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(15)
It's the tickle of something fine, almost sharp, against his skin that wakes him up. Yamada is still chattering away, so Shouta isn't alarmed, but he sits up anyway, rubbing sleep from his eyes with his right hand.
His left is pinned down to the desk by Yamada, who hunches over, rambling about something or other while he doodles on Shouta's arm.
"What are you doing?"
Yamada doesn't seem bothered by the interruption, switching from the story he was telling to answering Shouta's question without missing a beat. "Working on my autograph!"
Shouta blinks down at the letters, which from this angle are upside down. English is his weakest subject, but he doesn't need to actually read the letters to know what they say; Yamada had known what he wanted his hero name to be right from the very first day.
"That's a little conceited, isn't it?" he drawls, propping his head up in his hand while he watches Yamada scratch in a little star over the i in Present Mic.
Yamada titters. "Not at all, my friend! Having a recognizable autograph is important to maintaining your image as a pro," he explains, moving on to his next attempt. "But it can't be too detailed because you have to be quick about it - no time for dawdling when there's the next job to rush to and more people to save."
Shouta's lips twitch ever so slightly at the 'my friend' line but otherwise his face remains impassive. He watches Hizashi scribble a few more varying attempts - a few including a rough sketch of a microphone, and one with a poor excuse for a chibi of Yamada's face - before speaking up again.
"Why couldn't you do this in your notebook?"
To his surprise, Yamada doesn't answer right away, apparently too focused on finishing up his work, carefully going over the last few letters of his name. It's only because Shouta is staring that he notices how red his ears are, but before he can do anything with that information, Yamada is sitting up and capping his pen.
"I guess I just thought it'd be funny! You were sleeping and I'm too nice to write on your face, so this seemed like the next best thing. Not that my name is the worst thing have on your arm, right? Haha, if anything, you're lucky! Those are premium Present Mic prototype signatures you’ve got on you. When I make it big, people are gonna be begging me to sign them."
Yamada continues talking, but Shouta only half-listens. He's too fixated on tracing a finger over the letters coloring his arm, making his skin tingle.
(20)
The first sign that something is up with Hizashi is the sound of his voice - words escaping him in awkward bursts as though he has to force himself to spit them out. It makes Shouta quicken his pace, entering the kitchen to find Hizashi sitting on a barstool at the counter, phone pressed between his shoulder and cheek.
Shouta skirts around him, pouring himself a mug of coffee. While he waits for his bread to toast, he takes the time to study his roommate, finding the second sign of Hizashi's distress plain and clear in the downturn of his lips. He’s talking to his parents. He looks up briefly and catches Shouta’s eye only to shoot him a weak smile before glancing away again. In the silence that follows, Shouta hears the tinny sound of someone yelling on the other end of the call.
The toaster pops. Hizashi jumps, making Shouta snort. He gets another sheepish grin from the blond, which Shouta ignores as he takes his meager breakfast over to the seat right beside him.
Shouta eats in silence, listening to Hizashi argue with his parents. It's nothing he hasn't heard before, so it isn't awkward for him. The only discomfort lies in knowing how upset Hizashi is, in seeing how bothered he gets as he's chewed out by his parents yet again. Shouta wonders what the reason is this time; a single look at the anxious clicking of the pen in Hizashi's hand has him deciding he's probably better off not asking.
Instead, Shouta stays quiet, drinking his coffee with his right hand while the left sits idly on the counter, just inches away from Hizashi's hand. It only takes a minute before Hizashi takes the bait, shifting closer until the tip of his pen touches Shouta's skin, drawing idle patterns with a featherlight touch before pressing down more firmly to write a familiar set of words.
Present Mic complete with the snazzy little microphone that he's begun to perfect.
Hizashi keeps it up for the rest of the call, drawing on Shouta's skin until most of his forearm is covered in ink. It's only when he sets his cell down that the pen is also abandoned in favor of stretching his arms over his head.
"That was a lot," Hizashi complains, keeping his voice deceptively light. The tightness around his eyes is still there though, so Shouta grunts and gets up.
"Want some coffee?" he offers.
Hizashi blinks, looking surprised for a split second before his expression softens. "Yeah," he answers quietly. His eyes drift down to Shouta's arm as he reaches for the coffee pot before darting back up to his face. He gives him a grateful smile. When the mug is passed over, Hizashi's hand curls deliberately over Shouta's own and squeezes.
"Thanks, Shouta."
(24)
It isn’t the first morning they wake up curled up together in bed, but it is the first time it happens so slowly. On the first day off they’ve both had in months, the two of them only stir when the ray of sunlight warming them from a gap in the curtains makes the bed this side of too hot. Hizashi kicks off the sheets with a groan.
“Morning,” he says after a jaw popping yawn. He turns and nuzzles his face into Shouta’s neck, trying to wake him up, which earns him a grumble of complaint that he easily laughs off. “C’mon, sleepyhead, the sun’s trying to tell us to get our butts out of bed.”
“For what?” Shouta demands. Despite the tired way he blinks his eyes open, he’s feeling better rested than he has in ages. “It’s our day off, Hizashi. We don’t have anywhere we need to be.”
“So? That doesn’t mean we should stay in bed all day. Let’s go out for breakfast or something,” Hizashi insists. When it’s clear even the promise of food won’t get Shouta up, he changes tactics, peppering his face with kisses.
Shouta caves, because of course he does. They both know he’s weak to Hizashi’s kisses - or rather, that he’s always been weak to the man himself. “Okay, okay. We’ll go get breakfast. But give me ten more minutes first.”
“Okay, darling.” Hizashi’s smile is far too bright, his expression even warmer than the patch of sunlight in which they lay, but Shouta has no complaints. He tightens the arm he has curled around Hizashi’s stomach and the blond turns back around, letting Shouta pull him close so his back is pressed snugly against Shouta’s chest. Shouta buries his face in blond hair and closes his eyes, content to stay just like this for the ten minutes of peace he’s negotiated for them.
Hizashi starts to hum. The song is unfamiliar to Shouta, but the sound of his voice is soothing enough that it makes him sleepy. Warm and perfectly content spooning the man he loves, Shouta feels like he’s floating, caught in that dreamy state between blissful sleep and the sweetest of realities. The only thing that keeps him grounded is Hizashi’s touch, the feeling of a single finger tracing over the skin of his forearm in a repetitive pattern.
It’s testament to how relaxed Shouta is that it takes him a few minutes to figure out what exactly it is that Hizashi’s writing on him. The realization makes him snort.
“I don’t remember asking for your autograph, Mic,” he teases, amusement lifting his voice out of its previous sleep-heavy roughness.
“My number one listener never has to ask,” Hizashi shoots back playfully. He finishes up the little microphone of his signature before finally stopping to squeeze Shouta’s arm. “Come on, your ten minutes are up. I want waffles.”
Shouta lets go with a groan. “You didn’t say you wanted an American breakfast.”
“Too late to back out now, baby! Come on - up, up, up!”
For all his grumbling and groaning, Shouta complies, dragging himself up out of bed to get ready. More than once he finds his hand grazing over his left forearm, as though making sure he can still feel the ghost of Hizashi’s touch lingering on his skin. He catches himself every time, ears burning at his own irrationality, but that doesn’t stop it from happening again and again. He’s thankful that Hizashi doesn’t seem to notice, just rushes them out the door while chanting for his waffles.
The feeling does eventually fade after just a few minutes out on the streets, which is disappointing, but also inspiring. It gives Shouta an idea that is, quite frankly, more up Hizashi’s alley than his own, but he knows with absolute certainty that it’s not a decision he’ll ever regret.
(24.5)
Hizashi is understandably concerned when he sees the bandage on Shouta’s arm.
“What happened?” he demands, reaching out to grab Shouta’s arm only for his hands to be swatted away. This doesn’t deter any of his questions though, which spill out a mile a minute. “You weren’t on patrol - was there an emergency? Did a villain attack you on your way home? Have you seen a doctor? Is it a cut or a burn? Should I leave the ointment out for-”
“I’m fine,” Shouta says, giving him an exasperated look. “Really. I’m not injured at all.”
Hizashi’s expression is clearly skeptical, so Shouta hurries to add, “I’ll show you in a few hours. Just trust me, okay?”
“...Okay,” Hizashi eventually says, eyes flickering down at Shouta’s bandage with blatant curiosity. He looks like he wants to say more, and over the course of the afternoon, he actually does; he peppers Shouta with questions every half hour, alternating between concern and nosiness. Shouta is a brick wall though, and it’s only after dinner that he finally yields.
“Come.” He waves for Hizashi to follow him into the bathroom where he begins peeling off the bandage.
He hears the sharp intake of breath when the tattoo is revealed, black ink standing out on puffy reddened skin.
“Shouta,” Hizashi breaths. He reaches out like he wants to touch before abruptly dropping his hand as though just remembering not to. “It’s - that’s my name. That’s my handwriting.”
“You’re always writing on things. It wasn’t hard to give the artist a reference,” Shouta explains with a shrug, as though he doesn’t have a tattoo of Present Mic’s autograph on his left forearm. “He thought I was a big fan of yours.”
Hizashi’s laugh is a little shaky, voice choked with emotion even as he jokes, “Well, aren’t you?”
The smile that Shouta gives him is small, but it speaks volumes, especially when coupled with the tender look he gives the fresh ink on his arm. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
Hizashi doesn’t go near Shouta’s arm until the spot is fully healed, but after that, he’s back to the usual routine, filling the space around the tattoo with mindless repetitions of his hero name. Sometimes he throws in an Eraserhead, too, just because he likes to see their names side by side.
Shouta doesn’t mind it one bit because even though he has a permanent piece of Hizashi with him now, it doesn’t compare to having him in this moment. Hizashi is happy and smiling, humming under his breath as he scribbles his name onto Shouta’s arm just like he had been doing since they were fifteen - etching himself onto Shouta’s heart in cheap ballpoint pen.