~ Third Person P.O.V ~
"Your eyes, open depths of languid pools. Pour your heart into mine. Your compassion, beating reverently as your heart. Pour your lips into mine . . ."
—BisexualCricket, Poetry Journal
"Wait, wait, wait," Izuku chuckled, waving his hands around in order to stop the elder from speaking. "You mean to tell me you own houses all across the world?!"
Shoto allowed a sheepish smile to creep onto his mouth, ducking his head as he continued his path down one of the hallways where he was showing Izuku around. "A man's gotta make a living somehow," he grinned.
"So, how does that work?" Izuku pressed, looking at all the rooms that aligned the long hallway.
The elder led him into the last room at the end of the hall, it was another guest bedroom, decorated in plain furniture and mint green paint on the walls. Guiding Izuku over to the bed in the corner he scoots all the way up, opening his hands for the younger to join him.
"Well?" the freckled male repeated, curling up at Shoto's side—the rhythmatic pulsing of his heart filling Izuku's ears like a melody.
Shoto heaved a sigh, trying to recalibrate his attention to the past rather than his soulmate lying next to him. "It started after World War two," he began, "I had just got back from America, a beautiful but hate-filled country. Being in the military paid well, when I got back I bought my first house—before that I had been staying with friends and roommates over the decades."
Emerald jewels known as Izuku's eyes were glued onto Shoto's face attentively as he spoke, soaking in every syllable.
"Anyway, it was rather nice-sized, enough to fit a small family but too big for me by myself. One of my friends at the time, his father bought and rented out houses . . . I guess I got the idea from him. My house was rented out quickly, and with the money I was getting from my tenants paying rent I got my own little apartment." a ghost of a smile lingered on Shoto's lips at the nostalgic memories that flooded him.
"And you saved enough money to buy another house then do the same?" Izuku guessed, tracing unknown shapes into the boys' arm.
"Exactly,"
Shoto's body tensed, the entire atmosphere around them had changed and he seemed to be the only one to notice. He had been like this all night, ever since he found out . . . But had Izuku noticed? No, Shoto knew that would not be the case—for the boy was far too enthralled with the house's charm and beauty to pay attention like he usually would have done.
It was late, naturally, the two were still up for this seemed to be a habitual thing for them now. Izuku begged for a tour as soon as they had finished eating and unpacking, and who was Shoto to deny his soulmate's wishes? The elder would have grovelled at Izuku's feet if he asked it. He was tense the entire time, his voice still velvety smooth as he spoke yet his limbs and mind seemed to be malfunctioning.
God, he wanted nothing more than to just speak to the boy about it—desperate to know if Izuku knew anything about what they were to each other. But the more rational, cerebral side of him told Shoto otherwise . . . it would only cause more problems if he brought it up. The last thing he wanted was for Izuku to be upset, more so than he already is.
No, he would have to be patient.
"When did you buy this house?" Izuku asked quietly, leaning his back against Shoto's chest so he was sitting up.
"Uhm," a ragged influx of air was delivered into Shoto's lungs as he pondered how to answer. "This house has been in my family for generations," he admitted, knowing what was to come next.
"Really? For how long?!" Izuku probed, shifting in his position to get a better look at the elder male.
Shoto released a humorless chuckle, his arm wrapping his arm around Izuku's shoulders before continuing. "My great, great, grandfather built this farmhouse in seventeen-forty-five. That got passed onto my great grandfather, then my grandfather, then my father," his nose twisted up in disdain as he thought of his father, Enji Todoroki.
The green-haired male cambered his head to the side, noticing the obvious look of discomfort at the mentioning of Shoto's father. He didn't press for more answers, having the knowledge that this would only upset the elder further—and he hated seeing Shoto upset.
"It's getting late," Shoto whispered, heterochromatic eyes darting over to the clock mounted on the far left wall. "You can sleep in this room if you'd like, or take one of the other rooms in this hall; it doesn't really matter to me," he said simultaneously as he got up.
Izuku's eyes widened as the space between them began its task of rapidly growing, the deafening pounding of his heart reverberating through his ears as Shoto's foot crossed the threshold of the door. Quickly scrambling upright, the younger darted over towards him—small, fragile, limbs winding themselves around Shoto's waist. He ignored the prickly feeling the erupted in his chest as it pressed against the elder's back, only focusing on the task at hand:
Not leaving Shoto's side.
Shoto stiffened for a fraction of a second, the soft thumping of Izuku's heart and ragged breathing of his lungs expanding and condensing thudding against his back. Slipping his eyes closed his relished in the feeling, again finding himself losing his train of thought with the younger wrapped around him. God, he wanted to tell him so fucking bad.
"What's wrong?" Shoto asked a few heartbeats later, his hand coming up to cup Izuku's in an affectionate manner. Only to briskly pivot on his heel to face Izuku when he felt droplets of tears soak through his shirt.
"I—I'm sorry, it's just . . . It's been a while since I've slept in a room by myself and I got used to it and—" his rambling was rather unintelligible, the onslaught of tears only adding onto Shoto's difficulty to decipher his words. But he managed to figure it out quickly.
"Hey," Shoto soothed, softly stroking his thumb across Izuku's freckled, tear-stained, cheek. "I'm sorry I should have known, it's okay . . . Do you want us to sleep in here or the master bedroom?" he asked, offering Izuku a reassuring smile.
The younger's crying came to a faltering halt, being replaced by a watery, lopsided, dimple-showing grin as he wrapped his arms around Shoto's neck. If he were being candid, Izuku really did not know what he would do without the elder there by his side. No matter how hard things get for him, no matter how much he must be a bother, no matter what the circumstances Shoto has proved countless times that he's there for Izuku. That he was safe with him, free of judgment . . .
Something Izuku hasn't had in quite some time now.
"Master bedroom," he whispered, barely paying any mind when Shoto scooped him up in his arms.
As the two made their way towards the other side of the house Izuku buried his face into the crevice of Shoto's neck, inhaling the fragrance only he and he alone could produce; it never failed to calm Izuku's nerves. However, the boy—per usual— was rather oblivious of the slight stiffening of the duel-haired male's shoulders, or the hitch in his breathing when his mouth skimmed the surface of his neck accidentally.
He had been oblivious of a lot of things that night. Izuku hadn't noticed the affection and mirth that danced on the outer planes of Shoto's two-toned pools, nor how they watched him with more vehemence. Izuku hadn't noticed that him merely touching the man had the power to knock him to his knees, to steal his breath away. Izuku hadn't noticed the adoring smile that lingered on Shoto's lips for most of the night, or how it only widened when he smiled back at him.
But most importantly Izuku hadn't noticed the absolute torture it was for Shoto not being able to say anything about it. And only because the elder would put Izuku's needs above his own, in spite of how much it would kill him inside to do so. Because what Shoto wanted and what Shoto felt Izuku needed were two different things, and one outweighed the other by quite a lot.
"Can I get in the shower first?" Izuku asked quietly once they reached the room, his viridescent eyes fluttering over towards the bathroom door on the other side of the room.
"Mhm,"
Swiftly, Izuku grabbed a pair of clothes to wear to sleep before making his way over towards the bathroom—the door locking with a click behind him. He knew he needed to get the hard part out of the way before he could fully function . . . and that was being naked. Fuck, he was doing so exceptionally well before all of this . . . before Monoma announced his presence in Izuku's life yet again. Showers were slowly commencing to become less of an enigmatic undertaking for him, he was finally becoming comfortable in the flesh that resided on his body. But now? Now, standing here in front of the slightly fogged-over mirror he saw nothing but a broken, tainted, and damaged boy.
Fortunately, he did not feel the prickly sensation of another's hands roaming along the skin . . . but he could practically see it. The ghost of fingerprints, which were long gone at this point, being debossed onto the pale flesh that clung to him. He could still hear the faint whispers barely scathing the surface of his eardrums . . . words from this haunting whispers still plaguing him.
No.
As Izuku got into the shower he inhaled deeply, the steam from the blistering water fogging within his lungs and calming him momentarily. Allowing his eyes to slip close he began the process of cleaning his body. However, instead of imagining the rough, penetrating hands that belonged to Monoma or his own fragile, trembling ones . . . Izuku imagined something else. The soft padding of lukewarm rubbing his shoulders soothingly, smooth and velvety to the touch. He wasn't sure why his thoughts led him here—but as long as he felt fine whilst envisioning whoever's hands it was he didn't care.
A thumb rubbed over his collarbone at the same time his washcloth spread soap suds there, a hand kneaded into his back softly as he tried to clean that area as well. Then he imagined another hand pressing into the back of his neck, this one slightly colder than the first.
"Shoto," Izuku murmured with a content smile.
. . .
His eyes shot open as his face flushed a deep red, his free hand coming up to clasp tightly around his mouth. The freckled male's mind was a jumbled and twisted knot of confused notions, all swirling in his head at once—one never lasting longer for more than a few seconds before a new one appeared. What the hell was that? Why had he said Shoto's name? Dropping the washcloth on the floor his finger curled in his overgrown, matted, locks.
Just as he was about to push the entire event beside him his eyes landed on his wrist, the black tattoo catching the corner of his eye. His thumb brushed over the date, thinking back to that day . . . his first time walking on campus. Walking into the office with Bakugou, speaking briefly with the lady at the front desk, Shoto walking in . . . how his hair was cleanly cut on all sides. How strands of scarlet and snowy white mixed in the middle right on the edge of his eyebrows.
. . . His hair was longer now, brushing past his two-toned eyes.
Izuku's heartbeats grew louder as he allowed himself to further delve in the trenches of his mind. Their very first real conversation slowly resurfacing.
*Chapter nine*
"How long have you been eighteen?"
"What is this, Twilight? A few years now . . . How long have you been eighteen?"
"You don't know who I am do you?"
"Should I?"
"Well, I have to say I'm a bit nonplussed . . . Surely, I figured Bakugou would have told you he is friends with 'The boy who can't die'," "If you don't believe me look it up yourself,"
"Shit," "So you really haven't found your soulmate, yet?"
"No," "You haven't either,"
A quiet gasp escaped Izuku's lips as he quickly rinsed off, a few lingering soap suds still pressed on the side of his neck as he hurriedly threw his clothes on. He knew now, without a doubt Shoto was his soulmate. Flinging the door open, he found the elder sitting on the bed, a fresh pair of clothes on, and his hair still wet.
"Hey," Shoto greeted with a smile, "I forgot about the second bathroom so I went ahead and took a shower already,"
Izuku remained visibly still, a myriad of emotions surging through his body as a fresh coat of tears filled his eyes. "August 28th . . ." he whispered.
"What?"
"August 28th . . . twenty-twenty . . . That's the date on your wrist, and that's the date on my wrist," Izuku breathed.
Hello Cricket Cultists!!
Oh shit . . .
Are ya ready for some angst, fluff, and smu-*Incoherent screeching*
Heheheh
Comments??
Until we meet again!!!