In the end, Shōta submitted to the society's demands of acceptable personal hygiene practices, and by doing so, he very bluntly told a sulking Hizashi that he would go home with him long enough only to shower and change clothes. Dinner was also a requirement of that arrangement, but he did not have to outright state such; the blonde knew quite well when something was implied, even if he chose to feign ignorance often enough.
That being said, showering, clothing himself, and securing dinner—in that order—were Shōta's plans for the rest of the evening as he awaited a call on Hizashi's phone from Tsukauchi detailing the area of the city he should avoid and revealing where his own temporary housing was to be located. He had not explicitly told Tsukauchi that he would be in Hizashi's presence, but the man was smart enough to draw such a conclusion after watching him wander back to the voice hero after their conversation, and he would undoubtedly use the hero directory to find Present Mic's phone number. Shōta was well-aware that he would be bumming various services from his friend for at least a few hours, and Tsukauchi probably realized that, as well. After all, he had no access to his money at the moment; his bank card had likely melted, any cash he carried had melded with the debris of his home, and his cellphone, his most direct means of communication, had also inevitably met its demise.
"Hey, Shōta—how partial are you to your hero outfit?" Hizashi asked, loudly as always, from the other side of the shower curtain. Shōta could hear him rustling around in the main portion of the bathroom, likely cleaning up the ashen footprints that had been left behind during Shōta's barefoot trek through Hizashi's less-than-pristine but still liveable apartment. Oddly enough, this was not a completely new occurrence in its entirety—having his home set ablaze: yes, but having his friend invade the imagined solitude of the restroom to pester him while he was showering: no. That had happened far too often and had created many embarrassing situations throughout the years of their friendship with one another.
Those were memories better left for another time, perhaps.
He ducked his head under the spray in hopes of dissipating the embarrassed flush that had spread from his collarbone to his scalp, shivering slightly as the lukewarm water—hot water just did not seem appealing after the heated trauma of the day—trickled through his mass of tangled, greasy hair and down his soot-darkened neck, and he thought of more peaceful memories while formulating a suitable response: the cat café, the seven hours of sleep he had managed to achieve the weekend prior, and the cooling sensation of nice, moisturizing eye drops. Drawing his head back out from under the pressurized spray, he took a deep gulp of air, breathing in the sparse steam and immediately slamming down on his body's urge to cough. Instead, he cleared his throat and glanced dubiously at his side of the shower curtain, realizing he should probably answer the loud man on the other side before it was decided that he required assistance in the shower.
Again, there was a story there, and again, the memory was best left for another time.
The man had no shame—or an understand of personal bubbles.
"I only have one other. It's stashed at UA. Why?"
"It's just—this needs to be bagged, tagged, and sent elsewhere," Hizashi's voice held a grimace, and Shōta could hear him struggle not to gag at the smoky smell of the garments, vividly imagining the look of utter disgust on the radio host's features. "It's dead, Shōta. I'm sure we could even have Endeavor finish cremating it. It wouldn't take much. Like, parts of it are disintegrating when I touch it. I don't know how it was holding together while on your body."
Shōta rolled his eyes to the heavens, his expression that of someone who was just done with a situation. He would be the first to admit that his costume had seen better days; it was definitely ragged around the edges, and some of the seams were more worn than was acceptable by most people's standards. Slowly, for the sake of providing a response, he drawled, "I'm rolling my eyes, Hizashi."
The man carried on with the topic at hand, ignoring the vocalization of Shōta's facial expression.
"Or, on second thought, maybe we could just ask Todoroki or Bakugō to finish the job. Shōta, the cuffs of your sleeves are fraying and missing several chunks of fabric, and—wait, is this a bite mark! Your pant legs are just as bad. How long have you had this gear!"
The exclamations were sincere and somewhat horrified.
"If I replaced my gear as frequently as you did, I would not even be able to afford an apartment," Shōta responded frankly, "not that paying for said apartment matters now." He paused and turned his back to the spray of the shower, idly rubbing his fingers against the back of his scalp and wincing when they tugged on a snarl of hair. "Teaching at UA has made paying bills significantly easier, but replacing my gear—which is still functional, thank you—is low on my list of priorities until something major happens to it."
There was a lull in the conversation.
"A bite out of your shirt isn't serious?" Hizashi asked in a downright horrified tone. "Also, do you sew? This is definitely hand-stitched."
Shōta did not dignify either question with a response.
Hizashi was not phased by the lack of reply.
"Back to the real issue at hand, though—I could dedicate a moment of silence to your outfit's untimely demise on Put Your Hands Up Radio. The kids—Class 1-A likes to pretend that they don't listen to my show, but we both know they do," the blonde paused and took an audible breath, and Shōta could perfectly imagine him making finger guns, "The kids would definitely appreciate a segment like that, even if no one else really knows much about 'Eraserhead.'"
Truth be told, Shōta had long since begun to tune out his friend, particularly since he was now faced with a difficult trial. Before him, adhered to the side of the shower by what had to be industrial strength suction cups, was a wire basket—an enclosed shelf, really—of hair care products.
Shōta was a simple man when it came to his grooming habits; Hizashi was not.
The erasure hero stared balefully at the selection of products before him, lips tugging downward into a pained not-quite-pout. The bottles told of shampoo for voluminous hair, nourishing conditioners, moisturizing cleansers, hair detoxifiers, deep conditioning masks, miscellaneous body scrubs, shower gels, and foaming body washes. His outstretched hand hovered over each of the products before roughly plucking a bottle labeled with some high-end brand logo and the descriptive text of "Clarifying Shampoo: Lemongrass and Ginger" from the caddy.
Hizashi was a complicated being. Shōta would never be able to keep up with this many shower products. Bar soap was often his cleansing method of choice for both his hair and body.
With a small, annoyed huff, he popped open the cap of the bottle and squirted a fair dollop onto the palm of his rugged hand. Carefully, he placed the shampoo bottle back into the shower caddy, half-expecting the container to slide down the water-slick wall from the sheer weight of the hair products it contained. Then, he began to lather the soap into his oily hair, noting with disgust how the spray of the shower was already beginning to wash dirt and soot from any place the soap touched, dyeing the water a deep, murky brown before it was sucked down the drain in a small whirl of force.
"The lemongrass and ginger one, huh?" Hizashi piped up suddenly. Shōta heard his friend plop down on a closed toilet, obviously hell-bent on hanging out in the bathroom for the long haul while the exhausted man bathed. "I should have guessed. It's the most straightforward of those products. You'll probably want to use the body wash that goes in that set."
Nose crinkling faintly at the light and spicy herbal scent from the soapy lather that covered his head, Shōta cast his dark gaze upon the mentioned bottle of body wash and then down along his body, sighing quietly in dismay at the dirt that covered his form despite the coverage that had been provided by his thick—but honestly threadbare—hero clothing. In response to Hizashi's suggestion, he hummed noncommittally, leaning back to rinse the shampoo suds from his dripping black locks. He briefly glanced down to confirm that the water pooling around his feet had all but turned black as the soap washed away the grime from his hair.
He cast an uncertain glance at the shower curtain again, grumbling just loudly enough to be heard over the rush of water striking the floor of the shower tub, "Why are you even in here?"
A bright, sprightly laugh boomed—too loudly—and rattled many elements of the bathroom. "Oh! I brought you a change of clothes. I found a pair of sweatpants, and since I know you're not a fan of tight clothes, I snagged an oversized tank for you," the radio host intoned cheerfully.
Hesitantly, and only for the sake of removing the filth from his body, Shōta grabbed the suggested bottle of body wash from the shower caddy, resigning himself to smelling entirely too fresh for his usual tastes. Artificial scents had never really appealed to him, but he supposed this one was tolerable. He would smell like Hizashi—he realized this—, but he would not be around anyone—particularly Nemuri—who would jump to false conclusions about why he smelled like Hizashi.
"Thanks," he stated sincerely, scrubbing the body wash along his body almost mechanically. "It's the pink pair of sweats, isn't it? They're comfortable, at least."
He quickly washed the last traces of dirt away, and shut off the water, idly shaking his hands to disperse the water droplets that had collected along his arms.
"Yeah," Hizashi replied with ease. There was a moment where the only sounds that pervaded the air were two sets of breathing and the water sliding down the drain. When the voice hero next spoke, he sounded dismayed, "You didn't use the conditioner."
Shōta could not stop the snort of amused disbelief that escaped him, nor could he stop the breathy laugh that bubbled up in his throat. "Really? I used your shampoo and body wash. Wasn't that enough?"
He paused.
"Now," he stuck his arm through the small gap between the shower wall and the curtain and made a grabbing motion with his hand. "Make yourself useful, and hand me a towel."
"Hey! What am I—your servant?" Hizashi teased fondly, although there was almost an embarrassed lilt to his voice. Not deterred in the slightest, his friend quickly shoved an overly soft towel against his hand, and Shōta heard him stand a walk toward the restroom door, closing it behind himself with a soft click and granting the erasure hero some semblance of privacy. From behind the closed door, he heard the English teacher shout, "I'm ordering food for us!"
Shōta did not bother replying. Instead, he pulled the curtain to the side and stepped out onto the obnoxiously yellow, plush bathroom mat strategically placed next to the shower tub, methodically collecting water droplets from his skin with the provided towel. Absently, he threw the towel over his head and scrubbed at his hair, ruffling it to dry it—something Hizashi would undoubtedly disapprove of, citing split ends and frizz.
Tossing the towel into the laundry hamper nestled in the corner of the room, the exhausted teacher shook out the pink sweatpants and then stepped into them, immediately wishing for some type of barrier between his nether regions and the fuzzy lining of the garment. He shook off the annoyance quickly enough and shrugged the black tank top over his head, tugging it down along his torso until he deemed he was acceptably covered and would be deemed presentable. He forewent glancing in the mirror due to the fact that he knew dark bags and pale, tight skin would stare back at him, and he did not require a reminder of his fatigue.
Opening the restroom door and wandering into the living room of the apartment yielded an odd sight that left Shōta with raised eyebrows and a vague expression of concern on his features. Hizashi sat at the kitchen counter, angrily jamming his finger against the screen of his phone as he angrily responded to a text message. Under his breath, he was muttering something about 'shitty conditions' and 'more respect than that.'
"Hizashi?"
"Oh!" the man exclaimed, nearly fumbling his phone in his haste to throw up a cheery mask over his features. He ran his palm along the smooth curve of his styled hair and grinned brightly, placing his phone gently on the counter with clear effort. "I went ahead and ordered us curry. It should be here soon."
"Sounds good."
Shōta was not one to pry, and with a shrug, he decided that Hizashi would blurt out what was bothering him sooner or later if it really was a problem. He strode across the hardwood flooring and after a moment of debate, flopped bonelessly onto the hideous orange couch that his friend so adored. It was as ugly, if not more so, than some of the villains Shōta had fought in the past, but it was extremely plush and comfortable. Almost immediately, he could feel his body sinking into the cushions, and he exhaled peacefully.
"So," the radio host began quietly, a hint of calculation in his voice.
Shōta glanced over to meet narrowed green eyes, half-hidden behind gaudy amber glasses. He immediately ran through a list of plausible reasons why Hizashi would be studying him: his chronic exhaustion, the residual rattle in his lungs due to smoke inhalation (they had been reassured that it would fade quickly), something the talented hellspawn of Class 1-A recently did without his notice or care—anything of that sort.
"How'd you get all of those bruises? You didn't mention them outside your apartment."
He did not expect that.
Maybe he should have at least looked at his reflection in the mirror before exiting the bathroom. He vaguely remembered thinking that most of his bruising from the night before had faded from his healing session in the hospital, but there had definitely been remnants, not that he had cared enough to study the marks closely, knowing that they were not life-threatening and would fade with time. Heroics tended to make one desensitized to minor wounds.
Curiously, Shōta glanced at his shoulders and swept his vision down the length of his body to see if he the bruising Hizashi had noticed was visible in his line of sight.
It was not.
As if reading his mind or reacting to the subtly perplexed wrinkling of his forehead, his friend arched an unimpressed eyebrow at his rather blasé reaction and, lightly tugging his sunglasses down the bridge of his straight nose, stated flatly, "They're around your neck, dummy."
His capture weapon wrapping too tightly around his throat, cutting off his air supply and then winding around his arms against his will—he suddenly remembered it vividly despite the concussion he had suffered during the attack. The standing collar of his glorified tracksuit had probably hidden most of the markings, so seeing them had undoubtedly come as a surprise to Hizashi. Shōta honestly felt lucky that the exuberant hero was not raising his voice in regard to the ill shock. It was both a blessing and a curse; after all, Hizashi was only ever really quiet in his anger when it was serious.
Shōta made a small effort to at least sit up for the conversation, shifting and scooting backwards until he could at least comfortably rest his back against the tall arm of the ugly couch. He subtly tried to rub his arms to ward away the chill assaulting his still damp skin and nearly flinched, just barely keeping his expression in check, when Hizashi strode forward suddenly, grabbed a plush throw blanket from the back of the piece of furniture, and tossed it at him. Shōta clutched the blanket around his shoulders and bare arms, tucking his feet in between the cushions, and the English teacher heaved a sigh and flounced onto a nearby armchair, one not as gaudy as the couch but still a vivid, eye-snagging shade of green.
"You're a mess, Shōta," Hizashi breathed in English, absently scratching at a spot just above his ear which was currently unadorned by the large headphones of his hero costume.
What was there to say?
"I found myself on the bad side of a few drug rings, and I'm probably now being hunted down by a professional killer while I'm exhausted and injured" seemed too intense a response for such sincere concern. That would probably only make Hizashi feel like he was keeping more secrets than he actually was, and that would be a path Shōta would like to avoid wandering. He would also be yelled at and called an idiot for trying to keep details hidden, undoubtedly.
"It's not like it hasn't happened before" made too light of the situation, and Hizashi would probably yell at him more loudly than truly necessary for attempting to make a joke. In truth, he had not actually been strangled by his own weapon since his first year of pro-hero work. He tended to take note of where the tendrils of the scarf were at all times after that incident in his youth.
The exhausted man found himself using his damp, curling hair as a shield against the onslaught of too-quiet worry from his friend.
Seriously, what could be said that would not set off his friend's concerned temper?
"I let my guard down, and they outsmarted me" was definitely the truth, even if it was scarce on the details, but the blow to his pride from admitting such aloud to his friend who had not seen him with the worst of his injuries from that particular incident would be comparable to slamming into the side of a rooftop smokestack again.
Hizashi grew impatient while he was mulling over an answer and threw his hands in the air, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table with a loud clatter as he leaned back in the armchair, body tense and rigid and screaming with irritation and obvious concern. Shōta's eyes were drawn to his long, leather-clad legs for a second longer than he cared to acknowledge. Instead, he simply lied to himself that he was in a light state of shock after the events of the night and his apartment's frame becoming reminiscent of charcoal. If not that, he was staring because he was even more tired than usual.
"I'm not an idiot," the radio host spat impetuously, words changing to English suddenly.
Shōta definitely knew that foreign word; Hizashi had directed it toward him with a myriad of emotions throughout the years.
The voice hero's emerald eyes flashed with protective fury that both calmed Shōta and made his heart race a mile a minute, and he snapped out, "I've seen what your capture weapon does to your arms. I've never seen you with marks like that around your throat, though! What happened!"
His voice was absolutely booming by the end of his tirade, and Shōta found himself slamming his calloused hands over his ears, nearly shouting a response before, due to the nearly painful activation of his quirk, the ringing in his ears died down enough for him to think things through, "A telekinetic villain!"
Well, that was a fair response. It was the truth, and conclusions could easily be inferred.
Hizashi drew back, looking genuinely upset that he had used his quirk so fiercely. He sprung to his feet and was at Shōta's side in two long strides, crouching beside the couch. Reaching out with bare hands—shaking hands, Shōta dimly noted—, he placed both atop Shōta's as if to provide extra comfort for his eardrums and gently rubbed the pads of his thumbs along the ridge of the dark-haired man's cheekbones in apology, whispering nearly wordlessly in English, "Sorry! Sorry!"
Damp hair fell around his shoulders with more force than usual, and Shōta stared at his friend balefully before closing his eyes to ward away the discomfort brought about by utilizing his power. His eyes felt like hot pokers had been stabbed into them. His head pulsed in tandem with his accelerated heartbeat.
He was not certain how long they stayed like that—both sets of hands over his own ears and Hizashi's thumbs sliding gently against his cheekbones—but his next memory was that of his long-time, temperamental friend carefully shaking his shoulder to wake him, claiming that their curry had arrived and that he needed to eat something. Shōta roused himself enough to sit up and scoot forward toward the coffee table as a plastic container was placed on a kitchen towel on the surface before him. His body appreciated the food; that he knew for certain, but if asked about it, he could not honestly comment on the taste of the food, having little memory of delving into it. However, before he could attempt to make conversation again after their meal, he felt himself dozing off, distantly noting the chirpy melody of Hizashi's ringtone and the aggravated whisper of "he's staying here with me tonight."
When he heard Hizashi carrying out his morning routine of readying himself for a day of teaching, the erasure hero awakened groggily nearly ten hours later feeling more rested than he had in a very long time.