Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s a Yakiniku-Q a block away from Hitoshi’s new home.

For anyone else, this isn’t strange-- it’s a restaurant. Hitoshi would agree, but a part of him (the Kakashi part, wound up in trees, dark soil, and something more free than Japan has ever been) thinks otherwise. It’s not normal, there’s no way it could be. Yakiniku, while multi-dimensional, is different from Yakiniku-Q, the restaurant chain from Konoha . It’s a glaring signal of something homely, warm and inviting in a way no restaurants could hope to replicate. Big windows lining the front of the shop, red curtains pulled back neatly to let the sun glare in so that Hitoshi can’t see anything other than his own reflection in the center. The sign above the restaurant is a blocky font, that of faux wood, with little tubes running through the center that Hitoshi knows will turn on once the sun has set, lighting the sidewalk in an orange-yellow glow for all of it’s customers.

He’d spotted it from afar, from across the street. He’s been with Aizawa and Yamada for six months. Yamada doesn’t quite hold his hand when they walk, but it’s a near thing. He hovers all too close, just a millisecond’s grab away in case of danger. Hitoshi could appreciate that, he’s sure. If it weren’t for the pull in his gut that urges him to speak, speak, speak . And, if it weren’t for the tingle on his lips that would force them to listen despite-- he might have. Instead, Hitoshi turns his head without a word, ignoring the quick glance from Yamada when he strides right past the man. Instead of following , logically, Yamada exists to cause him trouble in every way possible.

“ Hey ,” The man starts, in that drawn-out, cheery way he always does when Hitoshi shows the slightest interest in something. It’s the faux-interest and excitement he pulls to act like he’s the one who wants to go-- when it’s only Hitoshi, really. “You know, I’m getting kind of hungry. Should we stop?”

And… he wants to. He really does. Kakashi would never consider himself “close” with any Akimichi, outside of his acquaintance with Chouza and Chouji (each, respectively through their own Namikaze friends). But there’s something there about Konoha that makes his skin itch a little. If anything, he’ll get a glimpse. He’ll get to see whether or not it’s Akimichi or if it’s just another food chain. With a clench of his hands around the plastic shopping bag in his grasp, Hitoshi nods, short and sharp. Yamada’s smile is wide and rewarding. A congratulations for genuinely voicing something he wants to do-- despite the roundabout way they got there. In seconds, his hand is seized and they’re making their way across the street. Yamada seems more than happy with it, but Hitoshi feels more uneasy the closer they get. He’s not expecting much , but there’s little to expect in another world anyway, so the small bit he gets is sure to be good enough anyway. 

The door is big and wooden, a homely contrast to the other stores and restaurants on the strip. Yamada doesn’t seem to take note of anything , pushing the doors open  and all but dragging Hitoshi behind him. If there wasn’t a confirmation before , there is one now. Stepping into Yakiniku-Q is like being thrown right back into Konoha, minus the chakra. The air is warm and a little stuffy, the smell of cooking meat and seasoning hitting him in the face like a train. Against his will, he presses a hand over his nose, though he’s long since lost his enhanced senses. The building is laid out in a traditional style, with low tables meant to kneel at, and big hotpots in the middle of each one. He’s torn from nostalgia by Yamada’s urging hand, pushing Hitoshi in front of him, apologizing at some couple that seems to be leaving. Refocusing, he shakes his head, eyes turning towards the hostess at the front desk. The woman is a bit too high up for him to see right away. Yamada exchanges smiles, and then she peeks her head over the counter, a fixed smile in place. When he raises his head to look right back at her, he finds himself freezing.

Pink . His eyes catch on her hair, pink in that awful, bright bubblegum way he’d always associated with Sakura Haruno. Hitoshi feels lost for breath for a few seconds, eyes widening. He meets her gaze, willing himself to separate past from present lives, but is only met with something more condemning when he meets her eyes. They’re a violent green, sharp and bright-- 

“Hitoshi?” Yamada asks, his hand gently nudging his shoulder. 

He almost flinches, just barely managing to stop himself before he replies. His voice feels a little weak. “Sorry, I was daydreaming.”

The blond laughs, taking him at face value, despite the little, worried crease below his eyes. Hitoshi turns his eyes back to the hostess-- he can’t stop thinking Sakura, but her face is entirely wrong, her features a little too sharp and her eyes a few shades brighter --and is met with the woman’s matching expression of shock. She fixes herself a little slower than Hitoshi had, her smile smacking right into place after a few seconds. Yamada’s own grin wavers a bit, his eyebrows pulling together with a polite confusion.

“Sorry about that,” She greets, a little too chipper. “Just the two of you?”

Yamada nods, but she hardly waits for his response, hands already moving for menus, and waving for them to follow her into the restaurant itself. They follow, though rushed, towards a small table off to the side. It’s close enough to the windows that Hitoshi can see the rest of the room in the reflection. His chair is backed against a wall, and Yamada slides into the seat across from him, neatly plucking their shopping bags from his hands and putting them underneath the table. The woman sets their menus down and immediately turns one towards Yamada. Her fingers point to the bottom of the menu. Hitoshi doesn’t hear what she says, too focused on the pink hair over her shoulder and the nametag he can’t quite read on her apron.

“Just so you both know, we do have a leftovers charge policy for the ‘All You Can Eat’,” She tells them, crouched just the smallest bit. Her smile seems to have righted itself, and Hitoshi watches her intently, trying to figure out why she’d reacted as if she, too , knew him . “But it doesn’t apply if you just order meals or meats! I’ll be right back after grabbing you both a little water pitcher.”

She bows, short and jerky, and is gone before either of them can speak up. It feels a little rude-- Hitoshi glances at Yamada, worried. But the blond simply laughs shortly, looking just as bewildered as he feels. He runs a hand over his loose hair, eyes flicking between Hitoshi and the menu. 

“She was… energetic, huh?” He asks, mistaking Hitoshi’s silence for something like anxiety. 

He nods anyway, just to prove he’s listening. Yamada’s smile strains (which it’s been doing more often, since Hitoshi had found his way into the home) and Hitoshi forces himself to act like he’s looking at the menu. In all honesty, there’s nothing he can focus on other than his mind. Despite her coloring, and her face itself, the woman knew him -- or, if theory proved, knew Kakashi . Sitting in a Yakiniku-Q, Yamada across from him scanning the menu with an all-too familiar pinch in his lips, Hitoshi feels like he’s blurring every line available.

The woman returns not too long after. She seems more collected as she pours them some water, her lips relaxed in their smile and her hands steady. Hitoshi knows better-- her eyes are steeled and her muscles tense. At the very least, she’s done a better job of holding back whatever it was that made her react so intensely to Kakashi. A small, bitter part of him hopes for his student-- It doesn’t feel real.

Chapter Text

Shouta didn’t know whether or not to believe Hizashi when the man had told him. It sounded so… strange, to say the least. For their newly adopted son who, for the last six months, had been closer to a brick wall than a child, to suddenly open up enough to ask for something. It doesn’t sound bad when he thinks of it like that, but when he finds that the ‘something’ was just lunch at a semi-newly opened Yakiniku place-- he can’t help the uneasy feeling of wrong that it brings. That isn’t to say that he’s suspicious of his son . He’s not; everything that needs to be known about Hitoshi is either in his police file, or Shouta has already been theorizing about. A Yakiniku restaurant doesn’t fit into either of these options.

But Hitoshi had actually enjoyed the place, according to Hizashi and despite the strange look on his face while he said it. It’s fair, their kid has never been the easiest to read in terms of emotions. On the off chance that there really is something suspicious about the place, he’s better off checking it out now. And, if Hitoshi really did enjoy it, then Shouta’s able to bring something home for him and Hizashi. 

‘There are no downsides ,’ He tells himself, standing in front of the wooden doors. His hand fidgets with a seam inside of his pocket. The store itself was fully legal. He’d checked in advance, and had perimetered the place before he arrived in normal clothing, due to the scolding from his husband. He can’t pinpoint why it feels so wrong to survey the place without either of his family members, but it does. Shaking his head, Shouta forces himself to open the door, like he hadn’t spent five minutes disrupting sidewalk traffic to stare.

The front desk is empty, unexpectedly. Soft chatter fills the air of the restaurant, mixed with the quiet sizzling and bubbling of various hotpots and grills. It’s also warm , he notes, with a distant ‘thanks’ to Hizashi for forcing him out of his hero suit, which would have had him sweating in the atmosphere. He glances around, taking the opportunity while he waits for the host or hostess to arrive. The dining area is, as his husband had said, very traditional and homely. Mentally, he notes it down-- maybe Hitoshi had a thing for that sort of decor. It would be far from the weirdest thing about his foster son.

“Oh, sorry for making you wait,” A voice calls, and Shouta turns his head, meeting eyes with the man rounding the corner. It’s not the pink-haired woman Hizashi had mentioned. 

The man is tall . He’s big and lumbering, heavyset in a way that speaks of muscle and fat-- reminiscent, on a smaller scale, of Fatgum. Criss-crossed by deep ginger hair, his arms are tanned, marked with and lighter patches of burn scars.  His hair is the same dark orange, grown long and tied off with a strip of blue fabric. He grins, cheeks dimpling with the movement and distorting the strange blue lines over either side of his face. 

“My wife’s seatin’ another customer, so I hope you don’t mind if I take care of ya,” He says, and Shouta nods shortly, trying to place the accent. “Just you, sir?”

“Yes, please,” He returns, eyes darting to the nametag on the man’s stained apron, reading ‘Akinori’. 

Newly named Akinori nods, hands quick to grab a menu and scribble down something in a notepad laid on the desk. He nods his head to the right, gesturing Shouta to follow him. He does, keeping his eyes on rotation between the man and the restaurant as he’s led through. There’s nothing out of place. It makes him more uneasy, itching to just ask a friend for a search warrant and turn the place upside down-- but it would cause more trouble than it would give him answers, so it’s really not worth the struggle. 

He’s seated without any issue. 

The restaurant isn’t very full, a sparse few groups occupying various tables, and chatting amicably. His server seems to have been distracted, and Shouta frowns, watching the man’s distracted gaze. As he follows his line of sight, Shouta spots the pink-haired woman across the dining area, smiling and talking animatedly with a group of teenagers.

“Ah, sorry,” The man laughs. He turns his head back, his eyes crinkling in another smile. “Got distracted-- is there anything you want to start you off?”

Shouta really, really wants to be suspicious of him-- he wants to know why his son is so fond of the place, or what had driven Hitoshi to outright ask for something after how long of just existing in their home. He wants to know the connection between Hitoshi’s unclear past and the strange, homely store that he’d grown attached to over a few visits alone.

“I’m alright,” He says instead. “Just a water for now-- I’ll order later.”

Akinori hums in confirmation, bowing shortly at Shouta. “Sure thing.”

He watches the man leave, if only for a few seconds. Akinori’s path is clear, he all but beelines for the pink-haired woman, ducking down to say something in her ear, and Shouta forces his gaze elsewhere. He focuses on the unlit grill in the middle of his table, frowning at it like it’ll give him the answers he needs. Sighing into his palm, Shouta shakes his head in a short attempt to clear it and just enjoy the food while he’s here. Nothing bad has stood out yet, and, if luck holds, nothing will.  

A glass is set down on his table, quick and hard enough that it makes him jump. He gives it a wide-eyed look, before turning towards someone decidedly not Akinori. The pink-haired woman winces, her smile big and sheepish. 

“Sorry!” She says, pouring water in the glass and setting the pitcher next to it on the table. “Moved a bit too quick, didn’t mean to scare ya!”

He blinks. Nods, slowly. “It’s alright. Uh, where’s the man from earlier?”

“Oh, Akinori?” She asks-- he spares a glance at the woman’s nametag, noting Yuuga as her name. “That’s the cook!”

She laughs, shaking her head in something like fondness. Tucking the small serving tray she holds beneath an arm, she puts her free hand on her hip. Shouta squints, noting the scars on her hands as well, less burns and more cuts. 

“He probably seated you because I was too busy talking,” She says, drawn out in faux-complaint. “Sorry about that-- he’s a bit of a busybody.”

“You seem… close,” He can’t help but point out. The words are met with another laugh, short and chipper. 

“I would hope I’m close to my own husband , you know,” Yuuga tells him, and than juts a thumb over her shoulder. “He’s supposed to stay in the back and actually cook , but he gets a little worried if we leave someone standing a bit too long.”

Again, Shouta’s struck with something a bit strange about the two. He catches onto the way she holds herself, the way she speaks. Her feet are set and squared, barely leant onto the balls of her feet in something terribly similar to Hitoshi; as if she’s ready to move at any minute. Her voice is just as carefully measured, if only a thousand times more upbeat. Though masked, everything is deliberate and Shouta gets the feeling her scars aren’t only from kitchen knives.

“I see,” He manages, trying to banish the thought in favor of the warm atmosphere once again. He clears his throat. “I’ll, um, just take an order of short ribs.” 

She nods, humming in confirmation. With practiced ease, she reaches down, clicking a few buttons until the grill on the table sputters to life. A quick, polite bow later, and she’s spinning on her heel to leave. Just as he did Akinori, he watches her leave, disappearing behind red half-curtains into what Shouta assumes is the kitchen. 

When he’s finally left to his own devices, he puts his head into his hands, rubbing at his eyes with his thumbs. While he so desperately wanted to find something, anything about the place, he’s left with nothing. Other than that too-ready stance the woman had, there’s nothing off about the place at all. If anything, the place is nearly perfect for Hitoshi. It’s quiet, for the most part. Warm and charming in a way Shouta finds vaguely familiar and entirely foreign all at once.

He hears the approach, this time. Heavier steps, but still quiet , and he raises his eyes to see Akinori approach. The man holds a small tray of meat, lightly seasoned with something that makes Shouta’s stomach growl unwillingly. 

“You again,” He comments, in place of acknowledging the short embarrassment of hunger.

“Me again,” Akinori replies, his grin easy and relaxed. He slides the tray onto the table, and then slides a plate in front of Shouta.

He moves with a professional ease, a pair of tongs transferring the meat from tray to grill, and his other hand gently raises the heat of said grill. He does it so seamlessly that Shouta almost doesn’t notice. It’s not the uneasy strength of his wife, nor is it the practiced grace of Hitoshi, but it’s just enough of something else. He blinks, glancing once again at the scar-marred hands.

“Those from your quirk?” He asks, despite any silent social cues.

“Hm?” Akinori replies, caught off guard. He follow Shouta’s eyes, making a small ‘ ah ’ when he sees. “Oh, no. I was just… clumsy, during culinary school. You wouldn’t believe the amount of hair I have missing from it, as well.”

There’s something there, Shouta thinks, but it’s not enough for him to probe onto that. So, instead, he asks something arguably more uncomfortable.

“Would it be weird of me to ask what your quirk is ?”

Akinori pauses, as if considering. He’s mostly focused on the ribs, but he shrugs after a few moments of consideration. There’s something comfortable about the man that doesn’t have Shouta worried. But even in the relaxed air, he’s able to hear the silent exchange offer.

“Partial Expansion.”

“Self explanatory?” Shouta wonders aloud, and the man laughs. It’s softer, but warmer than Yuuga’s had been.

“Very,” He says, before elaborating. “At the cost of calories and fat in my body, I’m able to enlarge various limbs for a period of time. Think of it like… Pro-Hero Fatgum, but-- well, simpler , I s’pose.”

Humming, Shouta considers his thoughts. The man had no qualms about opening up to him, and it appears he wasn’t quite far off the mark about the man’s similarities to Fatgum. He nods politely, just to acknowledge the information.

“That’s quite a quirk,” He says instead. Shouta’s silent for just a few beats, before conscious takes over and he offers the man some information in return. “I work at U.A. Your quirk is… very applicable.”

“ Applicable ?” 

“You know,” Shouta hedges, feeling a bit out of place. “It’s a good offensive quirk. Diverse in usage.”

Akinori smiles, gentle and small like he understands what he’s trying to say. Then, he sets the tongs down, and takes a seat across from Shouta. He doesn’t get the feeling that Akinori is trying to be unkind. But something about the hardness of his eyes, and the way he folds his hands, makes Shouta think he’s much older than he looks-- makes him feel as if he’s about to be scolded. It’s an odd feeling to get from someone likely ten years his junior, but he finds he can’t dismiss it as easily.

“Are you tryin’ to tell me I should’a been a hero?” Akinori asks. It’s straightforward, and Shouta can at least appreciate that.

“No,” He denies. It’s true. There’s more to being a hero than a good quirk in Shouta’s book. He doesn’t elaborate, despite the way Akinori’s dark blue eyes squint the tiniest bit at him. Sighing, the man scratches at his chin, moving his eyes from Shouta to the grill.

“So what’s the point of complimentin’ me on a quirk I’ll never use?”

“I don’t see the harm in giving credit where it’s due,” Shouta’s quick to answer. “Don’t tell me you’ve never considered it. Every kid thinks about being a hero once .”

“I won’t deny it,” The man huffs in reply. But then his eyes dart to the side, focusing on Yuuga as she emerges from the kitchen to refill a couple’s cups. Shouta watches the man age right before his eyes-- less young adult and more old man , as if he’d been married to the woman since he could talk . When Akinori turns back to Shouta, he feels like he’s intruded , even though the conversation is between them, not Akinori and his wife. “But I think… we don’t need the hero life.”

Shouta thinks he understands where Akinori’s coming from. Being a Pro-Hero isn’t, has never been, an easy path. The glamour of it (the cameras watching you, the flashy costumes, the broadcasts and interviews) is the appeal for many young people; but the downsides (the risk, the hours, the training it takes to get there) far outweigh the good. While Shouta and his colleagues had shouldered the burden for one reason or another, it’s not a life one can live without a secondary driving force behind it. He stares at the chef, thinks about the man’s young age. He thinks about their restaurant, and the woman with pink hair. There’s something unmistakably strong about the two-- and there’s something decidedly softer than that, as well.

He turns to take a drink of his water glass. “That’s certainly a mature way to look at things.”

Akinori laughs outright. 

“I guess I am an old soul,” He says, amusement lacing his voice. Again, Shouta knows there’s something there , but he won’t pry.

He hasn’t gotten much from the pseudo-interrogation. But he’s got enough to quell his violent curiosity for now. He doesn’t mind Hitoshi coming here, at least. The owners aren’t, as far as he can tell, bad people. Akinori is first and foremost a dedicated man, and Yuuga is just as stubborn, if a little more blunt about it-- she’s not quite an open book, but she’s far more open than he’d expected.

They fall into a lull of silence, and Akinori continues cooking for Shouta as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. He supposes most Yakiniku restaurants aren’t full-service. He won’t refuse the help, if only to somewhat observe the man for longer. On the upside, the ribs smell better than anything he’s ever cooked, or bought, for that matter. He’s not usually a fan of straight meat. Something about the smell alone makes him hungrier than he’s been in quite some time. Distantly, he once again thanks Hizashi for the various scoldings of surviving on his jelly packs alone. This might be worth it, once in a while.

“VIP customer?” A voice teases from somewhere next to him.

Shouta’s reminded of his reason for coming when Yuuga pops up, her steps silent, making him twitch upon arrival. She greets them both with a sharp smile, and Shouta dips his head in greeting. The woman moves like a professional, slipping into the seat next to Akinori. She nudges his shoulder. It’s rougher than Shouta would expect.

“Hey, Chef, we’ve got some orders in the kitchen for you,” She says, and the man smiles, alongside a short roll of his eyes. Despite it, he’s up and away after a few beats, dismissing himself with a bow. As he goes, Yuuga turns to Shouta, her green eyes unnaturally bright.

“Do you tend to keep customers company?” He asks, lifting the tongs to transfer meat to his plate. The woman watches, shrugging.

“Not often.” She crosses her arms, observing him quite openly.

“Special case?”

“You’re with K-- that blonde man and his kid, right?” She starts, so suddenly that Shouta’s heart misses it’s cue for a second too long. He frowns, covering his unease with a scowl.

“Who?” He returns with a question of his own. 

“Let’s not dance around it,” Yuuga snorts a laugh. “You’re here to scope us out, or whatever.”

“...And?” Shouta hazards an ask, picking up his water. 

He finds his worry unfounded, when the woman grins at him, her eyes squinting in something like humor. She shrugs, leaning back in her chair. 

“Well, it’s just nice to see such a good father,” The woman says, and Shouta knows better than to believe it.

“You’ll tell me how you knew,” He demands more than asks. It’s hard to keep his hands from clenching the glass too hard, instead replacing it with a short exhale.

“I will?” She hums. Right now, Shouta feels incredibly tired. She’s more like his son than either of them have been thus far. The easy avoidance, the subtly tense posture. While his conversation with Akinori had been off-topic and well-founded, he thinks that this woman isn’t going to be as easy to get along with. “Maybe.”

“If this is a threat--” Shouta starts, and she cuts him off with another laugh.

“No, no ,” She dismisses, waving her hand. “God, no, I don’t need to deal with that. I’m just… well, curious , maybe.”

“Maybe?” He asks, mind speeding to catch up. He’s getting that same feeling from her-- that she’s older than she looks. Something about her eyes, maybe, or the set of her mouth. She’s not quite tired , like Akinori was. Yuuga looks outright relaxed, amused like the interest is passing nostalgia. He swallows.

“Maybe,” She echoes, rocking back in her chair once. Then, she stands, dusting off her apron with a few short wipes. The garment was already clean, and Shouta figures it was more habit or nerves than of any use. “We can talk at another time. With your son, I think. I’ll leave you to it.”

He moves to stand, to follow her, to ask something , and is frozen with a short look. Yuuga smiles at him, eyes sharp and full of something more emotional than he expected. His mouth twists in a frown; this is the first lead he’s had on Hitoshi’s weird past in months since he picked up the kid. Instead, he nods.

“Fine,” He manages, and forces himself to relax back into the seat. “We’ll come back again, and this time you’ll have answers. Your husband too, I’m assuming.”

She shrugs, turning away from him. It’s not quite rude, but something else . “Not him as much as me. But sure.”

Yuuga has walked away to other customers before he can get the last word in. It feels childish. Shouta doesn’t really care , either way. He wants answers and finds himself believing she’ll live up to the promise. If not, he’s keen to make her, one way or another, now that he’s confirmed she has something .

It’s hard to eat, after that, but he manages, trying to savor the encounter for what it is - a meal.