Archive of Our Own

After an exceptionally long day spent holed up at UA teaching kids English, the last thing Hizashi wants to do is spend even more time stripping off his hero costume.

But, beggars can’t be choosers. Especially if they’re the exact reason why his husband has to say “I told you so” anytime a complaint works its way out of his mouth.

When the card clicks through the door and their ‘welcome home’ sound rings out from the camera facing the entrance, combat boots stepping onto the line separating Present Mic, Voice Hero extraordinaire, and Hizashi Yamada, adoring husband to 1, it’s all but a rush to clean himself up before the other gets home.

The stereo system he wears around his neck isn’t too much of a bother. It aches something fierce on his collarbones, sure, bruising it beyond simple black and blue nirvana on the days where the padding’s worn off and he hasn’t paid a trip to the support item department yet, to what would most certainly be to Shouta’s behest if he ever knew-- but it’s a light marvel.

Clunky? No.

Chunky? Yes.

Though, being split into two composing parts as it is, able to snap back into place together once he connects the inner mechanisms exposed underneath it, does lift a little weight off his shoulders.

Okay, he thinks, wincing as said shoulders meet air, maybe not literally.

But it tries. And like he’s always yammered onto 1-A, trying to dig some wisdom into their thick craniums, trying is always a fresh start.

Oh, but, also, the leather he’s donning at the moment? Not so fresh. The sweat would be practically plastered onto his skin like billboards if not for the inside bamboo of his jacket and matching pants soaking it up.

Shouta would call it disgusting. Hizashi would call it repulsive.

Present Mic would call it ‘fashionably convenient’, a ‘blessing in disguise’, stretch it all the way to a ‘hallmark of heroism’, and so that’s what they roll with.

He peels the clothing off him sparingly. Standing around in this genkan the entire day is not Hizashi’s idea of fun.

Shrugging it off like Shouta does his jumpsuit and capture scarf is all but a distant pipedream, however -- with sweat as a contender, the leather clings to skin like a baby afraid to take its eyes off its mother.

Said mother just trying to go to the bathroom to rinse down her hair. His hair.

A near groan leaves him at the idea. Smoothing down the yellow strands filled with combat gel (he foregoes the spray if he has more time, as some loose strands do pop off from beneath his headphones when spray’s involved) is a sensory nightmare and a half. Hizashi would fold if not for his image.

Hizashi loves the hairstyle. Since he was fourteen and just a hero-hopeful grasping for the title of ‘UA student’, it’s always been on the rocks. The baby blueprint.

He could rock a bun. Obviously. But does he want to? No. No! Only losers give into temptation. Victory is simultaneously not losing his mind teaching students who can’t mutter a lick of repeated English without slipping into puppy eyes and not turning villain over the idea of wearing his hair loose as Present Mic.

The belt comes next. Too easily. Suspiciously so.

Eyes straining, he pokes at it, noting the silver clasp and the punch holes; he’d have to upgrade to another punch hole. The implications are not lost on him.

What a fever dream. He’d just thought he’d been bugging out the whole day. Hadn’t some guy wolf-whistled at him on the way here? While he’d wanted to throw down with a DJ punch, Present Mic tossing himself into a self-made ring was a no-go, so he’d instead had to settle for a glare at the stranger and an exaggerated huff, had he seriously been--?

He pokes at it again.

Nope. It was fine. Just loose. Not too much to warrant concern.

Sighing, his gaze wanders to the living room just up ahead, before meandering off to the kitchen.

Sometimes being in here makes him feel like a tourist. He’s spent more time here asleep than awake-- Shouta, too, but at least it looks like he lives here, with his paperwork splayed on the kitchen counter and second laptop shut closed beside it.

Most of Hizashi’s supplies are stored away in the staffroom in his desk cabinets or displayed proudly on top of his desk.

The yellow music pouch he’d been gifted by his husband on a whim -- “I saw it before patrol and thought of you’, and the grand implications of such a statement had truly, utterly, crushed Hizashi in two, knowing Shouta would’ve had to carry it with him the whole way before trudging back home -- is still back at UA.

There’s pins he’d been gifted by students over the years punched into it. Holes where he’d taken some out to keep on his workbag. A matching cat pin he’d originally bought for Shouta but had accidentally bought two of, which had led him to conclude that it would be fine to keep one for himself, two, like those cheesy couples in those hallmark rom-coms, is the biggest one he has on there.

Photos of the UA faculty’s outings are framed on the shelf next to his monitor. Triumphant trophies of Yagi looking abashedly at the camera whilst he’s crowded by the rest of the staff on one of their drinking ventures; now that’d been fun. He’d laughed so hard he would’ve snorted blood like Yagi spits it. It’d certainly been a daze finding out just how unapologetically -- and simultaneously apologetic, the man a teddy bear -- human All Might was.

There are some other fun ones. As a joke, Snipe had managed to steal one of Ectoplasm’s prosthetic legs, causing the latter to send hordes of clones after him on spinning chairs. Now those were fun times. Horrifying if you were a certain gun man. But fun! He’d even gotten his licks in by stealing one himself in the chaos and rolling around on it, even if Shouta had nudged his shoulder and called him unashamedly childish, but, well, you can only steal a chair once. Nemuri had managed to snap a photo (blurry, but a photo nonetheless) and he’d snagged it for himself.

Thirteen managed to sweep him off his feet when they’d immediately clocked him and Shouta as a thing. Verbally, he hadn’t even come close to confirming it, not yet, but the flushed face he’d donned and she’d reported back to him was evident.

There’s a photo Shouta himself took around a corner of Hizashi spitting out water. And coming from Mr “I-don’t-do-things-I-don’t-want-to-do”, the fact that he’d even bothered was real bamboozling.

Some particular pieces lurk behind the monitor, though, sunlight a dream. But those weren’t for anybody’s eyes but his own.

Shouta’s on occasion, maybe. Nemuri’s if he feels sentimental enough to show her.

There’s pencils, coloured markers, wide varieties of stationary he’d collected over the years in tiny charming shops. Places Present Mic would have sneezed at if not for Hizashi clamping his nose shut.

Staplers corralled into dividers, a bright blue rotating caddy for the pens that make it into his hands for grading more often than not.

Chalk, on the rare instances that Nedzu doesn’t gleam his teeth to continue ferrying more supplies their way. Tape dispensers. Paper clips. Phone chargers and loose wires he’d scrabbled into his desk after the first time his phone had went dead during an emergency; there’s an extra power bank set aside for Shouta, which he’s never used, but it’s there.

Extra, water-proof nose strips for the time he’d smashed his nose into a pillar while he and Nemuri got their asses wasted, and hadn’t wanted to take his sunglasses off despite the pain.

Throat spray for his voice.

There’s sticky notes with Hizashi’s own doodles framed on top of the monitor. He’s not an idiot to write down passwords -- he keeps that handy dandy business in his planners -- but there are some log-ins that he uses for UA authentication.

Generally, it’s all his.

Generally, in a manner of speaking, it’s all tucked away at UA. Their home away from home.

Looking at Shouta’s things now, noticing that even the pitch black throwaway blanket’s tossed over the couch, pilling at the edges, a housewarming gift bought to warm a house he doesn’t come home long enough to warm himself… it makes him wonder.

Should he be ashamed of that?

Hizashi shakes his head in a laugh. He should get back to washing his hair.

“I’m home,” Shouta calls out, grunting.

In lieu of a hair dryer -- heat damage a killer -- Hizashi had opted for the safe route of air drying, throwing a towel around his shoulders before he’d brushed out the wet of his hair. It’d taken roughly 20 minutes to wash it, letting the gel simmer off in the hot waves thrashing down his body and fade into the steam fogging up the shower window, and then another 20 to apply the usual stop-and-go routine of shampoo, conditioner, the peach hair mask with keratin he throws on to soften it. It’d been a recommendation from his first co-producer at the radio station.

He’s curled up against the headboard, now, some wet spots on the sheets and pillow beneath him. Shouta would complain, but, oh well. It'll dry faster than he goes through his jelly pouches. 

“Hey, sweetheart!" he whistles out. When the quiet dredges on for too long, he guesses, "Long day?”

A pleasant pause.

“You could say that,” Hizashi hears grumbled out.

Voice under laced with a tone of irritation; affection lingering underneath it, Shouta continues, loudly, “These brats will be the death of me one of these days.”

Hizashi doesn’t elect to point out that they nearly had been. Bringing up the age old argument that is USJ is a low blow. The sentiment alone is code for “I love these kids,” and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t let Shouta have that win.

When Shouta walks into the bedroom from where he’s lounged, Hizashi pats the spot next to him on the mattress. “Come hither.”

Shouta rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest. The capture weapon and jumpsuit are quickly discarded-- his husband prefers showering after some nice loving. Hizashi would normally help him out of the clothing, ever the touchy one, but there are some days he recognizes Shouta wants to keep some of his independence.

Today must be one of those days, because Shouta doesn’t ask for any help. There’s no back-and-forth banter; a familiar show of dichotomy between them. There’s no show made of Shouta padding over to him and dropping his head into Hizashi’s lap. He just simply does it. Stripped down to an undershirt and his briefs.

The tendons in his fists are clenched at an angle before Hizashi unfurls them.

Low breathing fills out the room. Something that usually suggests sleep, rare as it is for Shouta to succumb to it immediately in Hizashi’s presence, but with his hearing he can pinpoint the hitch in it.

No chance.

“So,” Hizashi starts. Tap tap tap. His index finger brushes against Shouta’s scalp. “What’re we thinking of in this head of yours, oh mighty Eraserhead?”

The breathing levels out.

Though muffled, Shouta replies after a moment. “You’re so dramatic.”

Ah, so it is one of those days.

“And so curious,” he answers, a faint smile to his lips despite knowing Shouta’s not in a position to see such a thing, “What storm had its way with you today?”

Sliding his fingers through Shouta’s hair, Hizashi waits, patient, as he brushes through some of the mats.

Shouta doesn’t brush his hair as often as he’d like. Considers it ‘irrational’, to which Hizashi disagrees. Bald spots are a thing of the past, now, with how fast his hair grows, but they’ve had rows before about taking care of himself properly. Finding his husband curled over the sink in the middle of the night trying to quietly unknot the tangles himself wasn’t something Hizashi envied doing again.

There’s not too many knots this time. However, there’s still enough to spark a note of wonder; had Shouta run his fingers through it? Habitual, it is, for his husband to lift his hands up to his hair and slide the pads of his fingers through it, so it would be no surprise if--

“We went to USJ.”

Hizashi pauses. Clearing his throat, he chances a sound not quite a chuckle or a laugh, but teetering close to it. Should he find this funny? “They’re training for emergencies this week?”

An assenting hum vibrates against his chest. “Yeah. We’re working on their response time to natural disasters. The country’s notorious, rightfully so, for our hero response time in call and rescue. Nedzu figured it would be appropriate.”

He nods. Remembering himself and Shouta’s current ‘unseeing’ status, he coughs in acknowledgement. “Yeah.”

.

.

.

“You’re not going to ask?” Shouta asks, puzzled.

Prodding loudly is Present Mic’s thing.

“I figured ya were going to speak more,” he explains.

“Oh.”

Shouta shuffles against him, head tilting up to eye him, dim and nearly jet black irises regarding him with a lethargic air. Automatically, Hizashi reaches to cup his jaw, mind spinning with how fast his husband nuzzles into the palm, knowing he most definitely needed this.

His mind continues spinning. Tilting. A globe you whirl when you hop on your feet trying to point to the country you came from. Questions and ideas run into his head like paper airplanes. What’s Shouta building up to?

USJ’s a harsh topic, but it’s been months since Shouta had been upset when he’d brought it up, weeks since he himself had deigned not to take any mention of it to heart, and from the looks of things, it doesn’t seem like anything’s looming on the horizon. No students were reported to have gone to Recovery Girl -- Chiyo, he reminds himself, she would’ve smacked him otherwise -- today for serious injuries.

He’d checked on his way to her himself before he’d gone home; it’d just been Kirishima and Bakugou. Chiyo had even waved him off.

So it can’t be that. His husband would fight through hell’s gates if it meant keeping his students safe; USJ itself a strong contender. A promise. Even if it’s just injuries, it’s… well. A no-brainer.

“Class 1-A did well,” and Hizashi turns his attention back as his finger brushes over Shouta’s stubble, the latter’s gaze carefully studying him, not even able to hold a torch up to light the mere excitement in store for Shouta doing the equivalent of singing Class 1-A's praises, “They proved themselves to me. I told them they wouldn’t be able to hold up to 1-B’s record.”

He ventures on a snicker. “Using Kan’s tricks now, eh?”

Comparing Class 1-A to 1-B is the same as comparing apples and oranges: an empty threat.

Not that Shouta’s kids -- Hizashi’s kids, too, now, technically -- would know the difference between their Aizawa-sensei pulling their legs versus yanking on them.

“Kan’s methods are usually moronic, but not entirely obtuse,” Shouta comments. So, definitely taking a page from Kan’s book. “Besides, weren’t you the idiot who asked me to tone down the threats?”

Hizashi hums. “You can still expel them,” he suggests, regretting it instantly from the way Shouta’s eyes gleam with interest, “You just gotta have good cause.”

Good cause indeed. Telling the guy who expelled an entire class before bringing half of them back a few weeks later he has to have ‘good cause’ is the same thing as telling someone who likes oranges never to eat them again.

Hizashi knows some of the reasoning behind it -- certain rosters of students tend to slag behind and ruin the fun for everybody by taking heroics as a flat joke, and there’s much to testify on how much he himself despises such slackers for taking advantage of UA’s facilities to not commit fully, but taking it out on everyone by expelling an entire class?

Promising them a first death to ensure they don’t reach their second?

He’s never really been able to get behind it.

Nedzu seems to have taken to it, though, so, it can’t be anything stupid. Shouta doesn’t do anything he finds stupid.

“Tell me more about USJ,” he elects to ask. Before Shouta gets any more bright-eyed. As endearing as the expression is, the same could be said for stray cats, and fleas were a particular friend of those mangy felines.

Ugh. Bugs could kiss him in the ass.

A shudder courses through him like electricity. No, they shouldn’t, bugs should preferably stay away from him, millions of miles away, but--

Shouta’s head falls limp on his chest. Hizashi’s thoughts stutter midway to his brain. “We went through debris protocols.”

Oh.

“Debris protocols?” Hizashi asks. Strange way to put it.

“The usual rescue training,” Shouta explains, oddly cold. “The call and go kind.”

He nods like he understands. “Right.”

Call and go?

“Kaminari fried the breakers during the rescue,” and it’s added as an afterthought, as if it’s not what he’d intended on saying, softening a blow that never hit, “Thankfully, it only spread to one area.”

“The lights would’ve already been off ‘cause of the disasters themselves, right?” he questions, other hand reaching back to fondle Shouta’s hair.

A huff of agreement. His husband’s head keens into his fingers. “Yes. We simulated an earthquake. I had Thirteen use their quirk to spread more damage. I figured it would be a good experience for the students to face a scenario where they’d have to clear damage. Prioritize what to move.”

“Good call! They definitely need some more S and R in their life,” he grins. S and R - search and rescue. A term he'd coined in his youth.

Had Shouta turned it over? Wasn’t it just a picture of them both? Or…

The picture of them both is still facing the window. Their wedding day. Not anything grand. They’d gotten hitched at the nearest legal center, with three friends as witnesses.

Brightness and extravagance was Present Mic’s thing, and being Shouta’s partner was Hizashi’s, and he’d rather have something -- someone -- to hold.

That same someone burrows into his chest. Fist at the fabric of the maroon v-neck he’d shrugged on, the shoulders still surely moist from the towel sinking into it. He can feel the wetness sink into his skin and bite. “Todoroki’s ice and fire was too much for one of the buildings, and Kirishima got caught up in it as it toppled. Bakugou had to dig him out of the rubble.”

Three friends. They’d had three friends when they’d promised to love each other for the rest of their lives; Nemuri one such example. She’d giggled and made sweet but suggestive comments, Midnight showing her hand, and wished them all the best. Having fooled them both into buying the perfect engagement rings for each other, swindling them by saying nothing, she’d been the perfect guest.

Their other friend, Tensei, had bawled at the sight of them. Hizashi could count on one finger how many times they’d seen him succumb to crying, and two of them had been when someone had died. Vulnerability was not something he shied away from, but shedding tears? Not a thing for the Iida household.

At the legal office, they’d been confused when they’d brought a framed photo and asked one of the staff to hold it up, but that same confusion had quickly caved into a pitiful understanding when Nemuri had hushed them over into a corner to explain. It’d been attended to from that moment onwards.

Three friends had bore witness.

Hizashi looks back to Shouta. Stiffens when he realizes after losing himself, Shouta had sat up. Faced away from him. He’s got his legs hanging off the side of the bed. Hands plopped in his lap.

Looking away.

(“Standing on the edge of the world, or on the edge of a cliff… stopping a person who’s about to fall. “That guy” said that, some time ago.”)

Jittery, a hand reaches up to paw at the bruise forming on Hizashi’s collarbone. Sour as candy, grounding as it is floating, it pushes and pulls at him like a reminder to stay cheerful, gravity on his bones.

He tries not to be useless. Forces gusto into his voice, because that’s his forte.

“It turned out just fine in the end,” he points out. Hizashi elects not to use his quirk. Accidentally pitch up higher. Ears bleeding wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but he'd rather not add onto Shouta’s troubles. “They were talkin' lots when I checked up on ‘em both. Seemed okay to me. The bruises won't overstay their welcome, yeah? They're good. No harm, no foul."

“They were.”

Wincing is second-place to remaining testingly silent.

Continuing, Shouta heaves a sigh, sounding close and yet much too far. “Class 1-A helped as well. Bakugou just led the effort. Even evolved his quirk. Made it more useful in clearing up the rubble.”

Shouta huffs. Sounding almost smug, if not for the fatigue wearing it down, he adds, “He’s persistent, that brat. I’ll give him that. He’s come a long way.”

Since orientation? Since the anger had uprooted itself in the name of real concerning verbal violence? Since the Sports Festival when he’d put his all into beating down on Uraraka? Since everything?

There’s a lot of sinces, but none important enough to keep in mind, as Hizashi’s train of thought hits a lever and moves railways to a place with cloudier skies.

Shouta’s practically screaming the answer his way. If Voice weren’t stirring in his vocal cords and chest right now, a guest never paying rent and always lounging on the commune couch, he’d mistake Shouta for having his quirk.

‘He managed to do what I couldn’t’, is what Shouta is saying.

Lifting himself, towel fleeing from his shoulders onto the mattress as he shuffles forward in a crawl, planting himself to sit next to his husband. Closing the distance, languidly, his legs fall out onto the floor. His hair is still wet. Leaning on Shouta is not an option anyway.

“He’s a good kid.”

Shouta spares a sideways glance at him. “You don’t like him.”

Choosing to chastise his husband would be a cheap shot.

It’s not as if it’s untrue; his feelings for Bakugou are a mixed cesspool. Because, on one hand, the events of the Sports Festival are still fresh in his mind, and grudges are a good friend of Hizashi’s. On the other, he’s a teacher, and even he can recognize -- despite bias -- when someone is a good person at heart. Even in the shroud of best intentions turned foul, the intentions still exist.

“He’s a good kid,” Hizashi repeats, putting emphasis in each word. He chances a smile. “And so were you.”

Best to put it all in black now, save the betting pool some time and skip the elephant in the room.

His husband’s shoulders tense. “I wasn’t…”

A pause. He seems to take a moment to consider it, mull over it, before giving in. Giving in is unlike him. His shoulders fall. “I wasn’t like Bakugou.”

Hizashi wants to cry and laugh.

“You kind of were, though.”

Shouta’s head whips around to face his in what must be bewilderment.

“Angry, scared, frightened,” he lists out, hand waving out on each passing adjective, “Unsure of his place in the world? That sound any familiar?”

It’s quiet.

Stalling, he takes a moment to catch his breath, despite not needing it. “I know it’s not all the same,” he hums eventually, “But the idea’s still there, yanno. Not everything has to tick right underneath and sound the same outside. Remember? If memory serves me right,” and he presses a hand onto Shouta’s shoulder, digging the crooks of them in, “Ya taught me that.”

Shouta and Bakugou are not the same. Their quirks, vastly different, had led them down very different paths.

During the many pleasant months Hizashi has had to endure with Class 1-A, pour his time into figuring out what makes them all tick, he’s understood one thing: Bakugou’s powerful quirk had led to the assumption that he was above all. Being placed on a pedestal away from the rest of the world wouldn’t do anyone in any other circumstances grace. It would only lead them to climb higher and higher, believing there were more steps to traverse, more to conquer.

Despite his bitter bias against the kid, he can at least figure that out. Scratching his head like a disc and remaining oblivious, despite what everyone else seems to think Present Mic is, a ‘clever ditz’, is not something Hizashi plans on continuing.

On the other hand -- from what Hizashi’s gleamed over the span of many, many terrifying years, Shouta had been led to believe his quirk was useless. Too benign to work in heroics. And yet, too useful to toss aside, too.

What he understands is this: Shouta was spun into a web of utter bullshit.

And yet, he’d persisted, anyway, despite his reservations; despite the many times Hizashi and Oboro both had heard him mutter nonsense about him being powerless to himself, he’d carried on.

“I did,” Shouta agrees, reluctant. “But it’s-- not the same.”

“True,” he whistles. “It’s not.”

Winding the finger already planted on Shouta’s shoulder, he deigns to wrap the arm attached to it around Shouta’s other shoulder, pull him in.

“But it’s just about,” Hizashi argues, even as Shouta stares at him, lips flat. “Bakugou’s good, Shouta. And so are you. So were you. I…”

He trails off.

Holding his tongue doesn’t seem ideal right now, but being the wordsmith he is as Mic doesn’t help much, words now a myth to him, but--

“Hey, come on, Shouta, Hizashi! We’ve gotta get that agency. If the three of us are together, two of us can always cover for the other if he makes a mistake!”

Class 1-A, covering for one another, all their focus into saving a classmate.

“Shirakumo would be proud of you,” he says, quiet.

A moment. A pause. A heartbeat.

An unrecognizable amount of time passes, time ticking, a metronome to a poorly tuned piano to a pianist with broken fingers, drumming away as the guitarist in the back continues riffing.

Defeated, Shouta slumps. Hard.

Hizashi nearly jumps when Shouta’s head plops onto his shoulder, a shudder. Shouta’s affections when he’s upset don’t hold a candle to when he’s feeling like himself.

The word ‘pyrrhic’ flashes in his head. Semantics don’t really matter, but he can’t really help himself.

“You think so?”

Crying is something Hizashi Yamada hates more than anything. More than fleas. More than bugs. But not any more than watching his husband escape to quiet platitudes.

It takes him a moment to gather enough courage.

“Yeah,” Hizashi laughs, a sniffle following it. He pulls Shouta in tighter. Wipes his face with his sleeve. “He would.”

—

“…My hair’s wet.”

“You didn’t take a shower when you got home, though?”

“It’s from you. Your shoulder was wet.”

“…Oh, yeah. Sorry. My bad, yo!”