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They don’t use quirks when they spar like this, long after the day’s gone to bed, so Hitoshi doesn’t bother with chitchat. His mouth is his greatest weapon, but Aizawa never takes the bait, and since his quirk doesn’t work anymore, it doesn’t seem fair for Hitoshi to use his. He’s never relished an unearned advantage.
To account for Aizawa’s missing leg, Hitoshi sacrifices something of his own. His eyes, sometimes, with a blindfold, or his ear with plugs. Tonight, it’s his arms, tied behind his back with a spare length of rope. Aizawa stands before him, capture weapon at the ready.
Hitoshi’s gotten good at handling it, but Aizawa will always be better. If Hitoshi gets within ten feet of him, he’s done for. Unless he’s fast. It’s like bringing a knife to a gunfight—the old cliché says it’s a bad idea, but within twenty-one feet, the knife wins. Hitoshi’s quick on his feet, and he has one advantage he’s definitely earned: he knows Aizawa’s mind like his own.
He puts his head down and charges. Aizawa’s eye flashes—he’s annoyed—and he lashes out with the weapon, arm cutting through the air. He aims for Hitoshi’s ankles, but Hitoshi expected this. He waits, waits, waits for the perfect time to jump and skips over the weapon like he’s playing double dutch. From there, he’s past the strike zone. He drops his shoulder and drives it into Aizawa’s chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and his body to the ground. Hitoshi follows him down, locking his legs around Aizawa’s to keep him on the floor.
Too late for it to make a difference in their fight, he unties the rope around his wrist and presses a hand flat to Aizawa’s sternum, feeling his chest heave as he tries to catch his breath. “I win,” Hitoshi says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Aizawa mutters. Hitoshi hops up and offers him a hand. “Tackling people like you’re playing American football won’t always work, you know.”
“It worked this time.”
“You cut corners. Most villains have quirks they’d be happy to try out on you. Getting close isn’t often to your advantage.”
“I hear you,” Hitoshi says. “But I was also nice and kept the rope on. I could have just taken it off and punched you.”
That earns him a faint smile. “Fair enough,” Aizawa says. He glances at the clock on the wall. It’s well past midnight. “That’s plenty for tonight. You going to shower?”
“No, I’ll just change.” Aizawa holds out the key for him to lock up with. “Actually, would you mind waiting? I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Sure. Don’t take all night.”
“I’ll be quick,” Hitoshi promises. He hurries off towards the locker room.
He strips out of his costume and changes into street clothes, jeans and a black sweater. His hair’s a mess; he untangles what he can with his fingers. At the sink, he splashes cold water on his face, trying to cool the splotches of red that colour his cheeks. The water doesn’t help much, but it doesn’t really matter. With what he’s about to do, the flush is sure to return.
He puts on his coat and gathers his things. Back in the gym, Aizawa has turned the lights off and is leaning against the wall, staring into the darkness. Hitoshi opens the door. “Let’s go outside.”
The December cold bites at his skin, but it’s a nice feeling after their workout, sharp and exhilarating. Hitoshi leads Aizawa to a bench near the door, tucked into a copse of trees. The nearest lamppost is far enough away that its light doesn’t reach them. No one walking by would know they were there, if there was anyone awake to walk by.
Hitoshi sits on Aizawa’s left, so he’s visible in his good eye. Aizawa crosses his arms against the chill. “So?”
“So…” Hitoshi echoes. He knows Aizawa doesn’t mince words, but he was hoping for a little more preamble. His heartbeat kicks up to a jittery allegro. “So, I’m graduating in three months.”
“Uh-huh. Are you nervous?”
“No. Well, yes and no. I guess I’m more excited than nervous.” He already has a job lined up, at a small agency that specializes in undercover work. Aizawa recommended him for it. “I’ll be happy to start working for real, but there are some things about this place I’ll miss, too.”
“Like your fascinating classmates?” Aizawa teases.
“Like this,” Hitoshi says. “Like you.”
Aizawa’s eye flashes again, but it’s not irritation. It’s a warning. “I’ll miss teaching you, of course,” he says carefully.
“Oh, I won’t miss being your student,” Hitoshi clarifies. “I’ll just miss you. I—”
“Wait, Hitoshi—”
“Shouta, I—”
“Stop.”
The rest of the sentence, the important part, the I’m in love with you part, dies on Hitoshi’s tongue. “What?”
“Stop. You can’t—I cannot hear that from you.”
“Hear what?” Hitoshi feigns nonchalance, despite the icy grip panic currently has on his heart. “Maybe I was going to say I was hungry or something.”
“I know what you were going to say,” Aizawa says, his words clipped, “and I hope I’m being very clear when I tell you it’s a mistake. If you say that, all this”—he gestures at them, at the gym—“goes away. No more sparring, no more private lessons. You’ve put in too much work, and frankly, so have I, to throw it all away over something… regrettable.”
“You don’t get to decide what I will regret,” Hitoshi says.
Aizawa shakes his head. “You want to get yourself expelled from UA and ruin your future prospects, fine. Don’t involve me in it.”
He starts to rise, but Hitoshi grabs his sleeve and pulls him back down. “So that’s your objection? You think admitting how I feel will screw up my future?”
“My objection is that you’re my student, and you’re fifteen years younger than me—”
“Oh, that’s a relief, then,” Hitoshi says. “I thought the problem was that you weren’t interested.”
“That’s not—”
Hitoshi sees the moment he wins written across Aizawa’s face. Confusion turns to fury, and he snarls.
For once, he took the bait. Hitoshi could scream with satisfaction.
“Both of those objections are easily remedied,” Hitoshi continues. “I don’t give a shit about the age difference, and I’ll only be your student for another three months.”
Aizawa’s hands clench into fists. “Are you fucking pleased with yourself?”
“No.” Yes. “I’m sorry for forcing it out of you, but I knew you wouldn’t let me do things the simple way. You never do.”
“There is no simple way, Hitoshi.”
“So we’ll cut corners.”
“There are no more corners to cut. Do you have any idea how much grief you’ve already caused me?”
“None, but I can’t wait to find out.” Aizawa’s glare is murderous. “Sorry. Really, I am. Look, I’ll make this easy for you. I won’t mention this again until I leave UA. You don’t even have to spar with me anymore if you don’t want to. You’ve taught me enough already. But once I’m gone, just—just give me a chance, okay? Just hear me out.”
Aizawa slumps in his seat. He looks even more tired than usual. “Fine.”
“Okay. Fine.” The grin spreading across Hitoshi’s face isn’t tasteful, but he can’t help it. “Good. Thank you.”
“You are so not welcome.”
“I know. But thank you anyway.” He stands. “I’ll leave you alone now. Here, let me—” He puts out a hand to help Aizawa up again. Reluctantly, Aizawa accepts.
Hitoshi overcompensates. It’s an accident, really. All the adrenaline flooding his veins applied to the wrong action. He pulls too hard, and Aizawa stumbles. Hitoshi catches him with a hand on his shoulder. They’re of a height now—Hitoshi actually has a centimetre or two on him. The same distance that separates their faces.
Neither of them moves. Warm breath clouds in the air between their mouths. Hitoshi breathes in, letting it wash over his lips. Then back out. Aizawa swallows, and Hitoshi watches his Adam’s apple rise and fall.
Hitoshi steps back. “Goodnight, sensei.” He leaves before Aizawa can reply.