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Like most moments of casual reckoning between Class 1-A and Aizawa, it started with Kaminari being stupid.
Shinsou had been finishing up the first half of the day’s homework during their study period. He was new to the class, he felt the weight of his reassignment on his shoulders, and there were still moments of I need to keep my head down so they don’t kick me out. Most of the class did homework for about five minutes before they eventually broke off into groups, making plans for the weekend, gossiping, or cramming for an upcoming quiz.
“I don’t know, you really think Present Mic could handle himself without his voice?” Kaminari was loud, the way he’d be when he was way too confident about something. Shinsou froze and his eyes darted to the front of the class. Kaminari didn’t notice the tension in the room as he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Why would he need to? He’s got a killer Quirk, it’s not like he’d ever need to be good at hand-to-hand. Right, guys?”
No one dared to respond.
Aizawa didn’t so much as quirk an eyebrow, his eyes cast down at their essays from the beginning of the week, only pausing to send out the occasional text.
“Maybe he didn’t hear,” Midoriya whispered, but didn’t sound very confident.
Kaminari opened his eyes.
“What, what did I say—?”
“Shut up, idiot.” Bakugou snarled.
Everyone held their breath, shoulders tight and waiting for Aizawa to reprimand them. A cheery ping from Aizawa’s phone made all of them jump. His eyes finally left the essays.
“I’ve arranged for all of you to take a supplemental hand-to-hand combat course. It starts Thursday after the last class. I will see all of you promptly at the gymnasium, understood?”
Shinsou let out a relieved breath. Kaminari yelped when Bakugou kicked the back of his chair, and everyone ignored his “what, what did I do?”
::::
Shouta didn’t think much of Hizashi when he first saw him. He was just another person in the way, standing between a place in the Hero Course and wasting away in General Studies.
He didn’t feel remorse when he moved quickly, not giving the kid a chance to blink. The boy’s fingers had barely landed on his own throat when Shouta’s fist connected with his face, another following up to his stomach. He kept his eyes open, he kept his Quirk up, and as his opponent stumbled, Shouta hit him twice in quick succession against his abdomen. The first punch shoved air out of the boy’s lungs, and the second traumatized his diaphragm, knocking the wind out of him as he fell out of bounds.
“Shouta Aizawa of General Studies wins,” a crowd of thousands began to shriek as the announcer took a fantic breath, “Aizawa wins the Sports Tournament after knocking out Hizashi Yamada!”
The stadium roared, and Shouta clenched his fists, trying to find the principal in the crowd. His heart hammered in his chest. He’d practiced. He’d practiced ever since he’d failed the entrance exam, and he had his argument memorized. He just proved to the world that he had a place in the hero course, all he had to do was—
A hand fell on Shouta’s shoulder. He was spun around, and he was face-to-face the brightest green eyes he’d ever seen.
“That was incredible!” Shouta didn’t know where to look first, to the gravity-defying blonde hair, bright red blood dripping down the boy’s nose, or how warm his hands were as he grabbed Shouta’s. “We should spar! Practice makes perfect, and man, you were pretty perfect.”
Shouta would later realize the irony that suddenly he was the one who couldn’t speak. His cheeks were hot and he felt like his axis had been knocked aside with a bloodstained grin and a handshake.
He squeezed Hizashi’s hand and nodded, hoping it was hard enough that the other man wouldn’t notice him trembling.
::::
Shinsou wasn’t sure what he was expecting when Aizawa opened the gymnasium doors. He knew the Hero Course was full of obstacles, puzzles, and intensive Quirk training. Anything could be waiting for them behind the doors.
He wasn’t expecting soft mats and a slender blonde man dressed in tights and a loose tank top.
Judging by the way the class clustered by the door, they weren’t expecting it either.
“Who is that?” Ashido hissed to Uraraka. “Have you seen them before?”
Aizawa pushed them inside with an annoyed huff. A few of them stumbled, not knowing where to stare first, at the wooden bars elevated from the padded floor, at the man’s long but muscled legs in tights, or the long blonde hair that he quickly snatched up into a lazy bun. Shinsou kept the unease off his face even when Jirou gasped.
“Present Mic?”
“Hello-o, listeners!” Yamada crowed. He looked so different without his speaker and black leather clothes. He seemed taller, lighter on his feet as he took the time to ruffle their hair, clap their shoulders. As his knuckles gently pushed against Shinsou’s arm, he grinned over their heads at Aizawa. “I hope they’re ready for intense work today.”
Aizawa huffed from behind them.
“Yamada has taken time out of his very busy schedule to work on your hand-to-hand. You will pay attention and treat the time you have with him with respect.”
Shinsou shivered at the frosty tones in their teacher’s voice, which was immediately swept away with Yamada’s carefree grin.
“Don’t worry about him, he’s so serious.” He winked at them. “We’ll start with stretches and in twenty minutes we’ll move onto ballet.”
“Did he say ballet,” Midoriya whispered, elbowing Shinsou’s side. “Like… dancing?”
“Lucky for you kids, you’re already training your bodies every day. If you hadn’t been, this would be a lot harder.” Yamada’s grin widened and Shinsou felt a chill spread down his spine, as he and the rest of his class swallowed. “And it’s going to be tough, believe me.”
::::
Shouta told people that Hizashi never gave him a choice in their friendship. He’d claim he didn’t want to spend the energy it would take to separate himself from such a hyperactive loud-mouth, that it was easier to just go with it. To excuse their weekly sparring meet-ups after school, Shouta said he tutored Hizashi at math, and in exchange he got help with English. He never mentioned that they both worked as fast as they could through homework, their handwriting shaky until they were finally finished and ready to fight.
Only Shouta knew that he’d been lost the moment Hizashi had grinned at him like a madman after getting knocked out at the Sports Festival.
“Done.” Hizashi tossed his notebooks to the side. He was up on his feet before Aizawa could put his pencil down. “Ready?”
Shouta shrugged, keeping his face slack and unimpressed despite how his heart raced. He kicked off his shoes and took off the first layer of his uniform. After their first session, he knew it only got in the way and restricted his shoulders too much. The light tank-top underneath gave him more room for movement.
Their styles were different. Shouta liked conserving his movement, saving energy for one big hit, and keeping his feet firmly on the ground. Hizashi moved like mercury, light on his feet and so flexible it was distracting.
Shouta forced himself to focus as Hizashi used his own momentum against him. He dug the balls of his feet into the mat and pushed himself backwards, colliding with Hizashi and dragging him to the floor. Keep him close, Shouta thought, jaw clenched tight when Hizashi spun onto his stomach quickly, getting ready to push off the mat into a run. Don’t give him an inch.
Shouta dug his fingers into Hizashi’s thigh. Hizashi let out a mixture of a squeal and a laugh as Shouta turned him over onto his back, relying on his strength to keep Hizashi in place, his knees bracketing Hizashi’s hips. Their breath heaved out of their lungs. Hizashi tested Shouta’s hold on his wrists and Shouta leaned down, pushing him into the mat.
“Got you—”
Hizashi raised his knees and spread them, offsetting Shouta’s balance. He flipped them quickly, Shouta’s back smacking against the mat. Before he could think to move, knees pressed down on his upper arms and fingers brushed across his neck.
“I win.”
Shouta grimaced, trying to push against Hizashi’s weight, to twist to maybe throw him off balance, but with no success. He frowned and couldn’t meet those bright green eyes and luminous grin.
“Okay fine.”
Hizashi rolled off him, laughing victoriously. Shouta sat up, crossing his legs and willing his heart to slow down. Every brush of clothes against his skin sent zig-zags of prickly pleasure down his spine. He knew his cheeks were hot, and Hizashi wasn’t dumb. He was loud, he acted like an airhead, but Shouta knew Hizashi was at the top of their class. He’ll figure it out, Shouta swallowed hard as he watched Hizashi roll out his shoulders.
If he hasn’t already.
The doors to the gym opened with a bang. Shouta glanced over while Hizashi flinched. The group of students looked surprised and then relieved.
“Hey guys,” Hizashi tilted his head to the side. “We got this gym for another twenty minutes.”
“Uh, we know.” One of the girls cleared her throat. “It’s just, we thought you were, uh… it sounded like…”
She trailed off. Shouta looked at Hizashi. Hizashi shrugged. One of the boys rolled his eyes.
“It sounded like you two were fucking in here.”
Shouta’s stomach dropped out and Hizashi’s face bloomed scarlet.
“We weren’t—” Hizashi’s voice cracked, raising to a painful pitch before Hizashi slammed his hands over his own mouth.
Shouta leveled the group with a glare.
“We are sparring and our time isn’t up yet.” The girl bowed apologetically, her face pink, and the doors closed. Hizashi was still red in the face. Shouta swallowed, his shoulders tight. “Next time we’ll play music. Loud enough, so they won’t make the same mistake.” Hizashi took his hands away from his mouth, and Shouta couldn’t read the expression on his face. It made his stomach twist into knots. “Sound good?”
Hizashi nodded.
“Yeah. Totally.” He flashed a bright smile and a thumbs up. “Sounds totally good.”
Shouta let out a breath. He still felt tension, like a string between them had been wound too tight. He sometimes wished he was better at people, and most of those times involved Hizashi.
“You promised to tell me how you move.”
Hizashi’s eyes slid back to his, his cheeks flushed a light pink.
“I said I’d tell you if you won.” Shouta pouted, and Hizashi held up his hands. “All right, all right. But you have to promise not to tell anyone.”
Shouta rolled his eyes.
“I promise.”
Hizashi stuck out his fist, pinky extended. Shouta sighed, and met it, wrapping his smallest finger around Hizashi’s. Hizashi smiled and leaned in close, his breath brushing against Shouta’s ear.
“Ballet.”
::::
Sweat dripped down Shinsou’s back. His limbs shook, his muscles burned, and he struggled to keep air in his lungs. He would have been embarrassed, but everyone else in 1-A struggled to keep their posture, form, and movements to match Yamada’s.
“Being a hero is about control. The more control a hero has over their body and Quirk, the better they will be. Hand-to-hand is important, because relying too heavily on our own Quirk will tip the scales.” Yamada had them on the barres, standing straight, arm lightly extended to keep their balance as they lifted their legs slowly from their body. “Ballet helped open my joints at a young age. It will help with flexibility, and keeping your head on your shoulders if you take a hard hit.”
He pushed himself off the barre and did a quick spin, his head moving at a different speed than the rest of his body, his eyes trained at a single point.
The movement made Shinsou dizzy.
It was the third afternoon of Yamada’s supplement training, and Shinsou wondered if he’d still wake up with stiff limbs a month from now.
After their second hydration break, Yamada had them step away from the bars and go to the long stretch of uninterrupted mat in front of a long mirror.
“We’re going to do pique turns across the room, that’s a turn,” Yamada demonstrated, popping up on his toes with alarming ease as he turned, chest out and arm curved in front of his middle. “Keep your head focused on a point, this is going to keep you centered if you’re taking a hard hit.” He turned and his head lingered then snapped like a whip to realign with his body. Uraraka’s cheeks went green and Kirishima’s jaw was on the floor. Shinsou knew the feeling. “Okay,” Yamada chirped, ripping them out of their nauseated apprehension, “who wants to go first?”
No one said anything for a few tense seconds, until Bakugou huffed.
“Whatever, extras. We’re gonna be heroes, this isn’t hard.”
Yamada’s smile turned on its axis before he clapped his hand on Bakugou’s shoulder.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm. Let’s see your best shot!”
Bakugou went in with a jutted out chin and a confident swagger. By the time Yamada was done correcting posture, improving his movement, and teaching him how to keep his eyes on a proper focus point, Bakugou’s knees were shaking and his shirt was drenched.
“All right,” Yamada clapped his hands together. “Who’s next?”
::::
Summer was approaching. Shouta and Hizashi refused to acknowledge it.
They’d walk home together after school, even though they lived in neighborhoods in different directions. It always began with a slow walk along the canals to the train station, and then killing even more time as train after train passed them by, each of them taking turns insisting they’d catch the next one. Shouta wondered when it started, which one of them began walking slower along the canals, who let the first train leave the station… or if it was a mutual unspoken agreement. Both of them, quietly, made adjustments so that they could spend more and more time together.
Shouta’s footfalls dragged along the canal, his school bag hanging loose across his shoulders. Hizashi was on the ledge, aimlessly skipping rocks along the shallow water.
“It’s weird to think about what people did before getting Quirks.” Hizashi twisted around to catch Shouta’s eyes, like he had to check to see that Shouta was still there, still paying attention. It felt like getting caught, that Hizashi had to notice, had to know that Shouta never looked away, never looked anywhere else. “Ballet, for example.”
Hizashi’s ankle wobbled after a particularly swift stone toss. Shouta grabbed his arm before he could hurt himself, pulling him further up the bank.
“What does ballet have to do with Quirks?”
Hizashi rolled his eyes as Shouta dragged him back onto the paved sidewalk.
“Nothing, technically. It just hurts a lot.” Hizashi spun the way he would when they’d practice in the gym, dizzying turns as Shouta kept his slow pace at his side. “Like, people did stuff like this, up on their toes,” Hizashi rose up briefly on the tips of his toes before he winced and returned to the ground. “They did pirouttes, plies, tour en laires, all of it with no instant heal medics on the side. It makes your toenails fall off and gives you arthritis before your forty.”
Everyone knew Hizashi liked to declare his victories in English, but not a lot of people knew he was well-versed in French, mostly from his background in ballet.
Shouta thought of all the things he knew about Hizashi that others didn’t. Whenever he thought too long about it, his fingertips would ache deep to the bone.
“To them, it was worth the damage.” Hizashi pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, leaving them a little crooked when he nudged Shouta’s elbow. “Hard to believe, right?”
They were getting close to the last underpass. The train station would be next. Shouta wondered how many trains he could keep letting pass, how many tangents they could cook up together to desperately try to elongate time.
“Not really.” Hizashi hummed and the words spilled out of Shouta’s mouth before he had time to think. “If it’s worth it, if it’s something someone loves, then it’s worth the pain.”
Back at school there were a thousand things to worry about. People walking into the gymnasium before their time was up, teachers passing by, a million reasons not to acknowledge the shared glances, the way their fingers would bump together in a way that sent sparks down Shouta’s vertebrae.
A car passed overhead, and between the rumbles on the overpass, soft lips pressed against Shouta’s.
It was short, a half-breath of contact, a bundle of nerves that stung Shouta’s lips. He barely had time to think before Hizashi pulled back, his fingers gentle against Shouta’s cheeks.
“Was that okay? I should have asked first, I’m sorry, I just thought—”
Shouta pulled him closer and their second kiss was longer. Shared breaths puffed between them. A calloused thumb chased heat along Hizashi’s cheek. Shouta thought the first kiss would be like a bandaid, a quick sensation that would make everything easier, that eventually his heartbeat would slow back to normal, and his skin would stop singing.
Four kisses later, Shouta stopped waiting for the butterflies to go away. Hizashi’s tongue was shy and clumsy. When Shouta pulled back after kiss number eight, Hizashi swayed on his feet.
“Wow.” Hizashi’s breath was shallow, and he giggled when Shouta wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I, uh, I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”
Shouta had barely said, “Me too,” before Hizashi hugged him, picking him up and spinning him around. Summer was coming, their first school year was ending, but it wasn’t scary anymore.
On the fourth spin Shouta pressed a kiss to Hizashi’s cheek.
::::
It seemed fitting that the ballet classes began because of Kaminari, and that at the end of a lesson Kaminari was the catalyst to a change in perspective.
“Yamada-sensei,” Kaminari wheezed with the rest of them, sucking down water with jellied legs, “does this really help with hand-to-hand?”
Shinsou hated to admit that Kaminari had a point. They’d spent days doing drills, perfecting their posture and opening their joints. It hurt, but they hadn’t so much as sparred yet.
“Hm.” Yamada pressed his lips together. “I guess you have a point. How about an example?”
Immediately there was a chorus of protests, Shinsou joining in because come on, they’d all been practicing for hours, he still needed to drink another three bottles of water before he could get back on his feet. Yamada held up his hands, a sheepish smile on his face.
“Don’t worry, listeners. You’re still learning. Eraser!” Shinsou’s head swiveled back to their teacher. He’d been sitting cross-legged in the corner of the room, either asleep or grading, he was too far away to tell. “Your students would like to see an example of ballet coming to use in combat. Want to spar me, or are you too rusty?”
Shinsou swallowed a snicker at the goading in Yamada’s voice, bravado that broke off into laughter. It was contagious, smiles breaking out on the rest of 1-A’s faces even as Aizawa stood up.
“Fine.” Aizawa left his capture weapon with his grading. Yamada pumped his fist as Aizawa reached up to his own neck and unclasped a necklace. A gold ring hung from it. “Shinsou, keep an eye on this for me.” He dropped the necklace in Shinsou’s hands before he fixed the class with a serious gaze. “Pay attention. I’m only doing this once.”
In the sea of “Yes, sensei,” Shinsou almost missed Yamada sliding a ring off his finger and placing it in Uraraka’s palm with a cheerful, “hold onto this for me, listener.”
Yamada tossed Aizawa a hairband. Aizawa tied up his hair, and the moment he took his hands down, his posture changed. His shoulders dropped and a crooked smile spread across his face.
Goosebumps broke out across Shinsou’s arms when he saw a matching smile on Yamada’s lips, their breaths falling into synch with each other before they kicked off the match.