Resurrection | Shota Aizawa

Chapter 20

Still dry heaving this story gives me hives

Third person pov

"Oh, it's alright. We can just move your furniture into my room. We're grown men, sharing for a while isn't a big deal." He'd said.

"There's plenty of space. Even without Hitoshi here, Shoto would have eventually needed a place anyway." He'd said.

"Don't feel bad, you're not imposing. It'll all be fine. We're so busy we'll only ever use the rooms to sleep. It's for the kid, anyway." He'd said.

What the actual, literal fuck was he thinking?! He's not a strong enough man for this. In fact, one could even argue that he qualifies for social security he's so goddamn weak in the knees. This has to count as a disability. There's not enough willpower in the whole entire world to handle this and make it out the other side in one piece.

It had already been bad. And by bad Shota meant great, absolutely euphoric, but also he was just barely getting to the point of functioning properly as it was. Now he and Hiroki are sharing a bedroom? As in, they have graduated from room mates to roommates? 

It's like he's just asking for it at this point. Aizawa had never considered himself a sadist, but the evidence is piling fast and it's damning as all hell. He's existed in a blissful, cloudy haze ever since Hiroki first moved in not all that long ago, and now it's just gotten approximately seventeen times worse. Give or take.

Fuck. He should've just moved them to an entirely new place. He's got droves of money saved. He works two jobs. It would've taken zero effort to ask his landlord— who loves him for causing no issues and for paying rent on time— to move them down the hall into a three bedroom. He probably could've even bargained for a four bedroom and gotten it. Given them a little office space.

Instead he's here experiencing a very specific type of torture. And it's wonderful. It's just so wonderful that it might genuinely kill him, that's all. Not even just kill him, either. Eviscerate him. Drain what little life force he has left. Chop his legs off with a blunt axe and leave him to bleed out. If you need a better visual, just imagine a pigeon with no feathers jumping off a high rise thinking it's gonna fly.

Nothing is actually, technically happening. Which just makes his internal panic all the sadder, really. All Hiroki's done is take his hair down and sit criss cross on his bed, dressed in sweatpants and a loose shirt for sleep. It's just that Shota is insatiable and physically unable to cope with anything, at all, ever, at any point in time. Including right now.

Hiroki looks soft when he's sleepy. Well— he looks soft all the time, but there's something different about seeing him sat on a bed as opposed to the couch, or a kitchen stool. It feels indescribably more intimate. It's enough to make Shota's throat tighten and his palms sweat. Most things Hiroki does are.

Shota is a grown man. He's slept in the same room as colleagues before for jobs. This isn't that different. He can handle nights in the same room as him. They're in different beds on opposite sides of the space. They're only doing it for Hitoshi's comfort. There's no reason to complicate it any further than tha—

"Shota!" Hiroki chirped, drawing him from his daze slightly. He blinked when he realized the white haired man had somehow gravitated to his side of the room and was now standing by his bed. "Move so I can scoot behind you! I'll brush your hair!"

He beamed, holding up the hairbrush. Shota isn't sure why he ever thought he stood a chance.

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Living with Hiroki Akisuka and Shota Aizawa, Hitoshi thinks, is quite possibly the best thing to ever happen to him.

It's been three days and he never, ever wants to leave. He thinks he could die today and be content and happy. Here he's safe and warm, treated like the human being he is and not the lowly villain everyone else seems to view him as. He has worth. He's allowed to speak, allowed to ask questions and expect answers to them without stress.