Boku no Hero Academia My Hero Academia - KuriKuri

“It can’t be that difficult,” Shōta snorts.“You have clearly never tried to apply nail polish before,” Hizashi says flatly, giving Shōta an unimpressed look.(Note: there's now a second part!)

1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i use they/them pronouns for hizashi in this fic. while writing it, i was thinking of hizashi as genderfluid, but i don't talk about it too explicitly.

Yamada Hizashi has officially decided that this is the worst injury they’ve ever had.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Shōta snorts, not bothering to look up from his grading.

“I’d rather be dead,” Hizashi whines as they awkwardly tap at their laptop with only their left hand, their right one bandaged up and useless. “Do you know how long it takes to type like this? I swear, it took me a whole fifteen minutes to compose a single tweet this morning. I can’t even hold a pen, either!”

“Personally, I think this is the perfect opportunity for you to become ambidextrous,” Shōta drawls, and Hizashi shoots him a mild glare.

Truth be told, Hizashi doesn’t actually regret the injury. Rather, they don’t regret punching a villain so hard that they broke three of their fingers, because they’d much rather suffer through typing with one hand than have let Shōta be strangled to death. Hizashi peers over the top of their laptop screen, stealing a glance at Shōta and the bright ring of bruises peeking out from under the edge of his scarf.

Yeah, they definitely don’t regret their actions.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that their injury isn’t damn annoying. Hizashi may have broken quite a few bones in their hero career, but somehow they’ve never injured one of their hands before and trying to operate without their dominant hand is trickier than expected. Honestly, Hizashi has no idea how Shōta managed to get by with both of his hands so severely injured after the USJ incident.

Not that Hizashi actually has to do everything themself. The reason Shōta’s currently doing his grading in Hizashi’s apartment is because he’d (gruffly, in a very roundabout way) offered to cook for Hizashi.

(He’d said something about Hizashi being liable to injure themself further if they actually tried using a kitchen knife in their current condition, and while he’d said it like an insult, Hizashi’s long since learned to see through Shōta’s rough exterior.)

Still, Shōta can’t do everything for them.

Hizashi sighs and stops trying to type, worrying their lower lip with their teeth as they pick at the lime green nail polish on their right hand. Normally they’d have reapplied it already, but with only one functional hand they doubt that’d turn out well. Instead, they’ve taken to picking at it idly, little flakes of color falling down onto their laptop keyboard.

“Do you want me to fix that?” Shōta says suddenly, startling Hizashi slightly.

“Fix what?” Hizashi asks, looking over at Shōta with a frown. “My typing?”

“No,” Shōta replies. “Your nail polish.”

“Have you ever even _seen_ a bottle of nail polish before?” Hizashi asks, skepticism clear in their tone.

“It can’t be that difficult,” Shōta snorts.

“You have clearly never tried to apply nail polish before,” Hizashi says flatly, giving Shōta an unimpressed look.

“If you don’t like it, you can just pick it off again,” Shōta offers.

For a moment, Hizashi finds themself considering it. At the very least, it should be amusing to watch Shōta try – and most likely fail – to apply nail polish, so they find themself saying, “Fine. Do your worst.”

Shōta arches an eyebrow at their phrasing.

“Or your best. Whatever,” Hizashi sighs, correcting themself. “My nail polish is in the bathroom, in the medicine cabinet above the sink.”

Shōta makes a little grunt of acknowledgement before dragging himself up off the couch. He takes a moment to stretch, joints making unpleasant popping sounds which make Hizashi cringe. Still, Hizashi can’t quite help the way their eyes are drawn to the way Shōta’s back arches as he stretches, along with the way his shirt rides up a little bit, showing off the sharp cut of his hipbones.

After a couple of long seconds, Hizashi finally manages to tear their eyes away from Shōta, focusing back on their laptop, cheeks flushing with heat. They only manage to type another half a sentence of their email, though, before Shōta comes back with a makeup bag in his hands.