MINIMAL [s.hitoshi & k.denki]

one

He works hard, for what though? It's been months since she properly held him, months since she's held his hands, a year since she's said that she loves him.

Hitoshi smells the grime on him as he finishes up patrol, and shivers envelopes his body as he bends over in the alley, hurling up dinner and whatever was left in his stomach onto the ground. He'd blame the villain for giving him a tough time, but his head rings and his stomach's still splotched with a fat blue bruise from last night. The bile is bitter on his tongue, and he forgets where he is when Cellophane pats his back.

The tape hero is shocked when MindWash flinches from his touch, concern lacing his expression when the shade of his helmet is clicked open and god, pity is the worst medicine when it comes to comfort.

"Bro.. are you good?" Hitoshi tries not to smell the stench of Sero's breath, but it's unavoidable and the taller chuckles dryly when he realizes he smells like literal cannabis. "Sorry man, but you looked like your were gonna' prolly' pass out!"

Sero's slang is something that Hitoshi always will shake his head to, as the taller male always complained that he was being made fun of by the older generations for how he spoke. Blame the memes, Hitoshi would sigh in reply.

"I'm fine Sero, just uneasy." Hitoshi lies through his teeth, "I just didn't sleep."

"Ah.. then sleep man! Your sleeping schedule has been utter shit since UA!" The man reminisces, "kinda wack how I would find you on the couch at 2 am, watching cat videos like you do it daily— which you did!"

Hitoshi feels like he's being scolded, so he gives Sero a playful 'pssh!' before heading back towards the officers; not before Sero gives him a mint to 'freshen up that stanky vomit breath'.

The two discuss what will happen to the man they captured, wrapped in MindWash's grey support weapon as they sleep unconscious, oblivious to the havoc they've caused around the Saitama prefecture. The suspect is young, and Hitoshi prays for them to be safe and to wield this experience as a learning lesson, not before patting their ruffled hair and leaving.

Sero walks with him, but eventually his walkie buzzes and a different part of Japan needs the tape-wielder, so Hitoshi is left to his own devices as he gets his support weapon back and swings his way home, tired. His eyes are empty when he gets to the apartment, and devoid of any emotion except the rumbles of fear that he swears remains from his fight with the villain just hours ago.

He doesn't spot grey shined heels at the doorway, nor a beige coat so he relaxes just a little bit. It doesn't smell like Chanel perfume that was obviously sprayed to delay the evident scent of alcohol, so Hitoshi finally gives the cautious posture and decides that he should be safe, that he should clean up before anything else happens becausewhatifshecomesbackandthehouseisntneatshewillhurthimagainagainagain.

The insomniac hero lets out a breath, shaky and god he resists crying, and decides that dinner must be made. A ringing thrums within his ears, but he blames the crashing of buildings and concrete falling over him as he would shield passerby. He doesn't even notice when he's taken off his shoes, an unmemorable space in time that he can't seem to recall, and only snaps out of the subspace when the water is too hot and he snatches his hands away from the sink; doesn't matter if he was washing his hands or not.

"Fuck.." he stares at the pink of his hands, and turns the knob towards cooler water to finish cleaning his hands. There's scars on his knuckles, from where the skin broke from harsh punches or how some criminals played even more dirty.

His hands find the carrots, onions, potatoes, and begins chopping like a madman. Cooking was a fantastic, incredible way to release stress! At least, that's what Betty Crocker said. Or Hitoshi thought she said?

Whatever, it doesn't matter to him now; because there's a pot that's boiling red on the counter, his hands carrying spices and shaking like instinct. It's spicy, but Hitoshi doesn't care as he plops the chopped vegetables into the pot like it's art, lips squished into a thin line, a dance whilst he twirled the ladle around the meal.

The curry makes his stomach grumble, drool filling his mouth and wetting his tongue disgustingly.

Yet as he plates the food atop white rice, steaming hot and eyes blankly waiting, stove no longer on and his figure seated into a chair. Utensils sit on his right, whilst his phone is at his left, expression tight as his stomach twists in cries to eat.

His phone pings on, a text message that has him nearly jumping.

Hitoshi finally picks up his spoon, but eats slowly and carefully; because he knows she will know. She always knows, and she will always have him brainwashed to think that yes— it's fine.