Work Text:
Aizawa Shouta - Eraserhead - has seen his fair share of awful things, as any hero does. Particularly underground heroes. And he's seen enough blood and villains and victims to be able to safely and logically conclude that the worst cases to come across are always those involving children. Any sort of abuse or exploitation is outright awful, the sorts of things that he needs to see a therapist and cuddle with his family to get over, but by far the worst are when the children die. Because at least with trauma, there is the chance to grow beyond it, there is hope for healing and recovery and regaining some level of health and safety and happiness. But when they die (when they choose to take the step or make that cut, and it's the last time they will ever do it and he's too late, not enough, never enough for those lost, aching souls-) there is nothing left. No hope, no opportunities. It's simply the end.
And since finding Izuku, since talking his own precious Problem Child away from a rooftop and tucked-aside red shoes, such incidences have only been a more vicious thing for his poor heart. Tonight, in particular, has hit far too close to home, in every sense.
It's found in the tones of moonlit reds, a mere four streets from his own apartment building. The red shoes set neatly before the railings of the office building, the red jacket folded beneath them, and the splatters of red streaking pavement and broken limbs... they connect sad, sad dots. Ones that Shouta is far more intimately familiar with than he should have ever wished to be. This could have been his own son, seven months ago now, if not for the mousy brown hair caked to a cracked skull, or the dull blue eyes. This- this child might not be his boy, but they're a similar life lost to the mess of their prejudiced society, and the very sight of them has ice-chip teeth digging in around his heart. (If he rushes forwards so that he can be the one to slip the teenager's eyes closed, then it's left alone by the police officers also on-site, because they all recognise a quiet, intense grief when they see it, and they know just as well to respect it.)
Not even two hours later, after crushing his emotions under a steady breathing pattern and the tap-tap-tightening of his fingers against his collarbone, tucked beneath and amongst his capture weapon, Eraserhead is shedding his false calm and rushing home at the end of a thankfully-short shift.
He fights the urge to run, even as he scrambles to get the front door unlocked and his boots off, desperate to get in and see his son because he knows, logically he knows, that his boy will be fine, that whilst Izuku still has bad days and bad nights and bad weeks, they've pulled him far from the brink of such extreme actions, but also that could have been his precious Problem Child tonight- He forces himself to keep his feet quiet and his breathing steady as he hurries around the corner and down their hallway, reaching Izuku's door and pausing, trying to breathe deeply, to calm down, because hopefully Izuku is asleep but the kid's insomnia does pick up sometimes, and the hero isn't stupid. He knows that it kicks in most when Aizawa himself is on patrol, his son's worries and anxieties around losing his Dad contributing (and doesn't that thought sting as much as warm, for the man, because he hates to know he's worrying his kid, but also the fact that Izuku cares that much about him is also so very sweet) to the mess of it.
Creaking the door open carefully, he peers through the small gap, quieting his breathing even more. And there, thank Kami, is his boy. Green curls that look golden-black in the soft light from the kid's bedside lamp (a little yellow-soft-sweet cat lamp, something that Aizawa himself hadn't been able to resist buying when he'd seen it in passing), a rising and falling chest, pale hands clutching the top of the fluffy blankets. His Izuku is safe. Sleeping, at home, not bloody and broken at the base of a building in a way that illogically reminds him of Obo- No. His son is safe. That's all he needs to think about right now.
"Da'?" Oh. Shit. That wasn't meant to happen.
"Hey there, kid, didn't mean to wake you up." He ignores how his voice is fracturing around the edges, digging sharp edges into his tongue and lips, and steps into Izuku's room, pushing the door to behind himself.
"You okay? ...Da'?" The man doesn't answer for a long second, crouching beside his boy's bed to run a hand through his hair instead, nearly finding a smile at the fluffy green curls, familiar and grounding against his calluses.
"Don't worry, kiddo, just a rough patrol. Why don't you go back to sleep?"
"Bu' you're no' okay." And, oh, his soft, sweet, idiot of a child.
"Not right now, but I will be, kid, I will be." He doesn't want to lie to Izuku, not ever, because his boy deserves better than that, and so instead he gives him a truth that isn't too sad at all. One with hope.
"Would... would a hug help?" Well, there's no way he could possibly say no to that, not when his heartbeat is still thundering in his chest and those green eyes, so pretty and bright and fiercely concerned, are looking up at him with such warmth.
Instead, he moves to sit on the edge of Izuku's bed, arms open, and gets a still-small body barrelling into his chest. There are hot breaths puffing against his neck, a sweet button nose burrowing in between his throat and capture weapon, and hands twisting into the back of his jumpsuit. The weight of his son is more than reassuring, and the smoother, slower heartbeat pressed against his own is an absolute balm upon Shouta's soul, an instant way to ground himself, to base his entire being around right now in this moment of familysafetyhome. Shouta can finally relax.
It's three hundred and forty-seven of Izuku's breaths later (Shouta may have been counting every single one, eyes pressed closed as he focuses on nothing but the precious child pressed against him, safe in his arms) when the bedroom door shifts again, a sleepy Hizashi peeking in, hair tumbling as he leans forwards in a waterfall of soft gold, utterly beautiful in the gold-yellow light of Izuku's little lamp. His eyes, too, are completely stunning, coral-sharp yet molten. Gorgeous.
"Glad you think so, Shou." The words are low, gentle, the teasing only vague, half-hearted, but it helps snap Shouta back to the present, a flush creeping under his stubble as he no longer completely zeroes in on their son's three hundred and sixty-second breath.
"Hn," he grunts, the sound more mellow than intended, and Izuku sleepily giggles against his neck. It disturbs the breathing pattern, but before there's even a risk of that becoming a problem, Hizashi is there, fine fingers settling low on each of their backs, keeping them settled in place, and a kiss is pressed first to the top of Izuku's head, then to Shouta's temple. Hizashi's lips linger against his forehead, brushing silent words there (Oh, darling, darling, I love you so much, and I'm so glad you're home safe with us both) before the blond straightens up some, smiling at his husband and son.
"You two wanna come share the big bed? Mister Hosepipe and Moose are already there, and you can bring Hestia along with you, lil' one." The greenette wriggles in place, tilting his head back to look at his Pops, beaming drowsily as he murmurs,
"Snuggles?" Shouta huffs out a fond breath, silently glad that Izuku hasn't actually pulled away from him, and simply roughs his chin over his kid's hair, gruff affection with his stubble scraping carefully amongst curls. There are soft-sweet giggles muffled against his neck in return, and Shouta doesn't miss Hizashi's dopey smile.
"Right, snuggle time it is," he grumbles, scooping Izuku in close, because he may or may not hate the idea of letting him go right now, although he also has to be careful not to let the kid's legs brush in the dried blood that can't be seen amongst the black of his jumpsuit, except he knows it's there because it itches bone-deep. He moves past Hizashi, letting his husband scoop up the grey kitten that was curled up on Izuku's pillow, and heads straight down their hallway to gently deposit his precious Problem Child in the still-warm patch of he and Hizashi's bed, just about in the middle of the mattress with Moose uncurling to come and pad over Izuku's legs, kneading and beginning to purr. Shouta kisses both of their heads and brushes fingers along the line of Hizashi's shoulders as they walk past each other. He really needs to shower.
Getting rid of the grime and blood and sweat from a rough patrol is more than relieving. The water is nigh-on scalding, and he knows Hizashi might pout at him for it later, but dammit he needs the rusty marrs gone from his skin sooner rather than later. (The lingering thought of how this was the end of a child, the end of a little soul surely not too different to his own son... Oh, how it aches, deep in his chest.)
As soon as he feels semi-clean, the blood and general dirt physically gone, Shouta rushes through getting himself mostly dry, hair ends still dripping when he pulls on the random shirt (this might be Tensei's, actually, judging by the shitty robot pun on it) and his usual hot pink trackies (Nemuri's, hence the frustrating lack of pockets - he can't begrudge the comfort of his friend's clothing and the scent of the fancy citrus shampoo he might have stolen from Hizashi's cubby) before stumbling back into he and his husband's bedroom.
He freezes instantly. Because the sight before him, dim though it might be when lit only by moonlight, is one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen, all soft perfection and lovely warmth. His son is curled up in the middle of the bed, one little freckled hand tucked under his chin, the other reaching forwards to latch carefully into Hizashi's hair, golden strands twirling through sleepy-slow fidgeting. Hestia is purring furiously from her spot along the inside curve of Izuku's chest, her tiny front paws stretched up to press against the underside of the kid's jaw, and it's adorable. Mister Hosepipe is sprawled over Shouta's pillow, of course, because he's a bit of a bastard; Moose is laying somewhat precariously along the length of Hizashi's thigh and hip, yellow eyes blinking at Shouta from only a metre or so away. The blond, with one arm pillowing his own head, the other stretched out to lazily drape over Izuku's side, keeping the kid close, is humming quietly, the noise a little messy but it's the theme tune from a cat-based kids cartoon they both used to watch when they were younger than their son, and that fact alone has the unintentional smile on Shouta's face growing another notch, so very soft, because how are these two people so perfect?
"I love you two." He doesn't mean to say it, although he certainly doesn't begrudge it, not when it earns him his husband turning his head somewhat on the pillow, only just enough to be able to look at Shouta without disturbing Izuku's hand in his hair, and he gets faced with a stunning smile and silken gaze, rose-gilded and oh-so loving, and whilst Hizashi doesn't interrupt his own humming to verbally return the words, they are still spoken a thousand times over in his eyes.
Shouta is, truly, far too blessed.
But now isn't the time to ponder over such things. No, it's the time to circle the bed so that he's on his own side, nudging Mister Hosepipe to curl up instead of taking up the whole pillow, and he crawls on behind his boy, leaving a small gap between them despite how it aches a little inside him to not be able to feel his kid's breathing; the heat of him is still enough to keep the hero grounded, to reassure him, yet to just be able to feel Izuku's heartbeat and breathing would be-
"Da'." The word is plaintive, almost a tad admonishing, and the greenette is reaching back blindly with the hand that had been tucked under his chin, trying to get ahold of Shouta. Grumbling, all fond amusement, the man raises a hand to meet Izuku's, loosely holding hands with the kid, and when the greenette tugs at him, insistent but with too much drowsiness to be very strong, the hero shuffles forwards, curling against his son's back. He meets the gaze of his husband from above the dark mess of curls, a smile in Hizashi's eyes, and the still-aching panic that had been lingering throughout Shouta's marrow, all ice chips and aflame coals, is finally settling down fully. His kid is breathing, steady and deep, his heartbeat just as reliable and reassuring; His sunshine husband is both gilded and molten all at once, as beautiful and alive as any other day or night, and when Shouta curls an arm properly over his kid, Hizashi's hand finds his, interlacing their fingers with Izuku's hand caught in between. The cats are purring, with Cup and Princess Fucker joining them at some point, and they're warm and soft and okay.
Shouta doesn't know what he would do without these two by his side, but, luckily, he doesn't need to know. Because they're here, with him, at home, and nothing could be better.