Work Text:
Sometimes, you really believed that full-time heroes had it easy. Sure, they had to risk their lives daily, but then again, so did you. As a teacher at U.A., you were all-too-familiar with the fact that danger was a part of the curriculum. After all, when a hero-in-training screwed up, it was your job to yank them out of whatever situation they found themselves in. You had a collection of scars stemming from misfired quirks, shrapnel from training-ground explosions, and the occasional struggle to pull apart brawling students. That wasn’t even the worst part of teaching. It was the fact that if you failed your “mission,” if you failed these kids, you weren’t just ruining their lives, you were putting the entire country at risk–it would be like filling barrels with gunpowder and just watching them roll into a burning building.
Naturally, this meant that your workdays seldom actually ended with the ring of the final bell. There was always stuff to do after classes ended–papers to grade, exercises to plan, troublemakers to scold. Your most recent project involved planning summer training camp for the second years. The students this year had a diverse combination of quirks, so it was up to you and the teacher from 2-A to devise a program that would incorporate several different training regimens. Picking the location, creating individualized plans for each student, recruiting pros to act as stand-ins in the moments where the two of you were off making sure everything ran like clockwork–most of the time, you were swamped, working well past regular dark. On those nights, coffee and sugar were your lifelines. You’d set up shop in a 24-hour donut shop and pray that you’d manage to leave before the 3 AM drunks began to pour in through the doors. This had been your reality for the past three weeks, four days, and seven hours.
Tonight marked the end of all that–after you double-checked all of the arrangements, you were free. Knowing that the planning was done and that you could finally relax should’ve been a reason for celebration. Well, it wasn’t. Not because you were a sucker for suffering and certainly not because two hours of sleep was the perfect amount you needed in order to teach a class full of hormonal teenagers. No, it was because, despite the long hours and constant stress of the whole process, you actually enjoyed spending time with the grumpy teacher of 2-A.
Shinso and you weren’t friends in the traditional sense of the word—you only ever interacted at school and in these little meetings. Even so, your banter was famous at U.A. In the halls, the classrooms, the training grounds–everywhere you met, the two of you were at each other’s necks. Sure, it might’ve had something to do with your drastically different teaching styles–he was waymore of a disciplinarian than you were–but the truth was, it probably because Shinso was the only person you knew with a wit sharp enough to match your own.
“I thought I saw you crack a smile at the sports festival. Congratulations, I didn’t know ‘Shinso-sensei’ was capable of experiencing actual human emotion.”
“Clever, clever. Maybe if you directed a fraction of the energy you spend insulting me into actually teaching your class, then they’d be half-competent.”
However hostile the exchanges seemed, all of it was done in good fun–most of the time, you were snickering before you even got through your next comeback. Still, it was easy to see why some people might get the wrong idea. In your first month teaching, both of you were called in individually for a meeting with the principal. Apparently, however playful you knew your bickering to be, other teachers had a difficult time grasping the…intricacies of your humor. They thought that you and Shinso genuinely wanted to murder each other. Even after explaining the situation to Principal Nezu, however, he was adamant that the two of you put an end to the insults.
So naturally, the two of you acted like the smartasses you were and shot off to the opposite end of the spectrum. If you were gonna have to be nice, you were gonna do it your way, dammit.
“Wasn’t gonna stop by, but after seeing those class rankings, I just had to. You should be SO proud. One student in the top thirty? Wow, what an improvement.”
“Thanks, Shinso. I really appreciate you walking all the way to my classroom to tell me that. God, I’m sorry for getting distracted, but can’t help asking: How much sleep did you get last night? Because I am LIVING for those dark circles.”
You can’t be sure when exactly you started anticipating your little encounters, when it was that hearing the sound of his voice became the highlight of your day. You don’t know when realized you liked him–beyond the whole “friendship” or “professional admiration” sort of stuff. Sure, the man was fatalistic, arrogant, and liked to pretend that he was apathetic towards just about everything, but there was more to him than that. You saw the way he worried over his students–how he’d spent nearly the entire provisional license exam clenching onto the edge of his seat, his knuckles white. Then, there was his talent for committing the tiniest things to memory. Trivial things, like how your favorite color was purple. After you’d mentioned it offhandedly in one of your little “arguments,” you found that every written reminder from him (“Turn in this form today” or “Midterms happening next month”) came on a distinctive, lilac-tinted sticky-note. He was paying attention. Maybe it was wishful thinking on your part, but that was the first sign you noticed that, maybe, he liked you too.
So as you sat in that cheap old donut shop, wrapping up your last “planning night” together, you decided to take the leap.
“If you aren’t too busy scheming up new ways to crush your students’ spirits, then we should meet up again tomorrow.”
“Why, did we forget something?” Shinso groans, flipping through his papers. “Cots? Food?” He takes another swig of his coffee. “The students are old enough to figure it out. A couple days of roughing it won’t kill them.”
“Harsh. But no, that’s not it. I’m completely over work; I was imagining something a little more casual.” You swallow hard, willing yourself to follow through. You’ve thought about this for way too long to chicken out now. “Something more date-like.”
Shinso peeks up at you out of the corner of his eye. He stares for a moment, then he leans back in his chair, fiddling with the plastic tab on the lid of his drink.
“I might have to pass on that. I’ve got a girl waiting up for me back home, and the longer I’m out, the pissier she gets.”
You can feel the red-hot flush as it creeps across your face, coloring every inch of your skin. God, you probably looked like some sort of overripe tomato. In a frantic attempt to hide, you take a large gulp from your cup and hold it up against the bottom half of your face, even when you’re done. Your hot chocolate doesn’t taste sweet anymore–it’s bitter and leaves a chalky, burning feeling in your throat. Then again, that could be embarrassment setting in.
“Oh.” It’s a struggle to keep your voice level–a struggle that you lose. Diffusing the situation with humor isn’t even an option–you were smart dammit, but you couldn’t focus for long enough to say something even remotely thought-out.“I had no idea…I didn’t mean–”
“It’s alright.” Thankfully, he cuts off your stammering before you make an even bigger fool of yourself. “Not many people know about her; She’s not so good with strangers.” He places his coffee down on the tabletop.
“That’s awesome.” You mumble through a pathetic, fake smile.
Stop it, that little voice in your head warns.
“Not the, uh, stranger part. That’s unfortunate.”
Please shut up. For God’s sake, you still have to WORK with this dude.
“It’s cool that you’ve got someone.”
Just get up and leave while you still can. Fake a phone call. A heart attack. ANYTHING.
“More than some people can say, haha.”
Awesome. If he didn’t already think you were desperate, he sure does now.
You finally listen, stopping yourself before any more word-vomit can escape your lips. The damage has already been done, though. Men cackle boisterously at a table to your right. A barista drones through a generic list of house specials for a customer. The espresso machine hisses and bubbles angrily. But you and Shinso sit in complete silence. You pretend to be utterly fascinated by the lip of your cup, folding the edge up and down. Really, you just needed something to stare at. Something that wasn’t him.
“Want to meet her?”
The air gets caught in your throat as you inhale, and you let out an incredibly obvious, choked cough. “Excuse me?” Hiding your shock is off the table now. Then again, you’d already managed to make a fool of yourself–how much worse could it really get?
“Do you want to meet my kitten?” He speaks slowly, stressing each individual word, but you’re still at a loss. “I actually think she might like you.”
Things were getting really weird, really fast. Surely, he had to know that the proposition was absolutely insane. As it stood, all you wanted to do was go home and curl up on your sofa–pretend you’d never bumped into him and drown your humiliation with a bottle of cheap grocery store wine and a pint of ice cream. If you were lucky, you’d sleep through your alarm. At least then you wouldn’t have to see those indigo eyes tomorrow morning, wouldn’t have to pass him in the halls pretend everything was fine. The two of you would squabble, as always. He’d leave his sticky notes, as always. Maybe, if you were lucky, they’d still be purple. Hell, it wasn’t like the color actually meant anything, after all.
The more you think about it, the more the self-pity festers, becoming something else. Frustration. Was the moron possessed? What on earth would make him even entertain the thought that you’d want to meet his “kitten” (even thinking about the pet-name made you want to gag)? He’d rejected you. That should’ve been the end of it; He should’ve just let you skulk off and ponder past sins–the reasons why the universe saw fit punish you with the curse of boldness and bad timing.
Of course, Shinso hadn’t said no to you outright. Still, he’d made it very clear that he was taken. He had a girlfriend.
…except, he’d never really said that any of that. You’d just filled in the blanks. After all, that was the only possible–
“How are you with fur?” He cuts off your thought with another question.
And it clicks. The absurd, ridiculous, impossible idea that you hadn’t even noticed percolating at the back of your mind suddenly becomes plausible–logical even. You forget about your assumption, opting instead to act on what you know. Verbatim.
His girl.
His kitten.
“Hitoshi Shinso.” No, it couldn’t be true. You were just being insane. Wishful.
“Yes?” It’s drawn out, teasing. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“I know you’re not talking about your actual cat. Because if you are, so help me god, I will endyou.”
He cocks up an eyebrow, smirking. “Promise?”
The bastard.
You bury your face in your hands, dumbfounded. You don’t know whether you should get angry or laugh or just breathe. When you peek through your fingers at Shinso, he at least has the decency to look a little guilty–emphasis on a little.
“In my defense, I thought you’d figure it out quicker than that.”
“In my defense, I’ve never heard a man use his pet as an excuse not to go on a date.”
There’s another silence, but it’s a different sort from the first. Less uncomfortable–still a bit awkward, but more pensive than before. Shinso stretches against the back of his chair, staring at the ceiling. You shift in your seat and peer out the window.
Shinso is the first to speak.
“I’m free all day Sunday.”
You turn towards him, shaking your head, incredulous. But when you look up, his expression isn’t mocking or cocky. He’s using his palm to almost completely cover the bottom half of his face–you can’t even see his mouth behind it. His other arm is curled tight around his stomach, like he’s trying to protect himself from some imaginary punch to the gut. The posture was all-too-recognizable. The man was nervous. Just like you’d been when you’d asked him.
Part of you was thrilled that everything had managed to work out, even if it’d taken longer than you’d expected to reach this point. But then, there’s also an ounce of bitterness left in that petty, petty heart of yours. Not enough to leave Shinso sitting in agony for too long, but certainly enough to draw out his suffering the slightest bit. You weren’t going to make things easy for him after he’d tortured you with his little joke.
You fold your arms across your chest and let your jaw shift to one side. “I don’t know, is your catreally gonna be okay with that? Wouldn’t want her getting jealous or anything.”
“I’ll get her permission tonight.” A quick response. Even if the words seem playful, his voice is brittle, on edge. “So?”
You suck in air over your teeth, resting your elbows on the tabletop and resting your thumbs beneath your chin. “Well, I’ve never been the best at sharing.”
Shinso catches onto your act, letting the hand fall away from his mouth. He breathes in a long, deep breath through his nose. The corner of his lip twitches and twists upward.
“I’m afraid my little girl and I are a package deal.” He slides his papers to the side and leans forward, mimicking your posture.
“Can I at least know the name of my competition?” You ask with an upward lilt on the final word.
“Bean.”
You laugh out loud, despite your best efforts to seem serious and seductive. Bean. Never in a thousand years would you ever even consider that a little fur-ball named Bean would cause you so much trouble.
“And you’re sure you’re not down to negotiate?”
“No. This is an all-or-nothing sort of deal.”
“Ouch. With baggage like that, it’s no wonder you’re still single, Shinso.” You try not to get distracted by the closeness of your faces. It’s difficult considering the fact that your forearms are practically pressed against each other. The tiny size of the café table is beginning to show. “Do people usually pack up and leave once you’ve stated your terms?”
There’s a pause as his gaze flits between each of your eyes. “I wouldn’t know, none of them have ever made it this far.”
Oh. You can’t tell if he’s being serious, or if he’s just that smooth. Either way, your pulse quickens. It doesn’t help that your faces are mere inches apart. You can count each of his eyelashes, smell the coffee on his breath, feel the warmth radiating off his skin. He has you completely intoxicated by his presence; It makes you reckless.
“So I’m special.” Not a question–an observation.
He purses his lips, then smiles. “I guess you are.”
That’s it. Something about the way he says the words–without a hint of sarcasm or insincerity–shakes you to your very core. You feel the heat in your neck first, feeling it sear your skin as it creeps up to your cheeks and ears. Then comes the buzzing in your skull, the frantic thudding of your heart in your chest.
“So?” He says it softly, like he’s afraid to actually hear your response. For all the reluctance in his voice, Shinso himself is bold. Before you even know what’s happening, he’s reaching across the almost-nonexistent space between the two of you, his hand hovering beside the place where your fingers rest on your cheek.
“ ‘So,’ what? You didn’t ask a question.” You’re hyper-aware of everything–the temperature of the air, the subtle tremble in his arm, your own shallow breathing.
“You understood what I meant, though.”
His hand inches in closer, and when finally feel it dust over the side of your palm–experience the jolt of pure electricity that sparks through you where his skin meets yours–you almost forget to make things draw things out. Almost.
“If you were hoping I’d agree to go out with you, then prepare for disappointment.” When his fingers edge in beneath your own, gently coaxing your palm away from your cheek, your breathing hitches involuntarily. You press on anyway. “My houseplant doesn’t like it when I spend time with other guys.”
He huffs, and you can tell he’s trying not to smile. “Come on. I’m being serious now.”
He drags your hand down to the table, laying it palm up. His fingers start at your wrist, tracing over the shallow creases in your palm. Slowly, deliberately–like he’s trying to commit each line to memory. When you look up at his face, it really does look like he’s studying; His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, his lips pulled off to one side of his face. A strand of hair floats down in front of his eyes, but he ignores it. It’d be easy to believe he thought there was nothing more important at that moment than the shape of your hand beneath his fingers.
Your heart is done being petty. You cut straight to the part where you stop playing hard-to-get and actually say what you want.
“You are single, right?” You curl your fingers and catch his hand, putting an end to its exploring. “I mean, besides the live-in-home cat-girlfriend.”
He lifts his eyes up from the table, laughing. “Yeah, I am.”
You exhale, relieved. “Good, I just had to make sure.” You don’t even consider prying your hand away from his. Instead, you remove your other one from your cheek and gesture outwards towards Shinso. “Give me your phone.”
He doesn’t hesitate to obey, reaching into his pocket (notably, with his free hand) and practically tossing his phone into your outstretched palm. You begin entering your number.
“Seriously, though, the next time you scare me like that, I’ll sic my class on you.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Right, because I’m absolutely terrified of class 2-B.”
“You should be.” You check the newly-entered contact and hand him back his phone. “They’re crazy strong, and they actually like me. Not like those 2-A thralls you train.”
“One of your students was sent to the clinic last week for getting his arm stuck in a locker. Not even two days later, another one gave herself a concussion because she tried to jump in the conveyer belt for lunch trays.” He leans forward, going to slide his phone back into his pocket. “Like I said: I’m terrified.”
You pretend to be annoyed at the jab, but really, you’re too over-the-moon to be even a little convincing. Really, you could’ve gone back and forth with him all night. You could’ve insisted that your class was superior–that they were intelligent and creative and street-smart, but Shinso probably already knew that; This was all just another act meant to get a rise out of you. It might’ve worked, but tonight, you’re too willing to let him get away with more than usual.
When you get home that night, you get a text from an unregistered number. It’s a photo message–an image of a puny little calico kitten lounging on top of a sofa, staring intently into the camera. The next text comes in about thirty seconds later. It was less than ten words long, but it made you burst into a fit of giggles all the same.
As you can see, you’ve got some stiff competition.