Thursday morning begins with a villain attack.
“Do we have all of them?”
“The report only mentioned two perpetrators,” Shōta says as he secures a villain with his capturing weapon. The villain cranes her neck to glare at Shōta, but doesn’t try to struggle, and Hizashi’s glad that at least one of the villains has a bit of common sense.
The other villain isn’t nearly as demure.
“I’ll kill you!” he yells, struggling against Hizashi’s grip. Hizashi grits his teeth, putting a little more of his weight against the villain’s back, pinning him firmly to the ground. “Fucking heroes, always – ”
“Shōta, do you have an extra pair of handcuffs or something?” Hizashi asks, ignoring the villain as he looks over at Shōta.
“Shouldn’t you carry your own?” Shōta snorts, but he reaches back to rummage around in the small pouch attached to his belt.
“Normally villains are less energetic after I scream in their face,” Hizashi huffs, digging his knee a little harder between the villain’s shoulders, which really only makes the villain swear louder.
Briefly, Hizashi wonders if he should just knock the guy out, but then decides that that would probably be a dick move. And, you know, an abuse of power.
Hizashi looks up as Shōta tosses the handcuffs over to him.
However, in the moment that Shōta’s focused on Hizashi, the villain pinned underneath him surges up and tries to throw him off. Shōta activates his quirk on instinct, startled, but he’s a split-second too late, and briefly, Hizashi’s entire field of vision goes black, consciousness blurring as he loses touch with reality.
When he blinks his eyes open again, he’s no longer looking at Shōta.
He’s only allowed a split-second of distraction, though, before he feels someone struggling against him. On instinct, Hizashi tightens his grip around the fabric clutched in his hands, pulling it taunt until the villain pinned underneath him goes still again, breathing labored as she strains against the binding squeezing at her ribcage.
Hizashi blinks as he takes in the way Shōta’s capturing weapon is wrapped around the villain that Shōta had been securing just a few moments ago.
And, when Hizashi looks up again, he gapes as his eyes land on, well.
“Ayu – ” the other villain yells, surging up against – Hizashi? Not-Hizashi? The person who should be Hizashi, but clearly isn’t.
Apparently not-Hizashi is just as startled as actual-Hizashi is, and the villain actually manages to throw him, his side scraping against the concrete. As he hits the ground, though, not-Hizashi hisses, “Fuck – ”
The volume is unreal.
It booms through the parking lot, and Hizashi can’t quite hold back the yelp of pain that escapes his lips as he releases his grip on Shōta’s capturing weapon in order to cover his ears. The villains, however, are not quite so lucky, and the villain still bound up in the tough material of Shōta’s scarf makes an agonized noise while the other villain doubles over, clutching at his ears.
At least not-Hizashi, the one who had created the ungodly sound, is with it enough to grab the handcuffs lying on the ground and secure the villain who had just tried to escape. Then, not-Hizashi stalks over to actual-Hizashi, dragging the handcuffed villain behind him.
“I – ” not-Hizashi starts, and actual-Hizashi winces as the volume comes out far too shrill. “I’m surprised your parents didn’t have your vocal cords removed when you were a child.”
“Shōta?” Hizashi sputters, his surprise only growing at how low his voice comes out, rougher than usual. He brings a hand up automatically to clutch at his throat, fingers brushing against unruly stubble, and when he runs a hand through his hair, he finds it hanging in messy tangles around his shoulders instead of neatly gelled up.
For a moment, Hizashi just stares at Shōta. Or himself. Shōta in his body?
“Am I you?” Hizashi finally manages, voice coming out in a familiar baritone that certainly sounds like it belongs to Shōta.
“How long did it take you to figure that out?” Shōta snorts. Hizashi wrinkles his nose, a little uncomfortable with the unfamiliar sarcastic edge to what should be his own voice.
“Hey!” Hizashi huffs. “I apparently just got transported into your body. Give me a second to adjust.”
“You – ” Shōta starts, grimacing as his volume fluctuates again. “You’ve had your moment.”
Before Hizashi can protest further, though, Shōta crouches down so that his face is a little closer to the villain Hizashi still has pinned.
“Is this your quirk?” Shōta asks, his eyes narrowed behind his – Hizashi’s? – dark sunglass lenses.
The villain doesn’t reply, but the way she stubbornly avoids Shōta’s eyes is enough of an answer.
“Try erasing her quirk,” Shōta says, nodding at Hizashi.
For a moment, Hizashi blinks at Shōta, but then he looks back down at the villain, frowning slightly as he glares down at her.
“How do you activate this thing?” Hizashi asks, his forehead creasing as he stares harder, in the hopes that it will trigger something. With his own quirk, it’s more of a matter of turning it off than turning it on.
“Just – ” Shōta starts, his face screwing up in annoyance as his voice screeches like an overloaded microphone. “ – concentrate.”
“That’s very specific,” Hizashi snorts, although he does his best to focus his attention as he glares down at the villain pinned underneath him. “Aren’t you supposed to be a teacher? Teach me.”
“I’ve never had to teach anyone how to activate my own quirk before,” Shōta huffs, his volume increasing with each word, making Hizashi wince as it climbs into painful territory. “How about you teach me how to turn your quirk off?”
“Practice,” Hizashi replies dryly.
Shōta glares. It’s a little unnerving to see his own face glaring at him.
“Alright, how about I try – ” Hizashi says, half to himself, as he narrows his eyes, squinting in an attempt to active Shōta’s quirk.
“You need to open your eyes wider,” Shōta instructs, and part of Hizashi wants to make a crack about Shōta finally giving him some useful advice, but he manages to refrain, and instead lets his eyes fall open as far as he can.
There’s an uncomfortable pulling sensation as he does so, but before he can shut his eyes again, a pulse of energy travels through him, eyes throbbing with some foreign energy and his hair flaring up in a messy halo around his head.
Unfortunately, he and Shōta do not switch back into the correct bodies.
“It won’t work.”
Hizashi deactivates Shōta’s quirk and frowns down at the villain.
“My quirk isn’t activated right now,” the villain continues, annoyingly calm for the situation she’s trapped in. “Activating it performs the initial switch, but after that it’s not necessary. You two won’t switch back unless I choose to use it again.”
“Is this your way of asking us to let you go?” Shōta asks, narrowing his eyes at the villain.
“Only if you want me to switch you back,” the villain answer coolly.
“Sorry, but we can’t do that,” Hizashi snorts, gripping Shōta’s capturing weapon a little tighter. “At this rate you’re just wracking up more criminal charges.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” the villain asks. The sound of police sirens starts getting closer, probably only a few blocks away by now. “You’ll be stuck like this.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Shōta says, his tone just as steady and unperturbed as the criminal’s.
Police cars round the corner, skidding into the parking lot, and Hizashi takes that as his cue to heft the villain up off the ground, capturing weapon still tight around her torso. Next to him, Shōta does the same with the other villain, although that one puts up a bit more of a struggle, cussing Shōta out and straining against the handcuffs binding his wrists.
It only takes a few more minutes for Hizashi and Shōta to get the villains into the back of a patrol car and give brief statements to the police, before they’re relieved of their duty, and by the time they’re released, Hizashi has to resist the urge to sigh and plop himself down on the pavement.
“So,” Hizashi says, looking over at Shōta. “Any idea how to fix this?”
Shōta just snorts.
Somehow, it’s still only 8:19 AM.
Hizashi kind of hates villains who make trouble before he’s even made it to work in the morning.
“Hey, Yamada,” Kayama calls out as Hizashi and Shōta enter the staff room. “Did you get that email I sent you last night, about the cultural festival?”
“Yeah, I saw it,” Hizashi replies, plopping himself down at his desk with a sigh. His arms ache a little, probably from the effort of wrestling that villain to the ground, and he rubs at his right bicep idly as he starts up his computer. “I read it but I didn’t have time to reply. Sorry.”
“I sent it to the wrong person?” Kayama asks, and Hizashi’s abruptly reminded that they haven’t explained the situation to anyone yet.
“That’s Hizashi,” Shōta answers, pointing a thumb in Hizashi’s direction. “There was an incident earlier.”
“We’re swapped,” Hizashi clarifies, when Kayama stares at the two of them with a blank look. “Shōta’s erasure didn’t work and the villain is refusing to switch us back unless we get her a reduced sentence or something.”
“So you’re Yamada,” Kayama says slowly, pointing at Hizashi-in-Shōta’s body. “And you’re Aizawa?”
“Basically,” Hizashi answers. He wrinkles his nose as dark bangs fall in his face and he brushes them away, only for them to fall stubbornly back in place, obscuring his vision. “If you have any brilliant solutions, I’d love to hear them.”
“Unfortunately not,” Kayama replies, eyeing Hizashi in a way that makes Hizashi a little wary. “Or maybe fortunately. I might not have any solutions, but I certainly have plenty of suggestions for fun ways you could – ”
“If either of you do anything weird to my body, I’ll kill you,” Shōta interrupts, shooting Kayama a glare that would make a lesser person cower. Kayama just smirks.
“Are you feeling left out?” Kayama asks, an amused glint in her eyes. “We’d be happy to include you.”
Hizashi’s ninety-nine percent sure that Kayama is just referring to braiding Shōta’s hair or something similarly ridiculous but ultimately innocent, despite the suggestive way she’d phrased things. Of course, Hizashi still finds his mind straying to the less demure connotations, and he finds himself suddenly, uncomfortably conscious of the fact that he’s in Shōta’s body.
He licks his dry lips and tries not to get caught up in the texture of Shōta’s mouth.
“I just want to get back to – ” Shōta winces as his volume goes shrill again. “ – normal.”
“Are you saying you don’t like my body?” Hizashi teases. “I bet plenty of people would be overjoyed to get switched with someone so handsome.”
Shōta gives him a flat look in reply.
“Okay, I’m not going to lie, as amusing as this is, it’s already starting to get a little surreal,” Kayama says, propping her cheek up on her hand as she observes Hizashi and Shōta. “Hizashi, your face should not be able to do that.”
“The ‘shut up before I expel you’ face?” Hizashi asks. “Yeah, I guess it’s related to Shōta’s soul and not his facial muscles.”
The look on Shōta’s face only gets more annoyed, and Hizashi’s not sure whether to be amused or a little freaked out. Maybe both.
“I guess Aizawa really does have a normal human face,” Kayama says, leaning over her desk to poke at Hizashi’s cheek. “You actually look kind of cute when you smile. It’s a lot better than that weird grin that Aizawa does.”
“I told you not to do anything weird with my face,” Shōta huffs, expression twisting Hizashi’s face into an irritable slant.
“You consider smiling something weird?” Hizashi asks, arching an eyebrow at Shōta.
“Yes,” Shōta answers flatly.
“C’mon, I need to take some pictures,” Kayama says to Hizashi, ignoring Shōta’s complaints. “Turn this way and smile for the camera!”
“Hizashi – ” Shōta growls, rumbly volume making Hizashi’s eardrums twinge. Hizashi grimaces at the unfamiliar pain – his body has specifically adapted so that he doesn’t get injured by his own voice, but now that he’s trapped in Shōta’s body, he has no such natural defenses.
“Woah there,” Hizashi says, rubbing at his ears. “Keep the volume down. If you hurt me when we’re switched like this, you’re only hurting yourself anyway.”
“I – ” Shōta starts, his voice going shrill instead of low this time, loud enough to make the other teachers in the staff room glance over at him. “I’m trying. How do you deal with this?”
“I told you,” Hizashi snorts. “Practice.”
“Don’t you have any more concrete tips?” Shōta huffs, his voice fluctuating awkwardly, although thankfully he’s able to keep it in a reasonable range this time.
“I’m with Aizawa on this one,” Kayama says, still covering her ears as she eyes Shōta warily. “I’d like to keep my hearing intact until you two fix this.”
“Weren’t you happy about us getting switched?” Shōta snorts.
“I just said that you can figure out how to make the best of a bad situation,” Kayama replies primly. “And I didn’t know you would have such a difficult time with Yamada’s voice.”
“It – ” Shōta snaps his mouth shut before his voice can shoot up into deafening levels again. “It won’t turn off.”
“Look, just – ” Hizashi sighs, trying to think about how to phrase what he wants to say. “Just pretend like you’re holding your breath.”
“Like I’m holding my breath?” Shōta asks, eying Hizashi wearily.
“Yeah,” Hizashi answers. He hesitates and then reaches out to press his hand against Shōta’s – his own? – chest. “Obviously you need airflow to talk, but imagine trapping all the air here in your lungs and only letting out a little bit at a time. It’ll help you control your voice better.”
The look on Shōta’s face contains a healthy dose of skepticism. He’s quiet for a long moment, and Hizashi frowns, leaning in to examine Shōta’s face, before realizing that he’s holding his breath.
“Your quirk is a pain,” Shōta finally says, and his voice comes out a little wheezy at the end, but it maintains a reasonable volume.
“Hey!” Hizashi huffs, giving Shōta an offended look. “I like my quirk.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not a pain to deal with,” Shōta snorts, unimpressed with Hizashi’s protests.
“Yeah, well,” Hizashi grumbles, scrunching up his nose slightly and bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes. “Your eyes are starting to hurt. Are you sick or something? If we were bodyswapped when you have a cold then I’m gonna be – ”
“It’s my dry-eye, you idiot,” Shōta interrupts. He reaches over to open his desk drawer, digging around in it for a moment before producing a small bottle and handing it over to Hizashi. “Just take my eyedrops.”
“See, your quirk is a pain too,” Hizashi huffs as he uncaps the bottle. He inspects it warily for a moment before tilting his head back and bringing it up to carefully squeeze the bottle above his eye.
He misses the first time, liquid spilling down his cheek instead, and the second time he blinks too soon, squeezing his eye shut on instinct. He’s about to try for a third time before Shōta finally says, “You’re doing it wrong,” and snatches the bottle back from him.
“Hold still,” Shōta orders as he leans over Hizashi, eyedrops in hand.
It’s strange to see his own body leaning over him, but Hizashi’s heart rate still increases with Shōta pressing so far into his personal space. This sort of physical reaction is ridiculous, really, when Shōta’s not even in the right body even if he is in close proximity, but Hizashi still can’t seem to steady himself.
Hizashi doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse that they’re not in their correct bodies right now.
Thankfully Shōta makes quick work of the eyedrops, though, and soon enough he’s handing the bottle to Hizashi and sitting back down at his desk.
“I would tell you to practice, but I don’t want you to waste all my eyedrops,” Shōta says dryly.
“Well,” Hizashi replies, “I guess we better find a way to switch back soon.”
Shōta makes a noise of agreement.
It’s not until Hizashi gets home that night that he realizes he has more problems than just dry-eye.
He heads straight for the bathroom, eager to take a long, warm shower. He immediately kicks his boots off in the entryway, setting Shōta’s capturing weapon down on the couch, and has already started unzipping his tracksuit by the time he enters the bathroom and catches sight of his reflection in the mirror.
Although it might technically be his reflection, it’s Shōta’s body.
Hizashi’s throat feels dry as his eyes trace the way the tracksuit hangs loose now that it’s unzipped, hanging off of Shōta’s shoulders and revealing a glimpse of toned biceps. Apparently Shōta wears a tank top underneath the outer layer of his tracksuit, but the way it clings to Shōta’s well-defined chest leaves very little to the imagination, tight-fitting and worn thin from frequent use.
It occurs to Hizashi that there’s really nothing stopping him from taking it off.
In fact, if he’s going to shower, he has to take it off, really. Hizashi swallows thickly as his eyes dart lower to Shōta’s hips, currently obscured by the baggy fabric of the tracksuit.
Slowly, Hizashi drags the tracksuit the rest of the way off his arms, fully revealing Shōta’s upper body. Then he edges his fingertips under the bottom of the tank top, eyes glued to the mirror as he starts to tug it up, revealing smooth skin and Shōta’s well defined abdominal muscles.
Halfway through, he tears his eyes away from the mirror.
His heart is beating so fast he’s almost surprised that it hasn’t broken out of his ribcage yet. While the selfish part of him desperately wants to see what Shōta looks like naked, to drink in the sight and touch to his heart’s content, just the thought makes guilt coil in his stomach.
Although it’s impossible to entirely keep things within his normal boundaries when he’s stuck in Shōta’s body like this, the last thing he wants to do is violate Shōta and the trust Shōta has in him. The thought of taking this opportunity to do something depraved like look at Hizashi’s naked body probably hasn’t even crossed Shōta’s mind.
“Shit,” Hizashi hisses, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His fingers don’t pass through easily like they normally do, though, instead getting caught in Shōta’s unruly tangles.
Well. He supposes that he can at least use this incident to do something nice for Shōta, like actually using conditioner on his hair for once.
Showering without looking at your own naked body turns out to be more difficult than Hizashi anticipated. He tries to keep his eyes to himself as best he can, but he gets distracted by Shōta’s scars a couple of times, using his fingertips to trace the thin indentations in Shōta’s chest, thighs, hips. Some of them he recognizes – a stab wound slicing across Shōta’s abdomen from when they were still sidekicks, a shallow indentation in Shōta’s left calf that at the time had put him on crutches for weeks – but most of the scars are strangers to Hizashi.
Then Hizashi accidentally catches a glimpse of Shōta’s cock and decides that he should finish up his shower.
It doesn’t take long for Hizashi to towel himself off and change into a worn set of pajamas, although he does get a little distracted by the way his shirt stretches tight across Shōta’s torso, used to accommodating a much slimmer chest.
Hizashi’s face heats and he tries to distract himself with his usual post-shower routine instead, but he pauses halfway through plugging in his hairdryer. After all, he highly doubts that Shōta normally dries his hair after showering, beyond some half-hearted toweling.
A grin tugs at the corners of Hizashi’s mouth. There are certainly more innocent ways to have fun with Shōta’s body.
Twenty minutes of blow drying and three different hairbrushes later, Shōta’s hair is looking full and glossy and pretty damn majestic, if Hizashi does say so himself. Hizashi’s glee only increases as he digs out his electric razor and starts working on Shōta’s scraggly mess of a beard, eagerness born partially out of a desire to torment Shōta at school tomorrow, and partially out of a selfish desire to see what Shōta looks like all cleaned up.
“Is a filter going too far?” Hizashi muses to himself as he holds up his phone, primed for a selfie.
Shōta’s face smiles back at him, fluffy hair framing his face in glossy waves and thin, pink lips much more visible now that they’re not obscured by scraggly facial hair.
“Well,” Hizashi snorts, his smile widening, “I guess I can always take multiple pictures.”
Hizashi amuses himself by taking far more photos than he probably should, aiming his most charming celebrity smile at the camera and throwing up the occasional peace sign, which he knows will annoy Shōta to no end.
However, at the thought of Shōta’s disgruntled ire, Hizashi’s face softens into a fonder, sweeter expression, and when he catches sight of himself in the camera, he freezes.
Shōta’s face gazes back at him, sweet and a little lovelorn. Hizashi’s heart pounds in his chest as he takes in the image, wondering if this is the sort of expression Shōta would make when looking at a significant other, someone he’s deeply in love with.
Hizashi takes a picture.
Not to send to Shōta, but to keep for himself, a small, selfish fantasy for him to look at whenever his feelings for Shōta are a little too much to handle.
Another idea occurs to Hizashi and he switches to video. For a moment, he hesitates, but then he hits record, swallowing thickly as he looks at Shōta’s reflection on the screen.
“I love you.”
Hizashi’s voice wavers a little, and he pauses for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to imagine Shōta’s intonation and the rough timbre of his speech.
“Hizashi,” he tries again, blinking his eyes open to gaze at the camera with his softest, fondest expression. “I love you.”
With Shōta’s voice ringing in his ears and Shōta’s reflection peering back out at him from the phone screen, Hizashi can almost believe it’s a real confession.
Hizashi clenches his jaw and ends the recording.
Hizashi groans as the blaring of his alarm clock wakes him the next morning.
The low rumble of his voice catches him off guard for a moment before he remembers that he’s currently stuck in Shōta’s body. For a moment, he just lies there in bed, letting his alarm clock shriek, but finally he sighs and reaches over to turn it off, before dragging himself out of bed.
He decides that starting with breakfast is probably the safest bet, and heads to the kitchen to start up the coffee maker. Halfway through his first cup, though, his eyes start to sting and he rubs at them uselessly for a moment before he remembers the bottle of eyedrops on his bedside table and goes to retrieve it.
It takes a bit of struggling for him to perfect his aim, but eventually he manages to administer the medicine, blinking a couple of times before the liquid starts to soothe the irritation.
Eventually he makes his way to the bathroom to make himself semi-presentable, although he gets distracted for a moment, looking at Shōta’s sleepy face in the mirror.
Apparently Shōta’s stubble grows faster than he thought, because there’s already a light dusting of dark hair creeping up Shōta’s jaw, even though Hizashi had shaved just the previous night. Briefly, Hizashi considers leaving it, but then he decides that he might as well have at least a little fun with this situation. He’s sure the students will appreciate it at any rate.
He doesn’t try to gel up his hair like usual, though, because he’s pretty sure Shōta would kill him.
The lack of hair gel shortens up Hizashi’s usual morning routine considerably, and soon enough he finds himself back in his bedroom, digging through his closet for something to wear. He strips out of his pajamas absentmindedly before grabbing a pair of leather pants out of his closet, part of his spare hero costume, but he only gets them halfway on before he realizes he has a problem.
“Ah,” Hizashi says, a little dazed as he looks down at the pants caught around his thighs. Despite being around the same height, he and Shōta have relatively different physical builds, and although Shōta’s made fun of his “chicken legs” before, somehow Hizashi hadn’t really noticed just how muscular Shōta’s own thighs are.
Right now, though, it’s hard to ignore.
I can’t get a boner in Shōta’s body, Hizashi thinks frantically, once his brain has finally managed to rewire itself for coherent thought again.
Hizashi’s face burns with embarrassment as he peels the pants back down, adjusting his underwear slightly, which suddenly feels a little tighter than before. At least the tightness seems to have to do mostly with Shōta’s stockier build, and no other… issues.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t have enough time before work to run Shōta’s hero suit through the wash, so instead Hizashi finds himself digging through his drawers before he finally comes up with a baggy pair of sweatpants which are able to accommodate Shōta’s thighs. Finding a shirt, on the other hand, is a little more difficult, because Hizashi’s not in the habit of holding on to old t-shirts, and eventually he just settles on a v-neck which stretches a little too tight across Shōta’s chest.
Hizashi decides that he should probably avoid mirrors today.
It’s impossible to ignore the stares he receives as he walks into UA. Seeing Shōta’s face free of stubble for once would probably be shocking enough by itself, but the bright pink sweatpants and the way Hizashi’s pulled Shōta’s hair back into a neat ponytail are definitely cause for confusion.
The few classes that Hizashi and Shōta had taught the other day had been informed of the bodyswap incident, but most of the student body is still in the dark, and briefly, Hizashi wonders how mad Shōta is going to be at him, for ruining his reputation. Then again, he supposes this will probably just add to Shōta’s eccentric image.
“Oh my god.”
Kayama’s the first to comment when Hizashi enters the staff room, her eyes glittering with a dangerous sort of glee as she inspects Hizashi.
“I knew this would be fun after the photos you sent me last night, but this is amazing,” she cackles, pulling out her phone, probably to take some photos of her own.
Hizashi gives her his best celebrity smile and starts to strike a pose, but before he can, someone grabs him by the back of his shirt and tugs him to the side.
“What are you wearing?” Shōta hisses, and Hizashi laughs nervously as he’s confronted by Shōta’s livid glare. At least his usual intensity is softened a little by the fact that he’s in Hizashi’s body, which is more used to smiling than scowling.
“You’re too muscle-y,” Hizashi protests. “These were the only clothes that fit.”
“You could have just worn my hero suit,” Shōta replies, clearly unimpressed with Hizashi’s answer.
“I forgot to throw it in the wash last night,” Hizashi says, which only makes Shōta scowl harder. “Also, you can’t lecture me! Look at what you’ve done to my hair!”
“I didn’t do anything to it,” Shōta huffs, messy strands of blond hair falling loosely around his unshaven face.
“That’s the problem,” Hizashi snorts, reaching out to comb a hand through Shōta’s clearly unbrushed hair. “Please tell me you at least used shampoo when you washed it last night.”
“I was out,” Shōta replies. “Bar soap works fine.”
“No, it does not!” Hizashi wails, a little frantic. “You are not allowed to wash my hair with bar soap! You’re going to ruin it!”
“Well you’re not allowed to wear these ridiculous clothes,” Shōta retorts, his voice escalating to increasingly dangerous volumes with each word. “Your shirt is so tight you might as well not be wearing anything.”
“Hey, I’m doing you a favor,” Hizashi huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe if you actually wore something other than that hideous tracksuit of yours, people would actually find you attractive.”
“I don’t care about people being attracted to me,” Shōta snaps, voice making Hizashi’s ears ring. “If you – ”
“Aaaalright, let’s cool off for a moment here.”
Kayama shoves herself in between the two of them, making both Hizashi and Shōta take a step back. Hizashi opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, Kayama pokes a finger at his chest and says, “I know this is partially my fault for encouraging you, but you need to respect that Aizawa is not comfortable with you wearing these sorts of clothes when you’re in his body.”
Some of Hizashi’s irritation dissipates, replaced by guilt.
“And you,” Kayama continues, turning to pin Shōta with a firm look, “need to put at least a little bit of effort into keeping Yamada’s body neat. You’re a guest right now. Don’t leave a mess.”
For a moment, both of them are quiet, guilted into silence by Kayama’s scolding.
“Sorry,” Hizashi finally sighs, the tension draining out of his shoulders. “These were really the only clothes I had that would fit, though. Do you keep any spare clothes at UA?”
“I have a tracksuit in the locker room,” Shōta replies, an uncomfortable set to his posture. He hesitates and then says, “I could run to the convenience store and buy a razor to clean up in the bathroom, if you want.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” Hizashi says, shaking his head. “I mean, I already messed with your stubble, so.”
“There we go,” Kayama announces, clapping both of them on the shoulder. “Look at you two communicate.”
Hizashi and Shōta give her identical sheepish looks.
“I’ll leave you to sort the rest out,” Kayama says, before turning on her heel and heading back to her desk.
For a moment, neither Hizashi nor Shōta say anything.
“So,” Hizashi finally starts. “I should probably go get changed…”
“I’ll go get the spare clothes,” Shōta replies, a little stiffly.
“Great,” Hizashi says.
Today is going to be a long day.
Around noon, Hizashi gets a call from the police department.
Apparently the villain was bluffing about only being able to switch them back with her quirk, and it should only be a matter of time before the quirk wears off naturally. Hizashi has to resist the urge to blurt out, “Oh thank god,” at the knowledge that he won’t, in fact, be stuck in Shōta’s body forever. Still, it’ll probably be at least another couple of days before they switch back.
Shōta looks similarly relieved when Hizashi gives him the good news, although the knowledge that all they can do for now is wait dampens his happiness somewhat.
After all, although Hizashi has his own problems, dealing with Shōta’s dry eye and trying not to do anything inappropriate with Shōta’s body, Shōta’s the one who really got the short end of the stick.
“What is this place?” Shōta asks, eyeing a faded building on the outskirts of one of the UA training fields, watching warily as Hizashi inserts a key into the rusty lock.
“My secret training facility,” Hizashi answers, shooting Shōta a wink over his shoulder as he pushes the door open. “I haven’t really used it much since high school, though. On rare occasions I’ll come out here to scream.”
“To scream,” Shōta repeats slowly.
“Yep,” Hizashi says as he steps into the spacious room. “No one really uses this gym anymore because it’s so far out, so I got Power Loader and a couple of the support students to soundproof it for me so I could practice without disturbing people, way back when.”
“I didn’t know that,” Shōta mutters, something strange about his tone that Hizashi can’t quite interpret.
“I didn’t really want you to,” Hizashi says, shrugging slightly. He walks over to a rusty old cabinet, yanking the doors open and then rummaging around for a little bit until he comes up with a pair of heavy-duty ear protectors. “You were always such a natural at controlling your quirk and I was kind of embarrassed, I guess. I didn’t want people to know how much I had to work at it.” He turns to grin at Shōta. “Although I guess I feel a little better, now that I can see how much trouble you’re having with my quirk.”
Shōta’s quiet for a moment.
“I wouldn’t have judged you,” Shōta finally says.
“I know that now,” Hizashi replies simply. “But fifteen year old me was desperate to impress you and wasn’t as self-confident as I am now.”
“Well,” Shōta says dryly, “it’s good you gave up on trying to impress me.”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Hizashi laughs, walking back over to Shōta, the ear protectors slung around his neck. “I just found out that you were more awkward than you look and got a little less pathetically desperate.”
He winks at Shōta, and for a moment, he thinks he sees Shōta’s face flush a little. He hopes that his emotions don’t show that easily on his face normally.
“So how do I control this quirk?” Shōta finally says, changing the subject.
“Well, you can start by screaming as loud as you can,” Hizashi says with a grin.
“You want me to scream?” Shōta asks, giving Hizashi an incredulous look.
“Yeah,” Hizashi answers. “You’ve been suppressing my quirk ever since we got switched and that’s going to make you tense. You need to scream a little to loosen things up.”
Shōta looks less than convinced.
“Look, you can’t control your volume if you don’t know your range first,” Hizashi explains. “And I’ve got these – ” Hizashi indicates the ear protectors. “ – so you don’t need to worry about hurting me. Just scream.”
For a moment, Shōta hesitates, studying Hizashi carefully, but finally he says, “Alright.”
“Great!” Hizashi replies. With that, he puts on the ear protectors and gives Shōta a thumbs-up.
Then, Shōta opens his mouth.
Although Hizashi’s ears are unharmed, he can still feel the vibrations travel through his body. It’s a familiar sensation, though, a little soothing, and he’s sure his amusement is clear on his face as he watches Shōta scream, uncharacteristically loud.
But eventually Shōta runs out of air.
“Not bad,” Hizashi says as he removes his ear protectors. “But you can definitely do better.”
“I made the cabinet shake,” Shōta replies, giving Hizashi a flat look.
“I typically make the whole building move,” Hizashi counters, arching an eyebrow at Shōta. “Part of you is still holding back.”
Shōta narrows his eyes at Hizashi, pursing his lips, but eventually says, “Fine. Let me try again.”
It takes a few more attempts before he achieves a volume that Hizashi’s satisfied with, loud enough that Hizashi can feel it in his bones. Shōta’s face has flushed a little red from exertion but his voice hasn’t started to go scratchy yet, still strong and clear, so Hizashi decides they can move on to the next phase.
“Alright,” Hizashi says as he takes off his ear protectors again. “Now I want you to start at max volume and slowly decrease it until you’re at a normal speaking level. Repeat until you think you’ve gotten the hang of it.”
“How long did it take you?” Shōta asks, wiping a bit of sweat off his neck.
“A few months,” Hizashi answers, shooting Shōta a smile. “But you’re way better with technique than fifteen year old me was.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Shōta mutters, but he straightens up and takes a deep breath.
Hizashi puts his ear protectors on again and waits for Shōta to start.
It takes about half an hour for Shōta to figure out how to drop his volume steadily, instead of jolting abruptly between soft and deafening pitches, and it takes another half hour for him to feel comfortable with adjusting his voice. By then, he looks more exhausted than Hizashi’s seen him in a long time, and Hizashi decides to take pity on him.
“Your quirk,” Shōta says around heavy breaths, his face flushed red, “is a pain.”
“So you’ve told me,” Hizashi snorts, going to put his ear protectors back in the cabinet. “I guess I’m lucky yours is turned off as a default and I don’t have to get used to using it.”
“Even if you did, I’m sure it wouldn’t be as annoying as your quirk,” Shōta snorts, brushing a clump of sweat-sticky blond hair out of his face.
“Probably,” Hizashi laughs. “C’mon, let’s wrap this up. Go take a shower in the locker room and then I’ll treat you to dinner.”
“Isn’t your radio show tonight?” Shōta asks, his forehead creasing.
“The sound engineers are currently on a network strike, so we’re not running this week,” Hizashi answers. “And I’m starving, so let’s get you presentable so we can go eat.”
For a moment, Shōta hesitates, but then says, “Do you keep any shampoo in your locker here?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Hizashi answers, a smile tugging at his lips. “Strawberry scented, very high-quality stuff. Much better than bar soap.”
Shōta lets out a little snort, but starts towards the door and says, “I’m borrowing it.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Hizashi replies.
Shōta shoots him an annoyed look and doesn’t bother to hold the door for him.
Hizashi still hasn’t quite gotten used to looking across the table and seeing himself.
It’s more than a little surreal to watch his stubble-ridden face frown down at a menu, illuminated by the dim yellowish-orange light of the small restaurant. Part of Hizashi thinks he should be used to this by now, after seeing photos of himself plastered across the cover of tabloids every month, but there’s something about the way Shōta’s mannerisms meld with his body that makes it different.
“So,” Hizashi says, peering across the table at Shōta, “you haven’t been doing anything weird with my body, have you?”
He means it as a joke, a light conversation starter, but Shōta stiffens, going rigid in a way that makes Hizashi frown.
“Other than washing my hair with bar soap, I mean,” Hizashi continues, forcing a smile. “You better be eating properly, because unlike you, protein gel packs are not enough to sustain me.”
“There have only been four mealtimes since we were switched,” Shōta huffs, narrowing his eyes at Hizashi. Hizashi can’t help but notice the way he relaxes slightly, though, tension draining out of his shoulders.
“So does that mean you have just been eating protein gel?” Hizashi asks, arching an eyebrow at Shōta.
For a moment, Shōta’s quiet, but then he mutters, “Only once.”
“That’s one fourth of my meals!” Hizashi complains, giving Shōta a betrayed look.
“And how much caffeine have you consumed since we swapped?” Shōta asks, and now it’s Hizashi’s turn to fall into incriminating silence.
“That’s different,” Hizashi mutters, even though he knows it really isn’t.
“If you’ve forced my body to consume even one five hour energy, I’ll only eat protein gel until we switch back,” Shōta says, narrowing his eyes at Hizashi. “Coffee is fine, but I’ll be checking your trashcan for anything else.”
“Is canned coffee okay?” Hizashi asks, a little tentatively. Then again, he supposes that in Shōta’s body, he shouldn’t have the same sort of caffeine withdrawal symptoms as he usually gets.
Shōta studies him for a moment, but then says, “I’ll approve it for this week. If we’re stuck in each other’s bodies for longer, then we’ll renegotiate.”
“How did this conversation change from me teasing you about using bar soap to wash my hair to you monitoring my caffeine intake?” Hizashi huffs, his expression dangerously close to a pout. “I need caffeine. How do you think I survive working three jobs?”
“I can loan you a sleeping-bag,” Shōta replies dryly, unmoved by Hizashi’s whining.
“We’ll see how long you last in my body with only coffee to sustain you,” Hizashi says primly.
Before Shōta can retort, though, a waiter comes over to take their order. Hizashi flashes his best smile as he hands back the menu, but the waiter seems more preoccupied with Shōta, eyeing him in a way that suggests he recognizes Shōta’s (Hizashi’s) face from somewhere, but can’t quite place it.
Thankfully the waiter doesn’t ask any inconvenient questions, and Hizashi and Shōta spend the rest of dinner bickering about healthy sleep patterns and what sorts of foods are acceptable to consume.
(Shōta threatens to eat salmiakki while in Hizashi’s body and Hizashi lets out a betrayed shriek that makes a number of the other people in the restaurant stare.)
Eventually, though, the night winds down.
“Hey,” Hizashi says as they exit the restaurant, stepping out onto the sidewalk. “Wanna come over to my place for a bit? I have stuff for gin and tonics.”
“Is it good gin?” Shōta asks, eyeing Hizashi with a skeptical sort of interest.
“Of course it is,” Hizashi answers. “Only the best for you, darling.”
He winks at Shōta, whose face flushes slightly. It’s probably just from the chill in the late night air, though, and Hizashi hopes that Shōta interprets the blush creeping up his own neck in the same way.
“Don’t do that with my face,” Shōta finally huffs, turning away from Hizashi and starting down the sidewalk, in the direction of Hizashi’s apartment.
“Do what?” Hizashi asks, hurrying to catch up. “Wink?”
“You’re making me look like an idiot,” Shōta grumbles.
“I’m making you look suave, thank you very much,” Hizashi replies, falling into step next to Shōta. “You’d be fending off suitors with a stick if you actually put some effort into your appearance and tried flirting a bit.”
“I don’t have the patience for those sorts of frivolous things,” Shōta huffs, the corners of his lips tugging down.
“Stop scowling in my body,” Hizashi complains, reaching out to poke at Shōta’s cheeks. “My face will get stuck like that.”
“That’s medically impossible,” Shōta replies, giving Hizashi an unimpressed look. “I’m sure your face will be just as handsome as it was before when you get it back.”
“You think I’m handsome?” Hizashi asks, arching an eyebrow at Shōta. His heartrate increases a little, stomach churning at the thought of Shōta admiring his features.
“Well, your face certainly gets plastered on billboards frequently,” Shōta snorts, his tone steady and unconcerned with Hizashi’s probing. Hizashi can’t help but feel a little disappointed. “Typically perfume advertisements are reserved for conventionally attractive people.”
“So you are saying you find me attractive,” Hizashi presses, trying his best to keep his tone nonchalant. Although he’s no longer quite as desperate to impress Shōta as he was at age fifteen, he’s still far more desperate than he really should be.
“I’m saying you’re handsome, not that I’m attracted to you,” Shōta replies, shooting Hizashi an annoyed look. “Stop fishing for compliments.”
For a moment, Hizashi considers telling Shōta that he’s not fishing for compliments, that he truly wants to know whether Shōta finds him even a little bit attractive, but instead he says, “Is that why you’re growing gross stubble on my face? So that people will stop complimenting me?”
“You’ve discovered my evil plot,” Shōta snorts, his tone dry.
“Just for that, I’m going to gel up your hair tomorrow morning,” Hizashi huffs, picking at the clump of dark bangs hanging down over his eyes. “It’ll be epic. I might have to cut some of your hair off to get it to make the right shape, though.”
“Try and I’ll shave your head,” Shōta replies, voice firm and a little dangerous.
“You wouldn’t,” Hizashi says, narrowing his eyes at Shōta.
Shōta just arches an eyebrow at Hizashi in reply, and increases his walking pace.
“Shōta,” Hizashi continues, trying to keep up with Shōta. “Shōta, seriously, you wouldn’t shave my head, right? Right?”
“I do own an electric razor,” Shōta snorts, and for a moment, a horrible image flashes through Hizashi’s imagination.
He resolves to stop messing with Shōta’s appearance.
When Hizashi wakes up the next morning, briefly he wonders if he’s still dreaming.
After all, it’s not every morning that you wake up with yourself lying on the bed next to you.
It takes a minute or two for Hizashi to remember the bodyswap situation, and another to remember that Shōta had decided to stay the night at his place after drinking a few too many gin and tonics. Normally when this happens, Hizashi takes a few secret moments in the morning to admire the way the soft sunlight illuminates Shōta’s face, but with Shōta currently in his body, it’s just a little weird.
So instead, Hizashi slips out of bed and makes his way to the kitchen.
He sticks some bread in the toaster and digs a jar of marmalade out of the fridge, along with a couple of oranges. For a moment, he contemplates just leaving the oranges as they are, but then he picks one up and starts to peel it, because early morning Shōta has never been fond of complicated breakfast foods.
The second set of bread is in the toaster when Shōta finally emerges from the bedroom, his hair in an impressive state of disarray. Hizashi grimaces as he eyes the way stray blond hairs stick up in all directions, and decides that if Shōta were to ever gaze at his sleeping face in the morning in the same way Hizashi’s guilty of doing, it would probably be more out of horror than endearment.
“I would say ‘good morning, Sleeping Beauty,’ but you look more like a beast that’s been awoken from hibernation,” Hizashi says, handing Shōta a plate with toast and a neatly pealed orange.
Shōta gives him a flat look but accepts the plate, picking up a piece of toast and biting off a corner.
“Coffee?” Hizashi asks, fishing a couple of mugs out of a nearby cabinet. He turns to shoot Shōta a smirk and adds, “Or I can get you an energy drink out of the fridge, if you’d prefer.”
“Coffee,” Shōta says bluntly.
“Alright, alright,” Hizashi replies, placing two mugs on the counter and then grabbing the coffee pot. “You can sit at the table if you want. I’ll be there in a sec.”
Shōta does as he’s told, making himself comfortable at Hizashi’s kitchen table as Hizashi finishes pouring the coffee. It only takes a few more moments for the toast to pop up, and soon Hizashi’s headed over to the table too, setting a mug down in front of Shōta and then sliding into the seat across the table from him.
“Thanks,” Shōta mutters, accepting the coffee.
“Hangover?” Hizashi asks, taking a sip from his own mug.
“Not really,” Shōta answers. He picks apart the orange pieces, a soft citrus smell filling the kitchen, sticky residue clinging to his fingertips. “I didn’t drink enough for that.”
“So you just decided to crash at my place because you were too lazy to take the train home?” Hizashi snorts, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“The free breakfast is also a nice,” Shōta says dryly, but his lips mirror Hizashi’s small smile.
“Maybe I should institute a new rule,” Hizashi muses. “If you drink all my gin and stay the night, then you have to cook breakfast the next morning.”
“I’d rather reimburse you for the gin,” Shōta snorts, voice a little muffled around an orange slice.
Before Hizashi can open his mouth to complain, though, his phone buzzes. He frowns as he digs it out of his pocket, half expecting it to be some sort of work emergency, but instead it’s a text from Kayama, consisting of only a link and a row of laughing emojis.
Hizashi taps the link warily.
BAD BREAKUP?! PRESENT MIC’S TRAGIC HEARTBREAK
Hizashi rolls his eyes and is about to text Kayama an annoyed reply about gossip mongering, but then he sees the photos plastered across the article. They’re clearly from the previous night, Shōta-in-Hizashi’s-body sitting in the back corner of the dimly lit restaurant, unruly stubble smattering his face and his hair hanging loosely around his shoulders in frizzy disarray.
The article continues on with baseless speculation about Hizashi being dumped and “letting himself go” and Hizashi has to resist the urge to bang his head against the table as he wonders what his publicist is going to have to say about this.
“I am going to shave your face right now,” Hizashi announces, standing up from the table with enough force that his chair almost tips over. “My face.”
“What?” Shōta replies, giving Hizashi a blank look.
“Look at this!” Hizashi exclaims, shoving his phone in Shōta’s face. “You’re ruining my reputation!”
“The media is ruining your reputation,” Shōta huffs, eyeing the article distastefully. “It’ll blow over in a week.”
“Yeah, well, it’s my body and my public image,” Hizashi replies, clenching his jaw slightly. “So I say you have to at least shave.”
“Right, because you were so considerate when you shaved my face and sent photos of it of Kayama-senpai,” Shōta replies, and Hizashi’s expression turns a little chagrinned, guilt pricking at him.
“I – ” Hizashi starts, trying to find a decent retort, but before he can think of something, Shōta grabs the phone out of his hand. “Hey! What are you – ”
“Deleting the photos you took of me,” Shōta answers, tapping at the phone screen.
Hizashi’s blood runs cold.
“I can delete them for you!” Hizashi blurts out, trying to grab the phone back from Shōta. Shōta manages to keep it out of his reach, though, opening the photos app and going to the most recent recording.
“You took videos too?” Shōta huffs, shooting Hizashi an annoyed look.
“Don’t listen to – ” Hizashi starts, but Shōta hits play before he can finish.
“Hizashi, I love you.”
The recording is soft, maybe a little grainy, and Hizashi’s heart drops as Shōta’s familiar voice is projected though the tinny phone speakers.
For a moment, neither of them say anything. Hizashi’s heart pounds in his chest as he waits for Shōta to say something – anything, really – but Shōta just sits there in a dangerous sort of silence, staring down at the phone with wide eyes.
“Are you mocking me?”
It takes a moment for Hizashi to register what Shōta just said.
“What? No!” Hizashi sputters. “I wasn’t – I was just – ”
“Then what were you doing?” Shōta snaps, fixing Hizashi with a glare more intense than Hizashi’s ever seen from him. There’s something else underneath it, though, something that’s almost…
“I – ” Hizashi starts, but then cuts himself off. He’s quiet for a long moment, but then says, “I wanted to know what it would sound like. To hear you say it.” He hesitates, swallowing thickly. “Because I know I’ll never get to hear it for real.”
Shōta stares at him, eyes wide and surprised and conflicted, and Hizashi looks away, trying to ignore the humiliation encroaching in on him.
“Hizashi, I love you.”
It’s not the recording.
It can’t be the recording, because it’s not Shōta’s voice, not really. It’s strange to hear those words in the soft lilt of his own speech, and Hizashi can’t help but look back at Shōta, face clouded over with helpless confusion.
“I love you,” Shōta repeats, looking Hizashi directly in the eye.
“Really?” Hizashi asks softly. He feels like he can’t breathe.
“Yes, really,” Shōta snorts, but there’s something soft about his expression which offsets his tone of voice. “I have for a long time.”
“Oh,” Hizashi replies.
For a moment, neither of them move, but then Hizashi leans in, bringing his face close to Shōta’s. His heart pounds in his chest, rabbit-fast as Shōta’s breath brushes over his lips, so close that he can almost taste the sweet flavor of the orange Shōta was just eating.
He stops a couple centimeters from Shōta’s mouth.
“Okay, that was a great confession, but I think this is a little too weird for me,” Hizashi says, eyeing Shōta’s – his own? – lips, parted slightly in anticipation.
Shōta snorts out a laugh.
“So,” Shōta says, “did you do anything else weird with my body?”
Sunlight streams through Hizashi’s bedroom windows, illuminating the mussed sheets, and briefly, Hizashi wishes they would just switch back already, so they could mess up his bed in a much more entertaining way than sleep. Yesterday would have been nice.
“I tried very hard to maintain boundaries, thank you very much,” Hizashi huffs, his face heating slightly. “I kept my hands to myself.”
“Such a gentleman,” Shōta says dryly.
“Well what about you?” Hizashi asks, turning the question around on Shōta. “Did you do anything weird to my body? Other than the bar soap.”
“No,” Shōta says, a beat too late.
“Oh my god, you did,” Hizashi sputters, staring at Shōta with wide eyes.
“It wasn’t – ” Shōta huffs, his face turning an endearing shade of red. He pauses and then admits, “I wanted to see what you would look like in some of my clothes.”
“Like a boyfriend shirt?” Hizashi asks, arching an eyebrow at Shōta.
“All of them were too large,” Shōta snorts, clearly trying to cover up his embarrassment. “You’re like a stick.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you’re just ridiculously muscular,” Hizashi huffs. “Your thighs wouldn’t even fit in any of my pants. Which is actually kind of a shame, because I bet your ass would look great in – ”
Before Hizashi can finish his sentence, his field of vision goes dark.
For a moment, his consciousness fades out, and it takes a long few seconds for Hizashi to come around again, blinking darkness out of his eyes. And, when everything clears up again, the first thing his gaze lands on is Shōta.
Actual Shōta, not Shōta-in-his-body.
“Did we just switch back?” Hizashi blurts out, eyes widening.
“I’ll need a mirror to confirm,” Shōta mutters, rubbing a hand across his face and grimacing slightly as he comes to.
Before Shōta can try to find a mirror, though, Hizashi drags him into a kiss. He stiffens up under Hizashi’s lips, apparently caught off guard, but it takes barely a moment before he melts against Hizashi’s mouth, making a soft, contented noise as Hizashi presses up against him.
His mouth is soft, and a little less chapped than Hizashi had been expecting, but maybe that’s just because Hizashi’s been applying chapstick to his lips for the last few days. There’s a little bit of stubble on Shōta’s chin, though, and the scratch of it against Hizashi’s skin is actually a little comforting, grounding somehow, proof that this is actually Shōta.
Eventually, though, Hizashi breaks the kiss.
“I’m pretty sure I can confirm that you’re Shōta,” Hizashi says around heavy breaths.
“Thank god,” Shōta mutters, and then drags him down into another kiss.