Work Text:
Rough days are a regular for Pro Heroes like them.
The same way Hizashi's a regular at the local cafe he stops by on his route to U.A, the same two coffee orders tucked in his pocket and brain -- or how Shouta's a regular at Recovery Girl's office on the days where he refuses to hang up his goggles and rest, even if only for a little bit -- rough days have the tendency to kick up their feet and stay.
They appear in the form of days long-winding, time creeping to a crawl; speeding up like frost beneath a steadily rising heat.
Sometimes it's Shouta being a stubborn bastard and not taking his medication, or rubbing any of the scar cream when the scars on his elbow, torso or under his eyes flare up.
Sometimes it's Hizashi sticking around the studio to make sure all the playlists for the night (and subsequently, week) are in order. Making sure that the staff on-hand running the soundtrack for the night in his stead hadn't messed up on track order and had the same song queued up more than once on accident.
The memory alone of the 'seven-song-spree' incident and Shouta groggily asking afterwards -- when Hizashi had waltzed back home, defeated -- if they'd had a bug holding Hizashi at gunpoint in the studio to play the same damn song was humiliating. Shouta's teasing alone was motivation enough not to repeat the track misfire; even without the headlines that had popped up the morning afterward from the vultures.
He'd take a punch to the ego, or his lovely, lovely face, if it meant that Shouta wouldn't plant a chaste kiss to his knuckles and poke fun at him in the process of being so uncharacteristically sweet.
And sometimes it's students staying behind for far too long; vice versa, too.
Though they're not (usually) to blame at all, because Hizashi would give his students the world, and the only viable way he can do that from a realistic standpoint is going Plus Ultra and giving them what he only thinks of as a passport to the English-speaking world... sometimes they're just too much. Or even too little, because the ones who've already had their questions answered stay and ask the same question over and over, while those with questions who deserve to be answered just as much as the others simply don't pipe up.
Yet each additional ounce of effort he flicks into the jar is just another reminder of how important his job is. Even if they drag their feet and whine, it's essential that these kids, these future heroes, understand the gravitas of being able to switch between Japanese and English easily in a country where plenty of tourists from overseas flock; his own natural fortitude and aptitude for the language didn't change any of that.
And still, it's exhausting, trying to cement that fact into their heads.
Even more exhausting than insisting his co-producer not wait up for him and just go home.
Hizashi's pen flits back and forth from between his thumb and index, spinning as he hunches over his desk. Artificial, warm lamplight treads over his papers like sun-rays, an iridescent hue made up of serene pinks and blues and yellows embellishing the essay text he's currently going over. He's not entirely sure why a misspelled variation of what he thinks is 'platitude', or some malformation of it, is decorated so nicely by the light, but he's no complainer of a good scene. His entire gig is about appreciating aesthetic -- his hero costume too. So, not like he has any leeway to judge.
Notching another tick off for the misspelling, Hizashi's free hand reaches out to wrap around the handle of his mug and take a long drag of his coffee.
To his credit, he just barely recoils when instead of sweet, sweet goodness, the taste of diluted water and coffee beans overwhelms his taste buds. Grimace crossing over his face, his cheeks hollow as he, ever so slowly, spits it back into the cup. Because he's no quitter, or one to riot over a trip to caffeine-land turned sour, Hizashi turns his eyes back to Ashido's assignment.
He sighs when his eyes land on a misuse of the 'affect'. It's definitely supposed to be 'effect'.
And by god, did he need to go over pronouns again? Go over the whole 'its' versus 'it's' shtick that he's fairly certain he covered during Class 1-A's first few weeks of the school year?
Okay. That answers that. Maybe that was why, then -- they just need another refresher. That's all.
Get ahold of yourself, man, Hizashi grumbles. You have no right to be this put out about it.
Maybe you're not as good of a teacher as you think, something else in him whispers. Wouldn't it have gotten into their heads already if you'd just taught them right the first time around?
Shouta will arrive in a few hours or so-- he usually gets back around 03:00 anyhow. With any luck, Shouta won't have eaten, like always, and, like always, he and Hizashi can share a meal together. Something to look forward to, once he gets through this hurricane of worksheets and students' dreams crushed unto paper.
Hizashi ignores the clock above his head chiming midnight, and continues working.
While they're at it, maybe he can get a coffee refill, too.
"I just don't get it, Mic-sensei... do we really have to do all these exercises?"
"Hey, lighten up! Grammar rules!"
It's a pain trying to rein these kids in with the promise of doing something fun, when he already knows all their minds are focused on the prospects of heroics, heroics, heroics. Shouta had been cut from the same cloth as most of these little listeners were; always so amped up by heroics. The only difference was, he'd still shown a grand interest in other non-hero training subjects, even if it wasn't English -- before his interest in the academics had taken a short nosedive after Shirakumo, divebombing into nearly bleeding himself dry over that capture weapon of his, of course, which still pained Hizashi to a certain degree.
But he at least understood that. Could get behind it, as inane as it was for Shouta to do it in the first place.
Now, with these kids, beyond the eager ears of Midoriya or Yaoyorozu, no matter how much he appreciates those two for at least pretending to have an interest in the subject, it's troublesome to even try and make the lesson both comprehensible and jam-packed to the brim with fun without losing them in the process. Or without inadvertently raking them over the mud when they stare blankly at him after he asks them to answer a question on the board.
Most of the time, he'd just get the tune they were sending his way with the squinting and the parted mouths -- or the palms cupped over their lips when they leaned over to try and whisper to each other, which, with his hearing, he found wasn't an attempt at undermining him or going off-track, but a genuine curiosity as to, what one of his listeners said, 'what the hell was going on' -- and slow down his roll. Put his work in broadcasting and Put Your Hands Up Radio to good use and speak like he would on air. Talking down a faceless audience more wrapped up in the cadence of his voice and the thought behind it.
So it worked. The whole voice thing. Gradually, even students like Jirou and Kaminari began to chime into lessons more, eyes shining not just with curiosity but with a flicker of understanding; he'd pop into the room with his usual catchphrase, hear Shouta mutter 'Hey Mic' under his breath, and greet the wide-eyed faces of his students as Shouta trudged out the door.
Mornings were never popular even back in his UA days, not quite a jam he'd hum to, so he understood the whole sentiment about the exhaustion writ into their expressions. At least they lit up, when he spoke just loud enough to be interesting, but never amplified to the point where either Jirou or Shoji, the more audibly-blessed of Class 1-A's little group, would wince.
All his training back in high school didn't go for nothing, of course; he's always had quirk control down to a tee. Never got a single noise complaint he didn't intend on receiving, beyond the occasional one or two when it went haywire. And none of them were from Shouta, who usually just glared at him with Erasure whenever he got too rowdy, so he considered that a win.
It also worked with Class 1-B. Maybe even more so than it did with Class 1-A. Kendo, Monoma, Togaru, Yosetsu, and many others, all began to listen more intently. Understand to an even better degree than they had in the past. After the hot messes that were USJ and other such incidents around Class 1-A, Class 1-B had had the chance to surpass them in all but heroics.
Not that he'd admit to Kan that his students were doing better in English than Shouta's; Hizashi had already incited his own spree of wrath after Kan had declared a faux war (one-sided, mostly) on Shouta, all for the sake of the supposed rivalry between the two classes.
Those homeroom teachers could get really riled up, sheesh.
He's proud of both classes regardless.
However, like all good things do, the novelty eventually wears off.
His attempts at making the lessons more fun, that is.
Soon, wide-eyed looks turned narrowed, disbelieving when his hand glided over the board to write more prepositions in chalk. More practice sentences. Asked them to write paragraphs, to which kids would start to protest, or at least do it just loud enough under their breath for him to hear.
And there it was -- there he was. Back to square one.
Back to classrooms full of students and other students waiting up for him who, if they weren't already enrolled in the hero course and more interested in those afternoon lessons than anything else -- just didn't care about English as much as he did.
Hizashi is not having a rough day.
It's more of a rough few days, actually.
He tries a handful of other methods to get them to understand.
Some of them work, so he just continues using them.
When that eventually falls through, he just continues grading and monopolising assignments.
"When was the last time you slept?"
Hizashi does not grace his husband's embarkment on interrogating him with the patience it deserves.
"An hour ago," he answers. Saying it not too quick to arouse suspicion, but simultaneously not too slow to make Shouta think otherwise. He's perfectly capable of speaking in the equivalent of 'goldilocks' when he wants to. Excels in it, even, from the look on his partner's face still being entirely blank. "I'm cooler than cloud nine right now, babe, I'm fine. Just a bit frazzled up from all this lesson plannin', y'know?"
Shouta blinks slower than a tadpole somedays.
It's a bit unnerving, like Hizashi is being scrutinised between the blips of darkness Shouta sees just before his blood-shot eyes crash back open, but it's nothing he hasn't faced before.
Villains should be scarier than his husband.
"Right," Shouta says. Hizashi doesn't miss how his husband's jaw clenches. But he does overlook the rustling in Shouta's pocket, or the very faint glare of blue light that escapes onto the man's wrist. "I'll leave you to it, then. Get some rest when you can."
He nods. "I will," Hizashi promises. Eventually.
Hizashi relishes the static that fills his head when Shouta's footsteps ring out and dissipate.
Humming, he turns back to his paper, ticking another mark off for spelling. He can do this. He's got this. Got this in the bag. He can do this, because he's a teacher.
Even if most would consider his job as a pro hero mattering above all else.
Hizashi can grade essays, give the little listeners points, latch Present Mic stickers onto the top of their pages and praise them for a job well done, when it's clear that their efforts have bloomed.
He's just going through a rough patch at the moment.
It's regular.