing.
Just fatigue.
A bit of a chill.
Maybe the start of a migraine.
He’d lived through worse.
By the time morning classes started, his throat burned like someone had dragged sandpaper down it, and the world had that heavy, off-kilter blur to it, the kind that made the fluorescent lights overhead feel like knives stabbing through his eyes into his overloaded, screaming brain that throbbed in protest to any type of movement as if offended Hitoshi dare to even get out of bed.
He’d wrapped his scarf tighter, blamed the flush on the cold, and mumbled his usual “I’m fine” to Kaminari when he’d tilted his head in concern.
Kaminari had squinted at him like he was some math problem he couldn’t solve (which tracked), because of course the golden retriever of Class 1-A noticed something was wrong, but a quick wave of his hand and a half-hearted quip about “late-night training” seemed to placate him.
Mostly.
Bakugou had scowled. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Hitoshi muttered. “You’re very kind.”
Bakugou crossed his arms, his scowl deepened. “Not an insult if it’s true.”
Kaminari elbowed Bakugou in the ribs. “Dude, be nice! He’s probably just tired.”
“Whatever,” Bakugou grumbled, but his eyes lingered. Maybe that scowl meant something else.
Monoma, because he couldn’t not add commentary, leaned against the wall with that smirk that could cut glass. “You’re pale. Pity. I was going to challenge you to another spar, but I suppose I’ll wait until you’re not halfway to keeling over.”
“Appreciated,” Hitoshi said flatly, voice rougher than usual.
He’d meant it to come out sarcastic, but it sounded more like exhaustion than wit.
And by the time he made it through training, barely, he wasn’t sure if his limbs belonged to him anymore. Everything hurt, the air felt thick, and the inside of his skull was pounding to a beat that didn’t match his pulse.
Simply out, Hitoshi felt like he was dying. Unfairly.
Still, when everyone started leaving, Hitoshi did what he always did: he brushed it off.
He told Kaminari and the others he needed to “grab something from the locker room.”
He told Aizawa he’d “head home soon.”
He told himself he could handle it.
Then, of course, he hit the floor.
He didn’t remember falling, just the sudden tilt of the world, the cold shock of tile, and the sound of someone shouting his name like they were far away.
When the ringing in his ears faded, he opened his eyes to see Monoma kneeling beside him, pale and wide-eyed in a way Hitoshi had never seen before.
“Hitoshi.” The word came out sharper than usual, all the smugness gone. “Hey. You hearing me?”
Hitoshi groaned, squeezing his eyes shut to block the light out. He could barely manage a squint. “Mmm… yeah.”
“You’re burning up.” Monoma’s voice cracked. “You idiot, how long have you been like this?”
“Dunno. Fine.”
“You’re not fine!” Monoma snapped, and that, more than the heat in his face, made Hitoshi blink in surprise.
Monoma Neito didn’t yell. Not like that.
The next thing he knew, he was being half-carried, half-dragged toward Recovery Girl’s office, Monoma muttering things that definitely included the words “reckless,” “moron,” and “your dads are going to kill you.”
By the time Hizashi arrived at the nurse’s office, his hero jacket thrown on over a pair of sweats, hair in a mess that screamed I ran here, Hitoshi was already half-conscious and mumbling apologies.
“I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” he slurred. “Didn’t think it was bad.”
“Oh, kid,” Hizashi said softly, brushing damp purple bangs out of his face that somehow fell in the chaos. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”
Hitoshi blinked blearily at him, confused. “Do what?”
“Handle everything alone.”
He didn’t have the energy to argue.
The next few hours blurred: Recovery Girl’s orders, Hizashi’s worried rambling, and Aizawa’s silent, unreadable stare from the corner of the room.
That was the worst part. Aizawa didn’t yell. Didn’t scold. He just looked at him, like the disappointment was heavy enough to weigh the air down.
“I told you to call if you weren’t feeling well,” Aizawa said finally, voice low and even.
“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” Hitoshi rasped.
Hizashi sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re our kid, Hitoshi. You get to bother us. That’s part of the deal.”
Hitoshi didn’t say anything to that.
***
When they finally got him home, wrapped in three blankets with Eri carefully placing a stuffed unicorn beside him on the couch, Hitoshi thought maybe it wasn’t so bad to be taken care of and just… let go.
Until, of course, the blond trio showed up.
“Who let you out of bed?” Bakugou barked, arms crossed.
Kaminari was already hovering by his side, worry plastered across his face. “You didn’t text me back all day! You scared the hell out of me, dude!”
Monoma, ever the picture of dramatics, dropped into the armchair. “You realize I had to carry you, right? I nearly dislocated a shoulder saving your life. You could at least be grateful.”
“Thanks,” Hitoshi muttered, trying not to smile.
“You’re welcome.”
Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Damn idiots. All of you.”
Hizashi chuckled quietly from the kitchen, stirring soup. “Oh, man. I love this chaos.”
Aizawa groaned from the other end of the couch. “You would.”
Hitoshi tried to insist he was fine again the next morning.
He tried to get up, to brush off the fever and the fog.
He didn’t make it three steps before Aizawa’s capture scarf snagged his hoodie.
“Bed,” his dad said simply.
“’M not—”
“Bed, Hitoshi.”
“…’kay.”
That night, when the fever finally broke and he woke up to find Kaminari asleep in the chair beside his bed, Bakugou passed out against the wall, and Monoma pretending not to be asleep on the floor, he realized something.
He wasn’t alone anymore.
And that thought? It simultaneously scared the shit out of him and made him maybe okay with the fact.