Chapter Text
The bottle of whiskey on the countertop was a premium brand. It was aged eighteen years, smooth as silk, and cost more than Shota used to spend on food in a month during his underground days. Nemuri had bought it for him five years ago for his birthday. She had told him to save it for a special occasion.
She probably hadn’t intended for the occasion to be the third anniversary of her own death.
Shota Aizawa stared at the amber liquid in his glass. The ice had long since melted, diluting the expensive alcohol into watery disappointment.
Outside, the cold wind and rain lashed against the windows of the UA teachers' dorms. It was a cold, miserable night, the kind that made his leg throb with a phantom pain, the ache running through a limb that wasn’t there.
He lifted the glass and drained it.
Nothing.
No warmth spreading through his chest. No hazing of the sharp edges of his memory. No blurring of the image of a torn costume and a broken domino mask.
He poured himself another glass.
"You're drinking it like water," Emi said. Her voice was slurred and drowsy, lacking its usual upbeat cheer. "It's disrespectful to the grain."
Shota looked down from the barstool he was sitting on. Emi was sitting on the floor, leaning heavily against the sofa. Her face was flushed a deep, rosy pink. She was drinking cheap canned chuhai. Several crushed cans were already lined up like tin soldiers on the floor next to her.
"I'm trying," Shota muttered, setting the bottle down with a clink. "To feel something other than… this."
"Tolerance," Emi hiccuped. She waved a hand vaguely. "You built it up too high. All those years of… whatever you did back then. You're immune to fun."
"I'm immune to poisoning. There's a difference."
"Is there?" She giggled, but the sound was sad. It cracked in the middle.
Shota sighed. He looked at the small shrine they had set up on the bookshelf. A framed photo of the three of them—Shota, Hizashi, and Nemuri—from their early twenties. Nemuri was putting bunny ears behind Shota’s head. He looked annoyed. She looked radiant.
Hizashi had been here earlier. He had cried. He had gotten drunk and shouted stories at the ceiling, trying to reach her wherever she was. He had toasted her memory and then left, unable to handle the quiet of Shota’s apartment for too long. Hizashi needed noise to drown out the grief. Shota needed silence to get through it.
But Emi had stayed, to keep the silence from becoming unbearable, and to keep him from being alone.
"She would have hated this," Emi murmured, staring at the photo. She swirled her can. "Us sitting here. Moping. She would have wanted a party. Strippers. glitter."
"She would have wanted us to be logical," Shota said, though he knew it was a lie. "She would have wanted us to survive."
"Surviving is boring," Emi groaned. She took a long swig of her drink. "Living is hard."
"You should slow down," Shota said, eyeing the line of cans. "You're going to be sick."
"I'm fine!" She threw her hands up. "I'm Ms. Joke! I can handle anything! Villains! Media! The crushing weight of existential dread!"
She tried to stand up, presumably to demonstrate her sobriety, but gravity had other plans. She swayed, her foot catching on the edge of the rug, and she tipped forward.
Shota pushed himself forward instinctively, the stool he was on toppling over. Even with one leg and one eye, his reflexes were sharp, honed by years of underground heroism. He caught her before she hit the ground.
He guided her back down to the floor, shifting so she was propped up against the side of the couch again.
"Okay," she breathed, her head lolling back. "Maybe... maybe the room is spinning a little. Just a little. Like a teacup ride."
"You're drunk, Emi."
"And you're not," she accused, pointing a wobbly finger at him. "It's unfair. You get to keep your walls up. Even now. Even with me."
Shota stiffened. He sat back on his heels. "I don't have walls with you. You live in my house. You wear my shirts. You co-parent my ward."
"That's not what I mean!" She slammed her hand onto the carpet, knocking over an empty can of alcohol. "That's just… proximity. You let me in the door, Shota. But you never let me in."
Shota felt a headache forming that had nothing to do with the whiskey. "Emi, don't do this tonight."
"When?" She looked at him. Her eyes were glassy, swimming with tears that hadn't fallen yet. "When do I get to do it? When one of us dies? Nemuri is gone. We could be next. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I choke on a mochi. Maybe you trip over the cat."
"Emi."
"I've been joking for ten years," she whispered. The fight drained out of her, leaving her small and exhausted. "Ten years, Sho. 'Marry me.' 'Date me.' 'Love me.'"
She let out a small laugh, choked with tears.
"It's the perfect cover, isn't it? Perfect enough that you didn’t get the punchline." She looked at the ceiling, blinking rapidly to dry her eyes. "If I make it a joke, you can't reject me. You just roll your eyes and say it’s irrational. And I get to laugh and pretend I don’t care as much as I do."
Shota went very still. The air in the room seemed to freeze.
He had always known, somewhat. He wasn't stupid. He knew Emi cared. But he had categorized it as just another quirk of her personality. An eccentric, loud, persistent affection that was part of the Ms. Joke persona. He had assumed the "Marry Me" bit was just that: a bit. A running gag to annoy the stiff, serious underground hero.
Apparently, he had assumed wrong.
"Emi," he said, his voice low. "You…"
"I love you," she blurted out, cutting off whatever he’d been about to say. "I love you so much it's stupid. I love how grumpy you are. I love how you care about those kids more than yourself. I love how you look at Eri like she's the only thing that matters. I love your stupid cat."
She sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
"And I know you don't feel the same. I know. You're broken. You're grieving. You're Eraserhead. You don't do 'feelings.' But… god, Shota. Tonight… just tonight…"
She slumped sideways, her head resting on his good knee.
"I just wanted you to know," she mumbled, her eyes drifting shut. "In case… you know. In case."
Shota sat frozen. He looked down at her. Her breathing was already evening out, the alcohol pulling her into unconsciousness faster than he could process what just happened.
He reached out, his hand hovering over her hair.
"You're an idiot," he whispered. The words were soft, lacking any bite.
He brushed a strand of teal hair away from her face. She felt war, her skin flushed with alcohol.
He looked at the empty cans scattered about the floor. He looked at Nemuri’s picture.
“She’s the one, you idiot,” Nemuri had told him once, years ago, watching Emi bother him at a joint training session. “Stop thinking so much. Don’t let her get away.”
Shota hadn't listened then. He had been too busy surviving.
Now, looking at Emi passed out against his prosthetic leg, drooling slightly onto his sweatpants, Shota realized she’d been right.
"I know," he said to the sleeping woman, or maybe to the ghost of one. "I know."
He carefully maneuvered himself up, lifting her into his arms. She was lighter than she looked. He carried her to the bedroom, tucked her in, and placed a glass of water and two painkillers on the nightstand.
He didn't sleep that night. He sat in the living room, listening to the rain, and poured himself another glass.
--
The sun was too bright. It was offensively, aggressively bright.
Emi groaned, pulling the sheets over her head. Her brain felt like it was being squeezed by a giant, angry python. Her mouth tasted like sugary alcohol and regret.
She lay there for a moment, cataloging her injuries. Headache: severe. Nausea: moderate. Memory: …spotty.
She remembered Hizashi crying. She remembered Shota cracking open the whiskey. She remembered… yelling? Crying?
Oh no.
She shot up in bed, ignoring the pounding in her skull.
"Oh god," she whispered, clutching her head. "What did I say?"
She remembered feelings. Big, messy, uncontained feelings. She remembered looking at Shota and feeling like she was going to explode if she didn't say something.
But the words were a blur. Had she talked about the war? Had she complained about the HPSC? Had she finally told him that his choice in casual wear was a crime against fashion?
The door creaked open.
Shota walked in. He was fully dressed, looking awake and functional despite having drunk twice as much as her. He held a tray.
"You're up," he said flatly.
Emi flinched at the volume, though he had spoken quietly. "Too bright. Turn down the sun."
Shota walked over and placed the tray on her lap. Miso soup. Rice. Pickled plums. The ultimate hangover cure. (Fun fact, this actually works miracles).
"Eat," he ordered.
Emi picked up the spoon with a trembling hand. She peeked at him through her lashes. He looked… normal. He was reading something on his phone, his face impassive.
"So," she started. "About last night."
Shota didn't look up. "Yes?"
"Did I… was I a lot?"
"You were drunk," Shota said. "You drank nine cans of beer. You attempted to stand on the coffee table to recite a haiku about Midnight, but fell over."
Emi winced. "Oh. That sounds like me."
"Then you complained about the government, cried about the cat having three legs, and passed out on my knee."
Emi exhaled, her shoulders slumping in relief. Okay. Standard drunk Emi behavior. Political rants and sentimental weeping over animals. Safe.
"I didn't… say anything else?" she asked, just to be sure.
Shota finally looked at her. His dark eye was unreadable. He held her gaze for a second that felt like an eternity.
"You said my apartment has bad feng shui," he lied smoothly.
Emi let out a nervous laugh. "Well, it does! It's all grey! It's terrible for the energy flow."
"Eat your soup, Joke. You have patrol at noon."
He turned and walked out of the room.
Emi slumped back against the pillows. She felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. She hadn't blown it. Their whatever-they-were was safe.
But as she stirred the soup, she couldn't help but wish that she had been brave enough to say something more.
--
Three days passed.
Life returned to its rhythm. They worked. They took care of Eri. They fed the cat.
But Shota was… different.
It was subtle. If Emi hadn't spent a decade studying the micro-expressions of Eraserhead, she would have missed it.
He stood a little closer. When they sat on the couch, he didn't pull away like she usually did when she encroached on his space. He made her coffee in the morning without being asked, and not just the usual hot water and powder. He made it exactly how she liked it, with way too much milk and sugar.
And he was watching her.
It was Wednesday night. The apartment was quiet. Eri was at a sleepover with the Pussycats, on a playdate with Kota.
Emi was at the kitchen table, grading papers for her hero ethics class. Shota was on the sofa, seemingly reading a book, but he hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes.
"Ugh," Emi groaned, dropping her head onto the table. "Why do teenagers think 'I punched it really hard' is a valid response for conflict de-escalation?"
"Because you teach them that punching things is funny," Shota said from the couch.
"I teach them strategic punching! There's a difference!"
She stood up, stretching her back until it cracked. She walked over to the living room area.
"I'm bored," she announced. "Entertain me, Eraser."
"I am not a ringmaster."
"You have a cat. That's close." She flopped onto the sofa next to him, draping her legs over his lap. It was a bold move, one she usually only dared when she was mopey or drunk.
Shota didn't push her legs off. He just rested his hand on her ankle.
Emi’s heart did a traitorous little flip.
"So," she said, "Since you're useless at entertainment, I guess I'll have to rely on my own wit."
"What wit."
"Hey! I'm hilarious. Ask anyone. Ask the polls. I'm in the top ten most entertaining heroes."
"You're number twelve."
"Details!" She grinned at him, tilting her head back. "You know, you're lucky to have me. Who else would put up with your grumpiness? Who else would buy you the expensive eye drops?"
"Mic," Shota pointed out.
"Mic would buy you the wrong kind and then you’d scream about it for the next week. I bring order to your chaos."
"You are the chaos."
"I'm the spice! The flavor!" She poked his chest. "Admit it. You'd be lost without me. You'd wither away into a dry, dusty husk of emotionless ash."
Shota closed his book. He placed it on the coffee table and turned his body toward her.
"Yes," he said.
Emi blinked. "Yes what?"
"Yes, I would be lost without you."
The air left Emi’s lungs. The banter died in her throat. Shota wasn't smiling. He wasn't being sarcastic. He was looking at her with an intensity that made her skin break out in goosebumps.
"Oh," she whispered. "Well. Good. Glad you… realized that."
She scrambled for a joke. She needed a shield, before her heart burst out of her chest.
"Well then!" She let out a high, unsteady laugh. "Since you admit it, you should probably lock this down. Marry me, Eraser. Limited time offer. Operators are standing by."
It was the line she had used a thousand times. It was her safety net. She waited for the eye roll. She waited for the "No." She waited for the "Illogical," the easy dismissal he’d given her a thousand times before.
Shota looked at her. He moved his hand from her ankle to her hand, interlacing their fingers. His palm was calloused and warm.
"Okay," he said.
Emi froze. Her brain stalled. "Okay... what?"
"Okay. Let's get married."
Emi stared at him. She blinked once. Twice.
"Ha ha," she said weakly. "Very funny. You're learning sarcasm. I'm so proud. You're finally developing a sense of humor."
"I'm not joking," Shota said.
He reached into his pocket, the pocket of his stained, graying sweatpants, of all things, and pulled out a small, velvet box.
Emi stopped breathing.
He opened it. Inside wasn't a diamond, or a flashy, shining gold band. It was a simple, sleek ring made of black titanium, with a thin line of teal running through the center.
"It's durable," Shota said, his voice steady, though his thumb was rubbing nervously against her knuckles. "It won't conduct electricity. It's scratch-resistant. And… it matches your eyes."
Emi looked at the ring. She looked at Shota.
"You…" She squeaked. "You had a ring?"
"I bought it two days ago."
"But… why?"
"Because," Shota said, shifting so he was facing her fully. "Three nights ago, a very drunk woman told me that her jokes weren’t as joking as I’d though they were. She told me she was tired of waiting. And she told me she loved me."
Emi’s face drained of color, then flooded with a red so bright she felt like she was burning.
"You…" she gasped, covering her mouth with her free hand. "You liar! You said I talked about feng shui!"
"I lied," Shota admitted. "I needed time. To think. And to prepare."
"You… oh my god." She buried her face in her hands. "I'm mortified. I'm going to die. Leave me here to rot."
"Emi."
Shota pulled her hands away from her face. He held them tightly.
"You were right," he said softly. "I hid behind logic. You hid behind humor. We were both cowards."
He looked at the ring, then back at her.
"I don't want to hide anymore. I have a daughter who calls you Mom. I have a cat that likes you more than me. And I have… feelings. Irrational, illogical, overwhelming feelings."
He took a breath.
"I love you, Emi. I don't say it often, and I probably won't shout it from the rooftops like you want. But I love you. I want you to stay. Permanently."
He held the ring up.
"So. Emi Fukukado. Will you marry me? Or was it really just a joke?"
Emi stared at him. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
For once, the Ms. Joke who had a pun for every situation, a comeback for every insult, and a laugh for every tragedy, was completely, utterly speechless.
Tears welled up in her eyes. Big, fat, happy tears that spilled over and ran down her cheeks.
She looked at the grumpy, scarred man sitting on the sofa in his sweatpants. The man who had caught her when she fell, every single time.
"It wasn't a joke," she managed to choke out, her voice barely a whisper.
"Good," Shota said.
"Yes," she sobbed, finally finding her voice. "Yes! Yes, you idiot! Yes!"
She threw herself at him.
Shota caught her, bracing himself as she collided with his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck.
She was crying into his shirt. She was laughing through the tears.
"I can't believe you beat me to it," she wailed. "I had a whole plan! I was going to propose on the jumbotron at the next sports festival!"
"That is exactly why I did it now," Shota muttered into her hair. "To prevent a public spectacle."
"You're so boring!" She pulled back, framing his face with her hands. She looked at him, her face stained with tears, and laughed. "I love you, Shota."
"I know," he said. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I love you too."
He took her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
Emi looked at it, watching the teal line catch the light.
"We have to tell Eri," she said, sniffing. "She's going to freak out."
"Tomorrow," Shota said. "She's asleep at the Pussycats'. Tonight..."
He leaned in.
Emi’s eyes fluttered shut.
"Tonight," he whispered, his breath tickling her lips, "we celebrate the fact that I finally got the last laugh."
Emi let out a watery chuckle and opened her eyes.
"Don't get used to it, Eraser," she warned, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. "I have a lifetime of material saved up."
"I'm counting on it," Shota murmured.
And then, finally, he closed the gap.
His lips molded to hers, the chapped skin softening against her lipstick, their breath mixing together.
It tasted like coffee and salty tears and home.
When they pulled apart, Emi was beaming.
"Hey, Shota?"
"What?"
"Knock knock."
Shota sighed, resting his forehead against hers. "Who's there?"
"Marry."
"Marry who?"
"Marry me!" she giggled. "Oh wait. You already did."
"I haven't signed the papers yet," Shota threatened, though he pulled her closer. "I can still change my mind."
"Nope. No backsies. You're stuck with me."
"And I wouldn’t have it," Shota whispered, closing his eye as she peppered his face with kisses, "any other way."
Outside, the rain had stopped. The clouds were breaking, revealing a sliver of the moon. It was a quiet night in Musutafu. But in the apartment on the top floor of the UA dorms, the silence had been broken, replaced by a soft, happy sound, one that would linger in the years to come.
Laughter.