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"Uh-huh," Hizashi says, brow arched higher than Joan of Arc. "And you're one-hundred percent sure about this?"
Knowing what's coming, Hizashi's already scrambling for Plan B, hand retreating into his lower cabinet to wind his fingers around their last resort.
Student salvation is very serious. Exam season is coming up, and while most of the teachers among their staff are, as de-facto as one can be in this profession, hardened, it's all but a landmine just waiting to explode when it comes to how Shouta handles it.
They're traversing No-Man's-Land here, yo.
Shouta spells out doom with one click of a pen. Tick goes the red tip across the page, swiping more left than Hizashi would on a date.
"I'd have expelled them all already if I didn't believe they weren't up for it," the man mutters.
Hanging heavier than a crescent moon on a cloudless night, the jagged, pale scar under his right eye gleams with that same declaration. The same promise.
Still. Talk about high standards.
With one hand anchored to the arm of his chair, Hizashi scoots himself closer to his friend, a sharp swoosh as the wheels roll across the floor.
Their shoulders bump. Eye contact is made. No one dies.
"Maybe..." He looks over Shouta's shoulder, upper teeth decorating his lower lip. "You could reassure me by goin' for a nicer colour? Head on over to the cool side of the colour wheel and choose," Hizashi pauses, thinking, "Purple, maybe?
Shouta sets down the paper.
"Why?" His 'friend' flashes his teeth; and while a patented Aizawa Shouta smile is a good thing on any day, this kind is the type that bites. "Red not accommodating enough for your high standards? What are you, the colour police?"
As up close and personal as they are, like this, the condensation of Shouta's lukewarm breath greets Hizashi's nose and lips, tickles his stache. Latte and a mix of cinnamon and caramel, likely from this morning, present their scents like shining stars.
All he can think is, he should be behind catering more often. Less jelly pouch, more pleasant veggies.
He nudges Shouta's shoulder. Doesn't respond. Taps their students' maroon savior to his 'friend's' temple, pleased when the anticipated glare just barely reaches his mouth.
"So you are," Shouta says, frowning. Of course, because Hizashi isn't one to stall, and neither is he, he takes the pen relatively quickly. "How'd they let a cop onto campus?"
Hizashi snorts. Retreats back into his own personal space, wheels swishing, swooshing, and plays into the role Shouta asks of him. "I compromised," he lies smoothly. "Told them I had a very good pal to vouch for me if they didn't believe I was there just to right things as an officer 'o the law. Ya feel?"
Shouta throws the pen at him.
For all his pro hero skills, certifications, and pro-bono acts of training are worth, Hizashi is still apparently no match for a freakishly competent underground hero skilled with whipping things out. He just barely dodges it.
Clatter. Pen meets floor.
Hizashi gawks. Guess he doesn't feel.
"Hey!" he protests. "That was expensive!"
And engraved with Shouta's name on it, but, same difference. Loving Shouta is expensive because he's worth more than money can buy. And the wellbeing of their students. Who he's currently trying to save with said expensive pen, because inside the cartridge is a middleground between 'I-hope-you-fail-high-school-so-I-can-use-this-pen-again' and 'You-can-do-it!'.
"The face or the pen?"
His eyes widen. "The--"
Snap. Shut.
Wisely, Hizashi closes his mouth. Tries out for a Shouta glare.
As expected, it falls flat and just about barely reaches the stratosphere of a Snipe scowl; sweet, but not as intimidating as you would think. Present Mic doesn't play nasty unless it's 'for real', either, so he never acts or mimics a grin off that guy when he's joshing around. Especially not when it's for a technical, back-handed compliment.
"Fine. Whatever. Be judgy. But ya better be one-hundo about that red pen," Hizashi mutters, peeling off to his desk. Sticky with the future blood of his students -- despite being, in actuality, a tumble down clumsiness and a misfire around a jelly spill on his way to the staffroom -- his boots squelch, kiss the floor harder. "If I hear students wailin' their poor souls off in the halls, once exam season's all said and done with, I'll already know who I'm pointin' a finger at first."
Like his scar, Shouta's ring glints in the barely perceptible sunlight, threaded through his binding cloth.
His 'friend' rolls his eyes. "Call a wambulance if you must," he replies dryly. Aizawa Shouta, making a joke. Implausible. Before Hizashi can even offer a dash of colour commentary, he continues. "Red is still a perfectly rational, reasonable selection of colour to mark with."
An intermission. Shouta pauses. "Besides, it's not as though it's--"
"The colour of blood, connotes anger, violence, an astonishing lack of sympathy for their grades?" Hizashi trails off, wincing. Shakes his head.
Taken aback by the sudden drop of energy, Shouta's eyes squint.
"Well, actually. I take that back, man. Maybe you have a point. We're at the best school to pop out heroes in the country, so we should look the part, eh? Have 'em cryin' it all out in here," Hizashi gestures, winding a loop around wherever he assumes his tear ducts to be, "--so we don't look bad out there?"
The other man pauses. Falters in his movements across the page he'd seemingly resigned himself to inflicting pain on through a tick and a notch.
"Has anyone ever told you to count to 5 before you speak," Shouta asks, flatly, not pitching up his words the way you would when asking a question.
Nonetheless, it's a question. Just the way Shinsou would phrase it.
Like mentor, like mentee.
Hizashi's lips meet in smiley nirvana.
"Nope. Not that I can recall." His eyes light up. "Why, are ya--"
"You should count to 5 before you speak," Shouta suggests.
Obviously, he pouts.