Work Text:
The city is a thing of beauty at night.
Aizawa never had the luxury of viewing it when he was younger, since his parents never really allowed him to hang out on the tops of buildings; the first chance he got, when he turned fifteen, he traversed to the highest rooftop he could access and had his breath taken away.
He fell in love with the bright, dazzling lights of the buildings, the constant bustle of the cars, the soft music that would sometimes play into all hours of the night, and even into the early hours of the morning. That's partially why he works so late at night; no matter what he may face, the city always works it's magic and brings him into a state of ease.
A state he desperately needs to be in right now, as he gazes at rooftop upon rooftop, skyscraper upon skyscraper, car upon car.
A lot has happened to him recently; way more than he would ever care for. More and more waves of media, it seems, find their way to him after each villain attack, no matter how well he tries to hide. He can't really call himself an underground hero if he's always being flagged down by the press.
He's also in the midst of finding a young girl, Eri, a permanent home. A safe, loving environment. Granted, he could provide that and much more; he just doesn't have the time to take in a child. Neither does his husband.
He cracks open a soda he bought about a half an hour earlier and takes a long swig. It's as if the entire world is piling onto his shoulders, which, to be honest, is a bit overwhelming for one underground hero. He couldn't possibly imagine how All Might survived living a life like this.
He looks towards the radio next to him; he sometimes brings one up, for light music or to catch his husband's show right as it airs. It's a Friday, meaning Hizashi will be hosting his show longer than usual, and he'll be taking calls. Aizawa wonders if he should call in.
Nah, better not burden him at work. He's got enough going on.
Aizawa takes another, smaller sip from his soda and tunes into Hero FM, startling, but promptly settling, as his husband's voice booms through the speakers.
He really wants to call him. He knows he shouldn't bother him while he's working, even if he never specifically said not to, but Aizawa is unsure. He would probably feel like more of a burden than anything. He couldn't help the want, though; he wants to hear his husband's voice, to listen to him console Aizawa and tell him that everything will be okay, with trust and patience.
Aizawa always rolls his eyes when Hizashi says that, but he loves when he does.
"We'll be taking calls, starting now!" Hizashi says. Aizawa can practically hear the grin in his voice; it's got him smiling, himself, as Hizashi continues explaining his segment.
Aizawa knows it by heart: He'll take three calls every thirty or so minutes, ranging in a variety of topics, as Hizashi isn't necessarily picky. When needed, he gives the best advice he can come up with.
Aizawa's never called in before. He supposes there's a first to everything, though, as he pulls out his cell phone and enters the first four numbers of the show's call line.
He pauses, looking down at his phone, and deletes the digits. He doesn't even know what he could say. He could lie, say everything's alright, and then crack a snide remark at Hizashi's enthusiasm. It would probably work out well, if Hizashi couldn't always tell when he was lying. He really has no idea how he does that; it's like a sixth sense.
Before he knows it, all three calls have been taken and Hizashi starts his next small segment: the hero interview. Aizawa never really cares for this part. It's not like he needs to know any of this information, anyway, since he prefers to work alone.
From tuning in and out, he discovers the young hero is from Tokyo, just like he is. He also discovers that he has two left feet, and can shoot milk from his eyes; useless info, but interesting, nonetheless. He can hear Hizashi's fake excitement after the milk debacle, and laughs; Hizashi always did hate gross talents like that.
Hizashi then promptly closes that segment, playing about ten minutes of fun, upbeat music. Aizawa catches himself swaying a few times, which is reasonable, since music like this would make anyone want to dance. At the end of the ten minutes, Hizashi begins his second caller segment, and Aizawa picks his phone up again.
This time, he enters the full number, but doesn't hit call. Instead, he stares down at his screen, barely listening to any of the other callers. He wants to call so badly, he just doesn't know if he should.
"And that's our third caller, everyone!" Hizashi announces.
Damn. Missed his chance again.
Aizawa sits through another twenty-seven minutes of upbeat music before Hizashi's voice comes through the speakers.
Something sounds different about it, though. It's gentle and low, sweet like honey; music to Aizawa's ears. It reminds him of how Hizashi speaks to him in the privacy of their apartment, and makes him feel butterflies in his stomach. Which is kind of silly, seeing as they've been married for over seven years.
"This song is for my favorite listener," Hizashi explains. That's why Aizawa was feeling so nervous; Hizashi is talking about him.
"I hope you're listening," Hizashi continues. "This song's for you."
With that, Hizashi stops speaking, and their song follows right on the tail end of his voice. Aizawa smiles and shakes his head at just how corny his husband is; of course he's playing their song. The first song they listened to together, the first song they kissed to, the song they first danced to at their wedding. What a sap.
He almost doesn't want the song to end, but he knows what he has to do after. He has the number queued up, thumb hovering over the call button. He has to let Hizashi know he was listening.
"Alright, let's answer our first call!"
Aizawa sits on the other end of the line, hoping, praying that he's the first caller. His breathing becomes shallow as he anxiously waits for his husband's voice to blare through his phone speaker like it always does.
"How are you this evening, listener!" Aizawa hears through his speaker, and heaves a sigh of relief.
"Mic?" He breathes. He hears his husband's breath hitch for a moment, before clearing his throat and answering with a polite "Yes, listener?". Aizawa continues.
"I was listening earlier," Aizawa says. "To the song, I mean."
"You were? That's great!"
Aizawa hums. "Can I ask for some advice?"
"Anything for you," Hizashi replies.
"Lately, I've been feeling kind of..." Aizawa pauses, taking a deep breath. "Overwhelmed with everything that's been happening. I know I should probably just learn how to deal with it, but it's been hard. I don't actually know why I'm calling to tell you this—"
"It's okay, keep going."
Aizawa blinks once, twice, and pushes on. "I don't know. There's just a lot going on that I don't necessarily know how to deal with by myself."
"Well, no one said you have to do this on your own, listener," Hizashi comments. "I'm sure there are plenty of people who love you that would love to help you get through this. You just have to let them, ba— I mean, dearest listener."
Aizawa knows he's talking about himself, and sighs. Hizashi is always right by his side, ready to take on the world with him; Aizawa's problems are his problems, too, he always tells him.
Aizawa is grateful to have such a loving, willing husband. Even if he almost accidentally called him babe live on his radio show.
"I know," Aizawa says. He wonders if Hizashi can practically hear his smile, like Aizawa can hear his. "Maybe I'll talk to them about it."
"You should." Hizashi pauses before continuing, voice laced with love that only Aizawa can recognize. "Y'know, everything will be okay. It'll work out for you, trust me. Have a bit of patience."
"I'll try," Aizawa chuckles. "Thanks, Mic, love yo—"
Aizawa jolts and slaps a hand over his mouth. Figures that he would let something like that slip out right after mentally chastising Hizashi for doing the same thing not even thirty seconds prior.
"L-love my show, you mean?" Hizashi nervously laughs. Not the smoothest coverup he's done, but it certainly works.
"Yeah, love your show." Aizawa mumbles. "Have a good night."
With that, Aizawa ends the call and flops, as gently as he can, onto his back. He stares at the night sky, letting it ease his temporary anxiety and steady his breathing. He should thank Hizashi when he gets home, even if that means staying up until three in the morning to greet him at the door. It wouldn't be his first time doing that.
He's still got a few more hours to go. Maybe he'll stay on this rooftop for a little while longer, just until one in the morning, about thirty minutes before Hizashi ends his show and heads home for the night — or day, rather. Or maybe he can pick them up some takeout, head home, feed the cats, and wait patiently for his husband on their dinky, oddly stained couch.
Oh, yes, that definitely sounds like that better option. Aizawa is starving, and he's almost positive that Hizashi will be, too.
He grunts as he pushes himself up, taking note of the three cracks of his bones (he really is getting old) and collects his trash and radio. He takes one final look at the bustling city, taking a mental picture of the glowing windows and honking cars, and makes his descent down the building and onto to streets.
Maybe he'll pick them up a pizza. And while he's at it, he'll purchase a gift for Hizashi. He knows damn well he deserves it for always dealing with Aizawa's mess of a life.