Chapter Text
It’s official: Present Mic is a flippant idiot.
"Don't be so hard on yourself," All Might -- Yagi, he reminds himself, and isn't that superb, being on a surname basis with All Might, their No.1 Hero -- "I'm sure whatever grievance is troubling you, it isn't so bad!"
Nemuri nudges his shoulder lightly. "Yeah, Mic," she teases, voice dropping into a teasing octave, "Not so bad."
The staff room is empty save for them. Shouta had already arrived and, grumpy as they come, had all but ran out once a cup of coffee was safely secured in his hands. Which, in hindsight, makes something in Mic's chest loop even tighter, so maybe he should call Shouta back to drop the ball on this mystery. It'd been a few days since he'd hassled his way into Shouta's apartment after getting absolutely hammered; he still remembers some blips of conversation that went down, but other than those few rare traces, he hadn't exactly remembered much in his spree of inebriation. Nothing too bad must've happened as Shouta's still the same as usual.
He leans back against the spinny chair, barely faltering when it nearly gives in under his weight, using the wall to prop himself up. "Sure," he agrees, before schooling his face into something grim, reveling in the way it makes them both shudder with laughter, "Walk in my shoes once and we'll see how ya like it!"
Ever so surely, Yagi's eyes trail down to his boots as if considering it.
Mic lifts an arm and snaps his fingers. "Yo, big guy. Didn't mean literally." He pauses. "...Unless?"
He wiggles his eyebrows at the end, using two fingers to tip his sunglasses down to reveal his eyes, and shifts his weight to look up at the man.
Nemuri slaps a hand down on her knee, already bursting out into a cackle.
Making All Might spook could be considered one of the greatest pleasures of all time; they don't hold a candle to making Shouta's eyes widen, but it comes rather close on the 'fake' list of rankings he's accumulated over the years. Bringing everyone else down to his level is child's play in comparison.
"My apologies," Yagi chokes out, laughing.
Looking down at his watch, he laughs it off, too, before startling as his eyes focus and the numbers don't match up with what he'd been picturing. That can't be right.
"'Kay, enough of that, now," he elects to say. Mic fiddles with the hem of his sleeve. "We can continue this riveting convo after lunch, ya'dig? I gotta get your opinions on something. Have to teach the next generation first, though!"
"Oooh," Nemuri hisses out, apologetic. He tilts his head. "Can't. Sorry, I've got some me-time to deal with. Another time?"
Mic raises a brow. It's not in her to reject him outright. A realization dawns on him. "You're having a date, aren't you."
In placation, Nemuri raises her hands up in surrender. If not for the risqué hues that almost rush through her irises, he could believe her.
"Guilty as charged," she whistles. " What's a girl to do in these trying times?"
"I dunno, be there for her real cute friend having trying times?" he grumbles frivolously. Mic doesn't actually mind it. She could do with some time for herself, and he'd rather not bother her. With how hard she's been working herself to the bone -- not on Shouta's levels, for obvious reasons, he'd just call emergency services in that worst case scenario to sedate her, since her quirk doesn't work on herself -- she deserves a bit of love.
Vaguely, he wonders if he and Shouta would ever get a chance to have some 'them-time' as well, some equivalent of Nemuri's romance slots, beyond their usual dig of 'dragging Shouta out for socializing'.
He doesn't think about whether he wants it to be romantic or not. He already knows.
Shaking it off, he sighs when she doesn't reply. "Off ya get, then. Shoo."
Waving, Nemuri strides out of the staff room, hand lingering on the door as she looks over her shoulder and flashes a cheeky tongue out. Bugger.
Turning to Yagi, Mic sighs. "How 'bout you, man?"
The look on the other's face tells him all he needs to know. Maybe he's training that Midoriya kid again, Mic thinks, watching his back as steam hisses out and he transforms into his actual All Might form-- the public one. Mic still has no clue how he does it. Secondary quirk? Muscle memory? Who knows?
Within a blink, the English lessons had been attended to, students taught, and Shouta and Mic had found themselves at an impasse once lunch arrived.
"You look cheerier than usual today." Shouta observes.
For whatever reason, Nedzu had deemed it appropriate for them both to be stationed side by side in the staff room. Mic won't look a gift-horse in the mouth, though, so he'd just shut up and accepted it when the request had come in their first semester teaching together, with Shouta barely even flinching, having already gotten the rundown from Nemuri.
At the moment, they're having a bit of a sabbatical before the time comes for Shouta to trail off to heroics, and Hizashi to head for patrol. (But not before checking up with Maijima, he thinks, speaker bruising on his shoulders; he'd rather avoid extremely unnecessary pain.)
"You complaining? Can't a guy just be happy about having a fun time with his best bud?"
Because blasé is his middle name, Shouta continues, not objecting to the title. Mic ignores the way Hizashi's heart pounds in his chest. "He can," Shouta plays along, "But even this feels excessive. Feels like you're overcompensating for something, Hizashi."
"It's Mic at work, Eraser," Mic reminds him. He ignores the 'excessive' comment, because he gets that constantly.
Humming, he retreats back to his paperwork. The radio show's bound to get a new sponsor within the next week or so, which means the task of documenting the heavy deets has fallen onto his shoulders. Something he doesn't mind, really -- it gets the gears in his head ticking away instead of remaining uselessly in place, hands able to tinker with something. He likes remaining on the go.
Staying still's just not a jam he could ever get accustomed to hearing.
There's a pause.
"Mic," Shouta corrects. "It's fine. Sure. But, you should eat your..." the man seems to hesitate, concern ebbed away by a tide of bafflement. "Salad? You chose a salad?"
He can already see Shouta's nose wrinkling in distaste. Mic chuckles. Typical. Leave it to the guy who thinks jelly packets are a sustainable diet to judge him. Mic spares said salad an amused glance.
"How'd you reckon I keep my adoring image up?" he asks. "By munching away just at steak?" Ticking away at another box, pondering whether he should curse whoever formatted this damned file the way they did, he goes, "Please," he scoffs. "Balanced diet all the way, baby."
Hizashi has a fast metabolism anyhow. Even in UA, he'd had a light frame and trouble gaining weight, to the point where his parents had been concerned and hired a specialist. Mic had resolved it by the time he'd come out onto the hero scene by carrying around more food in his go-bags. Staff had been warned about his tendencies and instructed on what to keep in the commune fridge; he'd feel more guilt about having carved out an entire section all for himself if not for the fact one of them had accidentally cleared out all his food, leaving him to nearly faint while on air once he figured he could go without it.
Now those were hard times. His staff had apologized for weeks on end afterwards.
Shouta pauses, again. 'You should eat."
"In a minute."
"Mic."
"In a minute," he repeats.
"We're having lunch together," Shouta reminds him, and he nearly does an internal backflip over the 'together' bit, "You can file out whatever you're doing later."
Remembering something in his bag, Mic gives in, sighing. He might as well give Shouta it now. "Yeah, my bad, bro."
Talking with Shouta's not the same as gossiping to Nemuri, or, good riddance, rambling into Yagi's ears and having the man listen politely and offer up his own boisterous comments, but it's still enough of a comfort to quell the fact he can't exactly spill his guts out onto anyone right now, no matter how much he wants to. With Shouta, snarkiness comes out rather easy; a downright testament to how often he's been hanging around the man. With how rational Shouta claims to be, Mic can rationalize being ticked off about their students and bemoan about the listeners he's suspecting haven't been paying as much attention as they should with their grades.
It's fun pretending -- or at least, he thinks they're pretending, anyway -- to have to tell Shouta off for threatening to send them off to detention. Listening or not, he wouldn't subject his students to Shouta's wrath on a good day; having him run detention was punishment enough.
He tears at his salad. Shouta, on the other hand, not surprisingly, chews through his bento (a peace offering from Mic, as he'd tucked it away in his work bag for safekeeping before he'd headed out) in increments, far more pressed on the paperwork beside him.
When he'd asked, his friend had reasoned it out with: "Class 1-A is a horrid bunch. Do you really think they'll be satisfied if I don't get this done by tomorrow?" and, not even waiting for an answer, he'd gone, "No? I didn't, either."
Hypocrite, Mic thinks fondly. Still, if Shouta gets to skirt the rules, so does he, so he flips through the paperwork still, notching off a tick here and there before quickly running his fingers away when he can feel Shouta's eyes burning onto his sides.
"Ya ever think it's crazy how far we've come since graduation," he mumbles out between chewing. It must barely sound comprehensible in his mouth, he muses, when Shouta flashes him a wary look.
"Don't talk while there's food in your mouth," Shouta scolds, but doesn't prod any further. "Yeah?"
Mic swallows. Gulping down the food, he continues, "You know." Gesturing languidly, he signals to the room around them, then back to their desk. "Did you ever think we'd become teachers? Seal the deal with Nedzu?"
Shouta contemplates it. In the meanwhile, Mic pokes at his food again with his fork, bringing it forward to his mouth before grimacing when a tomato that's slightly warmer than usual makes it in. Gross.
"You had the heart for it," Shouta admits, somewhat clipped despite the admission. "I didn't expect you to, with all your schemes about your radio show, among other things, but you've taken to it well. Seems to me it was only sensible that you'd become an English teacher, of all things. Maybe fate. You were always obsessed with America when we were younger."
Fate? He usually dismisses that as hogwash. Mic doesn't ask, though, because returning the sentiment is much more favourable, and Shouta offering a genuine opinion is seldom without a fair bit of poking on his end.
"And you?" he asks. Nudging his shoulder, he goes, teasingly, "I didn't expect you, of all things, to be such a dad."
Since school had broken out and Shouta had yet to expel anyone in his current class, there'd been signs popping up left and right, practically, ironically, screaming into Mic's ears that this year would be something different for the man in comparison to others. Especially since USJ -- throat dry, Mic internally shakes off what he remembers from that day, focuses on the good -- it'd seemed only 'logical' that Shouta would get this attached to his class. He'd always been rather soft about things before (even if students would claim otherwise, other teachers who didn't know him well enough shuddering at even hearing his name), but still, it was quite an eye-opener.
Shouta glares at him. "We're talking about teaching."
"Go on."
Sighing, the other shaking his head, wisely choosing not to pursue it. Mic could talk about it all day if he wanted to. "Nemuri forced me into it."
He'd heard about that story time and time again. Hell, had been there to witness it himself, mostly. It wasn't only everyone else that was dumbfounded when Present Mic had walked in to introduce himself and Eraserhead -- who they hadn't known at the time, for good reason -- had followed.
Then there's fingers pressing into his shoulder. "You did too. Don't think you're blameless, here," Shouta grumbles out, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Whaaaat?" he says, portraying a canvas of innocence -- he doesn't know what he did, actually. "Me?"
Shouta reveals it rather easy. "You were the one who told her I 'needed to be pushed into things in order to do them'. Technically," and he says it with a mouth full of teeth, gesturing to his own desk in a mimicry of Mic's actions from before, before looping back to him, "This all leads to you."
Mic whistles. That's old news. "You still took it, though," he points out.
Sighing, Shouta lets his hands fall back to his sides, looking defeated. "Something I regret every day," he comments wistfully.
"Liar," he points out, English dripping out before he can help himself. Shouta looks back at him blankly.
"Let me pick your brain." Mic demands.
Powerloader -- Maijima -- stares at him fruitlessly. "Here for the speaker again, are you, Mic?"
Absentmindedly, hands rub at his shoulders, between the crook of his shoulder pads and the lapels of his leather jacket, reaching for where the speaker is tucked over his collarbone.
He tips his sunglasses down. "The padding's wearing off, and I want ideas on how to stop that," he says, not beating around the bush.
Besides being a nuisance comfort-wise, some of the locking mechanisms have grown stiff since he hasn't had enough free time to oil them lately, what with his schedule and all tearing him away. Making some time for it is easier said than done.
Maijima sighs. "You know we can just adjust it for you, right? There ain't any need to worry about the process. I'm sure Hatsume's been eager to get her hands on your directional speaker anyway, lately, with how much she's been buggin' me about it," and to this he shudders, to which Mic's unsure of how to respond.
Thinking about anyone but himself being interested in his directional speaker sparks some ego despite the worry.
"Sure," he laughs, "she can have a go at it. Just tell her not to break it, eh?"
For obvious, overprotective reasons, Maijima glares at him -- as best he can with the mask on anyway.
"She won't," he mutters, trying to sound dismissive, but failing. Hiding his favouritism for Hatsume is impossible. Then with one fell swoop he eyes Mic. "Will you be handing it in today?"
Tapping his speaker, he shakes his head. "No can do. Got citizens to save, patrols to go on. You know how it is," he drawls out, before adding, with much more vigour, as he doesn't want to seem-- what, gloomy, "And listeners to talk my ear off to! Can't do that without this trusty thing."
Clinking twice, the echo rings out into the space between the support department and the hallway, absent of students now that they've headed home.
From under his mask, Mic can tell when Maijima blinks in confusion. "It'll hurt," he warns, claws reaching out.
"Nothing I haven't faced before," Mic countershoots.
"...Right," Maijima grumbles, and his hands fall back to his sides. Determination sets itself in his mouth just then. "Come back early tomorrow morning, then. We'll get it fixed right up within a few days."
You'll have to take a few days off, Mic hears.
He can already glimpse the headlines now. Present Mic; Off air, or laying around? Well, they probably wouldn't, if he keeps his mouth shut, but who's to know when all he can't do is shut his trap? Shouta certainly knows it, so why wouldn't everyone else?
Anyhow, in the meanwhile... he could work on grading those English essays. Top notch effort and all that. Plus ultra. They're for Shouta's students, so he should get it done in the same timely manner than he usually does-- with all this in mind, he could even get it in early.
"Alright," he decides. Donning a smile, he flashes a thumbs up. Double thumbs up, for good measure. "Sure. Cool! Just fine with me, man, let's do it! I'll come over tomorrow!"
Whatever! No big deal. Better make this patrol count.
Once he's hopped into his car, Mic hightails it to Takoba Agency. The drive isn't too cumbersome; on days like this, getting behind the wheel usually lifts his mood.
Every now and then, after spotting him through the window of his Mustang, one particularly eager citizen pops wheelies on their motorcycle. Judging by the pins on their jacket and the stickers littered on the back of their helmet, they're probably a Present Mic fan, if the excessive revving anytime he even risks a glance their way is anything to go by. They even seem to squeal when he shoots off a peace sign at them.
Cute.
(Vaguely, he wonders if Shouta, were he ever to shy away from public transport or, daresay using his capture scarf to swing by -- would he ride a motorcycle? If they were together, would he do something as ridiculous as popping a wheelie and risking his dignity just to impress Mic? He'd look cute in the gear too, Mic admits, then immediately clamps his mouth shut before he babbles to an audience of none. His fists clench taut around the steering wheel.)
Their little stunt only draws to a close once the cops finally manage to flag them down, and although he's a hero, he's no snitch when it comes down to it. He'll let people have their fun so long as nobody gets hurt.
Besides, fantasy's also a nice distraction from what lies ahead, speaker itchy where it rests against his throat. Should he have listened to Maijima and not gone ahead? Probably. Would he have? Probably not.
His phone vibrating tells him Shouta's likely texted, which he'll respond to later once he pulls in.
Waltzing into the station after parking is a breeze. Streams of heroes at work brush against him, offer passing glances once recognition curls into their eyes. There's not too many, but just enough to instill the selfish bit of vanity he allows to himself. Somewhat proud, he keeps his chin upwards, striding forward to the office he'd been directed to at the reception by the kind lady. With the doorways as tall as they are, he doesn't even have to duck under to prevent his hair from kissing the head jamb.
He shoots off a quick text of reassurance to Shouta whilst wandering.
"Right this way, Present Mic," someone, maybe an assistant, calls out, compelling him to twist his head around and wave. Face slightly flushed from having turned the wrong way, he calls out a greeting of thanks and flashes a grin, before heading over in the general direction they'd pointed him towards. It's a tizzy of hallways and doors before he makes it to the commune, breaking the conference room's door open before he even thinks to knock.
Voices filter into his ear. Cotton outside the seemingly soundproofed door -- his voice isn't the only great thing about him -- they become strikingly clear to his ears once the door's open.
"--And we assume that this'll be a short one?"
Stomping in, Mic's proud as several heads turn to look at him. Some faces even light up upon recognition.
"Everybody say hey!" he calls out, catchphrase hot wire on his tongue as he shoots off his typical finger gun, smile stern on his face as he surveys the surrounding area. Some chant a 'hey' in reply, some less enthusiastic than the rest of the crowd, but it's no biggie. "How we all doin'?!"
One of the heroes flourishes a finger gun in turn, stepping forward. What a nice remix.
"Nice of you to join us, Mic," the hero offers. His eyes glint as he extends a hand. "Been a while since we had you around."
If he remembers right, the last time he'd rocked down to this specific agency was a little more than 2 years ago, now, and had only passed them by within the year at Shouta's request. He'd only been able to wean off the years long grudge after Shouta had made him promise he'd wreck them if they tried anything stupid.
Mic takes it.
"Likewise," he hums, pleasant straw to his voice as they shake hands. They let go easily. Seamlessly, Mic wipes his glove out of sight once the hero looks away. Man, he should really look into getting this guy's name. "Mind joggin' my memory, listener? Seems to me your name's escaped my mind!"
The man turns, stunned.
"Oh, you don't remember me?" He looks disappointed as he says it. Mic can fathom why: people tend to get real antsy once you admit they didn't place a ranking in your memory pedestal. As much of a good memory as he has, there's only so much one can stuff in the little bit of white matter in your noggin. "Figures. We only spoke over call, after all."
A call should be all there is to it. Trouble never comes his way when it comes via radio; sure, there's the occasional regular who'll tune in and who he might, on accident, forget, but when it comes to work he prides himself on taking it seriously. Grabbing his leather collar, he adjusts it to cover the flush on his cheek.
The hero takes to introducing himself quickly. "Well, my name's Enaku, but they all just call me Striker around here," he says.
Striker. Fun name! Not reminiscent of an assassin at all, no siree. Mic bobs his head, loops an arm around Striker's shoulder. "I think we're going to get along just fine, Striker."
"Oy, Enaku!" A voice calls out. Later, he'll find out their name is Daisuke, code name Petrol. "Don't hog the voice hero all to yourself! Some of us are fans, you know!"
The room's energy shifts rather smoothly after that. One moment he's answering questions about his radio show, the next he's sat down in an uncomfortable office chair that feels faintly frayed, and off and away they go back to regular hero work.
Once they're all settled, pleasantries and autographs long since exchanged in a not-so-orderly manner, on account of being short on time, they go through the usual rules and motions of patrol. It's usually a five minute debriefing before they head their separate ways. Some recount unusual routes that offer the most problems civilian-wise; some are basic traffic mishaps Mic would rather not waste his time on, as miserably mundane as they are, well aware Shouta would consider it impudent too; but one route piques his interest enough for him to pipe up and volunteer for.
Petrol looks at him hesitantly. "You sure, Mic?"
Some of the other attendees share a look. As much as Mic wants to quell the doubt, plant a foot up on the table and declare loud, riveting assurances about how he's the best hero for the job, make them jam hands in their ears, Shouta's voice in his mind reasons that they do, rationally as they come, have the grounds to feel off about it.
It's not the kind of patrol route you take unless you're purposefully aching to do buttloads of paperwork at the end of the day.
Which, admittedly, sounds perfect.
Lips tugging upwards, he nods, shoving any second thoughts to the curb. Reaching for a yes is a breeze. "'Course! No problem-o here."
And there really is no problem. Not at all. Mic will text Shouta after work, badger him into dinner at whatever-o-clock, order takeout as a bribe, and Mic can yammer away whilst Shouta grades and he works on the last pieces of paperwork. They can sit in the same room and pretend to whittle away at the very essence of relaxation. Easy peasy.
Granted, most of it will have to be done at whatever local precinct he finds himself drumming away at, if he does encounter a villain along the way (again, a guarantee in the area he's handpicked), so maybe that'll have to be put on hold, but it's still doable. Shouta doesn't have that long of a patrol today. Mic's show is on Friday, in a few days, so he doesn't have to worry about getting 8 hours; not that he usually does on a regular basis, but, still, it's reasonable. He could work on Class 1-A's papers tonight if he's lightning fast with it.
He could even nag Shouta into wearing comfier clothes. Borrowing his, maybe? Mic had bought a new pair of pants lately on a recent trip to the mall -- after a patrol gone wrong, of course, once the criminals were secured and the police were placated enough to let him go on his merry way, medics having checked over him after they'd thought he'd 'overused' his quirk, he never usually has time for such mundanities -- and, man, does he want to see Shouta wear them.
(Don't you ever wonder what it would be like for him to steal them from you?)
(Thinking about it makes the ache in his bones worse. Do you want to mourn him?)
"Alright," Striker claps his hands together, making Mic remember himself and snap his attention back to the scene on-hand. "With all that settled, consider yourselves free to go. Make sure you're connected by the walkie talkies, yeah? Wouldn't want to lose track of anyone!"
Walkie talkies? Unable to help himself, he snorts. So old-school!
Another hero nudges him.
"When he says 'walkie talkies'," and, oh, scanning over her now, she could be Petra, the American exchange hero that just came in, right? One look alone can't push him closer into working out what type of quirk she has, or whether she's combat oriented, rescue, or something else. "Just take it to mean he's blabbing on about radio. He just likes to pretend we're in the pre-quirk era with espionage and spies, haha!"
Mic chances a chuckle. "What else are you supposed to call 'em anyway?"
Admittedly, he did object, but nothing's more appealing than retro digs.
Petra eyes him. "You're the Radio Hero, right?"
"The Voice Hero," he corrects, pressing his hands against the table as he sits up. Everyone's gathering away, now, supplies packed as they head out to trek on their respective routes. Striking a pose for effect, one hand drawn behind his back as the rhinestones poke out, a fist raised to the sky with an index sticking out, hips jutted out, he gleams a smile at her. "The one and only, too! I know lots about radio, though, ya feel?"
The speaker rubs against his neck uncomfortably.
She snorts, and though Mic doesn't take it to heart, he's well aware of the public's thoughts on his career. Doom scrolling through forums will do that to anyone. "I've heard about you, obviously. Put Your Hands Up's the name, right? Of your show?"
Having people recognize him is never daunting nowadays. Shouta complains about him getting eyeballed whenever his hair is up and they're out together, as it means more spotlight is put onto them both; most people tend to be curious about the brooding, monochrome man often found trailing beside him. Still, the coldness in his heart (which is to say, absolutely tided over by warmth) is bled through by the joy of having them connect a face to a name. Or, a show to a face, more likely?
For effect, he mimics a buzzer, lifting his head down for his eyes to poke out from under his sunglasses. It always seems to get people, eyes entranced by his own; he wonders, if, maybe, the red spirals in green have anything to do with it. Shouta had drunkenly called them hypnotizing, once, some years ago. Hizashi has always found them ugly, and suffice to say, Mic has always been inclined to agree, but if anyone were to like it, he's glad it's Shouta. "You got it! Correctamundo!"
"Alright, Radio Hero, nice jibe," she teases, raising a hand in placation. Before he can even think to correct her, like some sort of dog, compelled, he quiets down. Mic wonders if that's her quirk. Mutism. Probably not, but doesn't hurt to wager a guess. "I've gotta go on my patrol now," Petra says, "And, so do you. See you around."
Maybe time wasting is her quirk, he decides.
Looking at his watch, Mic sighs, then sighs even louder when his eyes trail up and there's no one else present in the room but himself once she's out the door.
"Cool your jets, Mic," he mutters wearily. More cheerfully, he says, quiet even though there's no one for miles (probably), "Just rock on, man. Rock on. You've got time to kill."
His phone chiming gently informs him, ever so helpfully, that he does not.
Ah, it'll be fiiiiine. Whatever.
Not like anything of substance is going to happen, anyway.
What's one measly patrol?