Chapter Text
Shouta checks the time again.
He’s late, unbelievably late, but morning coffee is an absolute must. And besides, it wasn’t like the class would riot if he was tardy. University students thrived on junk food, nihilism, and late professors. It’s the little things in life, Shouta thinks hazily as he enters the only café he’d ever need in his life. It’s unusually quiet this Friday morning, so Shouta lingers by the register as he waits for his triple-shot espresso.
He flicks through the university e-mail. Nothing important. Personal e-mail. Empty now. Front page news-- oh, here was something. Shouta skims the article detailing the upcoming court case: a death, a witness, and a defendant. Typical first-degree murder charges. It was an all star prosecution versus the country’s championing defense. Neither side would submit easily to the other’s offers.
Only the university dean and a few friends knew that Shouta had been recruited as one of the prosecution’s consultants. The information had not yet been made public by the his request, but the professor’s involvement would be inevitably scrutinized in this high-profile trial. No doubt the students would engage him in some lively debate.
Someone hands him the coffee. Eyes still glued on the article, Shouta automatically heads for the door--
--which burst open violently and he crashes to the ground as legs tangle, the espresso and phone smashes on the ground, and his assailant is spitting, cursing, “Fuck, fuck, I’m so fucking sorry--”
“Are you kidding me--” Shouta whispers through gritted teeth, too shocked and outraged to be loud. He wishes he was dead instead of pinned on the floor of a coffee shop. Anywhere but here. “Hey. Hey! Get. Off. Me.”
“Right, right, fuck, I’m sorry, I--” He stops. “Holy shit. Shouta? ”
It’s Hizashi, all right, with those hypnotic, hooded eyes peering from behind sunglasses. His hair is still ash blonde; he’s clad in a worn, vaguely familiar leather jacket, and heavy headphones rest around his neck. He looks the same as Shouta last saw him passing through airport departure gates, more than twelve months ago. Off to another part of the world.
Just like that, his anger melts away. It’s just Hizashi. “Please get off me, Hizashi.” The lanky man leaps up and extends a hand to help Shouta stand. “When did you get back?”
“Not long ago. I was going to text you but I don’t have a working phone. Look, I am so fucking sorry about knocking you over.” He still swears like a sailor, Shouta notes with a thrum of pleasant nostalgia. “Can I buy you another coffee?”
“No, I can’t stay.” There’s no time. Shouta picks up his phone, thankfully untouched, and then the dribbling espresso. Hopeless. Unsalvageable. His sleeve is drenched in the bitter smell of coffee and Shouta only hopes that the papers in his bag escaped the mess.
Suddenly Hizashi envelops him in a tight hug, and Shouta forgets about his job, his students, and his ruined morning coffee. “I owe you a drink sometime,” says Hizashi. “Text me. I’m back to teaching at U.A.”
“The students missed you.”
“I know.”
And then Shouta remembers: he’s still unbelievably, perhaps unforgivably, late for his 8am lecture, and excuses himself. Hizashi grins broadly, apologizes one last time, and then the two split apart. The thought of having Hizashi back at U.A. replaces caffeine and Shouta manages to stay completely awake during his morning classes. When he enters his office, however, he quickly drops his bookbag, collapses in his chair, and is out like a light.
Someone raps on the door.
He snaps awake.
Office hours.
Shouta runs a hand through his scraggly hair and attempts to look almost presentable before undergraduates file in one by one. There are concerns about quizzes, grades, overdue assignments, and extra credit. Hardly anyone takes a second look at the dark circles under his eyes, or the uneven stubble on his jaw; they’re accustomed to their unkempt but stern professor. It’s the personality, not appearance, which make students wary. Some are indifferent; others tremble.
And then there are the questionable favorites: the ones that he’s no choice but to grudgingly accept.
“You need more sleep,” is the first thing out of Bakugou’s mouth as he walks in, towing a crew with familiar faces.
Shouta puts his head down on the desk. “Then leave.”
“No. I want to talk about last night’s reading.” Bakugou holds out the textbook until Shouta takes it, and then demands to know the reasoning behind some half-assed chapter. He complains about the material, but remains respectful about the professor’s teaching.
Shouta gently bats the abused subject, asking him to think critically and ethically. He appreciates the kid’s drive for knowledge. Bakugou was already a high achieving pupil and doesn’t seem to ever stop challenging the status quo. There’s something to say about his temper, but it’s not Shouta’s place.
His classmates begin to stack themselves on the couch. The unlucky ones on the bottom yelp for mercy as the others crow happily.
Shouta ignores them. He and Bakugou reach a tolerable conclusion and the blonde boy looks not victorious, but satisfied. Stifling a yawn, he asks, “Any more questions?”
A voice from the couch pipes up. “How come you were late this morning?”
“I spilled some coffee. Next.”
“Are you testifying for that Chizome trial?” asks Bakugou.
Shouta looks at him sharply. The blond student glares back.
“It’s not hard to guess. What other forensic psychologist are they gonna consult?” Subtle praise? Still, Shouta shrugs and declines to answer. There’s a blitz of class-related questions that are answered either ‘Yes’ or ‘Check the syllabus’, and then the topic derails again.
“Do you listen to the U.A. podcast?” asks the one called Uraraka. She’s the bubbly one, always smiling and upbeat. Everyone nods vigorously.
He blinks. “The what?”
There are two or three phones thrust in his face, with colorful dancing text. Shouta’s eyes can’t exactly focus on them at the moment. He recognizes the U.A. logo in the corner of the screen, and from the voices around him, grasps the bare bones: An advice show for students and professors. This was the kind of thing the dean would sponsor, and likely did.
And now the students are begging him to listen to it. It’s excellent, they shout.
“No,” he says.
What if we ace this weekend's quiz?
“Maybe,” he says.
The conditions are laid out. Their section, the 8am morning lecture, needs an average of 82% on the assessment. In return, Shouta listens to the U.A.’s newest podcast. With a determined glint in their bright eyes, his students slink to their next class as they discuss study sessions. Shouta shuffles some papers, and to his dismay, realizes there’s no time for a nap before the next class.
His phone chirps. Message from an unknown number.
> im back
> oh yeah this is hizashi