AnimeAny POVBisexualMaleMultiple CharactersSuperhero
Shota Aizawa and Hizashi Yamada
The staff locker room hummed with the ghosts of earlier noise—distant voices, the echo of a locker closing down the hall—but inside the stalls, it was mostly just the roar of water. Steam gathered fast, softening the harsh fluorescent light into a hazy, humid gold.
Shota Aizawa was already under the spray.
He hadn’t paused on his way in; he’d simply stripped down with the same blunt efficiency he brought to patrol and stepped into the heat as if the entire day could be rinsed off if he stood still long enough. Water ran through his hair, dark strands sticking to his jaw. He stood with his head tipped forward, eyes half-lidded. Recovering.
Hizashi Yamada stopped just outside the spray for all of two seconds before making a face.
“…Sho.”
No response.
“…Shota.”
Aizawa exhaled slowly through his nose. “What.”
Hizashi stepped into the water without hesitation, squinting like he was personally offended. “Your hair care routine stinks. Like. Literally stinks.”
Aizawa didn’t turn. “Shut up, Yamada.”
“I’m serious!” Hizashi reached up, flicking a damp strand of Shota’s hair between his fingers like he was inspecting evidence. “This is tragic. This is a cry for help. What are you even using? Hotel soap?”
“Whatever’s there.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
Aizawa’s eye twitched. “Get out.”
“No.”
“Yamada—”
“Nope. Too late. Intervention.”
There was a quiet click as Hizashi popped a bottle open. Without warning, his fingers were in Shota's hair, working shampoo in. Uninvited. Unapologetic.
Aizawa stiffened, shoulders locking as he decided whether or not to put up a fight. “What are you doing.”
“Saving you.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t have to. This is a public service. Very heroic.”
Foam built quickly under Hizashi’s hands. His fingers moved with surprising precision through the damp strands. “You’re gonna thank me later.”
“I’m going to erase you.”
“Go ahead and try. You’ll just get soap in your eyes,” Hizashi countered, his grin audible in his voice. “You’re at my mercy, Sho.”
Aizawa exhaled—slow, measured—but he didn’t move away.
Hizashi hummed, the initial playful ruffling of his hands slowing into something more focused. The teasing edge to his touch shifted, his movements becoming more deliberate as he began to navigate the mess of dark, wet strands.
“God, you’ve got knots back here,” Hizashi muttered, his fingers working carefully to tease apart a stubborn tangle at the nape of Shota’s neck. He didn’t shy away from the jagged line of a scar near the hairline or the fresh yellowing of a bruise on Shota's shoulder; he simply worked around them with practiced ease. “When was the last time you actually saw a hairbrush? Last semester?”
“I have one.”
“Owning it and using it are two different things, Sho.”
Hizashi’s hands slowed, his fingers maneuvering through the resistance with careful persistence. He stepped a fraction closer, the heat of the shower radiating between them. His voice dropped, losing its performative edge and becoming something lower, warmer—a frequency meant only for the space between them.
“You’re tense.”
“I’m always tense.”
“Yeah, well… tonight you’re worse. Don’t argue, I can feel it.”
Aizawa’s fingers flexed once at his side, then went still. He didn’t yield, but he shifted—just enough to give Hizashi better access. Water ran over both of them, cutting through the steam, rinsing foam down in slow, white lines.
Then, the locker room door opened.
The sound wasn't loud, but Shota’s eyes snapped open immediately. His posture shifted—subtle, automatic—every sense snapping back online even with the water streaming over his face.
Hizashi’s hands paused for a fraction of a second, buried in dark hair. Then they continued. Like this was normal.
“If you’re here for the showers,” Hizashi called out lightly, his voice carrying through the steam, “fair warning—he bites.”
Aizawa’s voice was flat, but the edge was gone. “Shut up.”
He let the breath leave him slowly, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. Without turning his head, he added, “It’s fine.”
Shota Aizawa was already under the spray.
He hadn’t paused on his way in; he’d simply stripped down with the same blunt efficiency he brought to patrol and stepped into the heat as if the entire day could be rinsed off if he stood still long enough. Water ran through his hair, dark strands sticking to his jaw. He stood with his head tipped forward, eyes half-lidded. Recovering.
Hizashi Yamada stopped just outside the spray for all of two seconds before making a face.
“…Sho.”
No response.
“…Shota.”
Aizawa exhaled slowly through his nose. “What.”
Hizashi stepped into the water without hesitation, squinting like he was personally offended. “Your hair care routine stinks. Like. Literally stinks.”
Aizawa didn’t turn. “Shut up, Yamada.”
“I’m serious!” Hizashi reached up, flicking a damp strand of Shota’s hair between his fingers like he was inspecting evidence. “This is tragic. This is a cry for help. What are you even using? Hotel soap?”
“Whatever’s there.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
Aizawa’s eye twitched. “Get out.”
“No.”
“Yamada—”
“Nope. Too late. Intervention.”
There was a quiet click as Hizashi popped a bottle open. Without warning, his fingers were in Shota's hair, working shampoo in. Uninvited. Unapologetic.
Aizawa stiffened, shoulders locking as he decided whether or not to put up a fight. “What are you doing.”
“Saving you.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t have to. This is a public service. Very heroic.”
Foam built quickly under Hizashi’s hands. His fingers moved with surprising precision through the damp strands. “You’re gonna thank me later.”
“I’m going to erase you.”
“Go ahead and try. You’ll just get soap in your eyes,” Hizashi countered, his grin audible in his voice. “You’re at my mercy, Sho.”
Aizawa exhaled—slow, measured—but he didn’t move away.
Hizashi hummed, the initial playful ruffling of his hands slowing into something more focused. The teasing edge to his touch shifted, his movements becoming more deliberate as he began to navigate the mess of dark, wet strands.
“God, you’ve got knots back here,” Hizashi muttered, his fingers working carefully to tease apart a stubborn tangle at the nape of Shota’s neck. He didn’t shy away from the jagged line of a scar near the hairline or the fresh yellowing of a bruise on Shota's shoulder; he simply worked around them with practiced ease. “When was the last time you actually saw a hairbrush? Last semester?”
“I have one.”
“Owning it and using it are two different things, Sho.”
Hizashi’s hands slowed, his fingers maneuvering through the resistance with careful persistence. He stepped a fraction closer, the heat of the shower radiating between them. His voice dropped, losing its performative edge and becoming something lower, warmer—a frequency meant only for the space between them.
“You’re tense.”
“I’m always tense.”
“Yeah, well… tonight you’re worse. Don’t argue, I can feel it.”
Aizawa’s fingers flexed once at his side, then went still. He didn’t yield, but he shifted—just enough to give Hizashi better access. Water ran over both of them, cutting through the steam, rinsing foam down in slow, white lines.
Then, the locker room door opened.
The sound wasn't loud, but Shota’s eyes snapped open immediately. His posture shifted—subtle, automatic—every sense snapping back online even with the water streaming over his face.
Hizashi’s hands paused for a fraction of a second, buried in dark hair. Then they continued. Like this was normal.
“If you’re here for the showers,” Hizashi called out lightly, his voice carrying through the steam, “fair warning—he bites.”
Aizawa’s voice was flat, but the edge was gone. “Shut up.”
He let the breath leave him slowly, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. Without turning his head, he added, “It’s fine.”
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