Work Text:
He hears the party long before the garish house comes into view. Deafening music pulses through the trees lining the long, winding driveway with a bass line he can feel in his chest. He doesn't want to think about what kind of ridiculous equipment must be required to attain this level of noise, but he knows it's too much. Then again, surely no expense has been spared for these awards. In his experience, people in the music and radio industries tend to be pretty high maintenance, after all.
Fancy limos glide by, punctuated by the occasional rumble of foreign sports cars. It’s dark, and most of the cars have tinted windows, but he does catch an odd look now and then. He imagines he probably looks somewhat suspicious walking along the edge of the driveway with dark hair loose around his face and his hands shoved firmly into his pockets. With any luck, they’ll assume he’s one of the wait staff and no one will call security. A small part of him regrets not thinking this through more thoroughly.
He’d taken the train and walked from the station. It made sense at the time - Hizashi needed to drive himself to the location early to set up, and it would have been a massive waste of money to hire a limo like Nemuri suggested, to say nothing of his personal discomfort with the idea. It was only a mile, although he hadn’t been quite prepared for the stupid way the driveway meandered across the property. What should have been a short, straight shot to the house had become a fucking nature hike, no doubt designed to show off the expansive grounds. He’d briefly considered cutting through the woods, but that definitely would not have helped with the dodgy looks shot his way and Hizashi would have a fit if he ruined his shoes.
Not for the first time, he wonders if Hizashi is embarrassed by him.
Maybe he should just go home.
His phone buzzes against his thigh, and he steps off the road to answer it. Without even looking he can tell it’s Hizashi. The same beats blasting from the house echo from the speaker he holds several inches from his ear. There is a disorienting delay between the two, and he feels the threat of an impending headache. “Hizashi.”
“Heeey, Shouta!” His voice is somehow louder than the music. It’s almost impressive. “Where you at, man? You’re late! The party’s in full swing, it’s awesome! Crowd’s got a great energy, you gotta get here!”
Shouta bites his tongue against unnecessary reminders that this is absolutely not his scene, that he doesn’t care about the crowd’s energy, that he’s only here to support his best friend. This is important to Hizashi. He’s been raving about it for weeks, ever since the notice came in the mail that he would be receiving an award this year and the follow up phone call asking him to DJ the reception party. The last thing Shouta wants to do is rain on his parade.
“I’m almost there,” he says instead, bringing the phone closer to his face so Hizashi can hear. He hesitates, and then adds, “Traffic is a bitch right now.”
It’s not technically a lie. The streets were packed with the Saturday night bustle when he left the train station, and the line of cars passing him down the driveway seems endless. He isn’t sure why he feels the need to bend the truth, but it probably has something to do with his sudden shame for taking the train in the first place. Now he’s an embarrassment and he’s late. Great.
“Okay, well, hurry up! They’re gonna start the awards ceremony in…” The background noise shifts subtly as Hizashi pulls the phone away to check the time. “...like forty minutes? And you know I’ll die if you miss it, yo!”
“Yeah, yeah. Relax. I said I’m almost there.”
Hizashi isn’t listening anymore, laughing at something someone out of earshot says. “Gotta go, Shou! See you soon!”
The line drops and the loss of noise has Shouta’s ear ringing. If that’s how it’s going to be, Hizashi probably won’t notice if he slips out early. He’ll sit through the ceremony, maybe find Hizashi after to congratulate him, and then disappear to let Hizashi enjoy his night. Plan in hand, he rounds the corner to trudge up the last stretch of driveway.
The house - if he can even call it a house, mansion might be a better word - is impressively large. He almost can’t take it in from end to end without turning his head, not that he has much incentive to look for long. Between the massive spotlights and the light spilling out onto the lawn from a row of floor to ceiling windows, his eyes already burn courtesy of his insomnia-induced dry eye. He pats his pockets down for his eye drops and takes a moment to apply them. To collect himself. Now that he can see the door, now that the bright party chases away the dark of night, anxiety buzzes insistently in his chest. He feels out of place already, which isn’t unusual in and of itself, but he is acutely and painfully aware that everything he does from this point forward reflects on Hizashi.
Fuck.
He gives himself a quick once-over. His suit is probably fine - Hizashi bought it for him, after all - so he leaves it alone. He did manage to scuff his shoes on his walk over, but he doubts anyone will notice. He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling oddly naked with a fresh shave, and reaches up to touch his hair. Right, his hair. He ties it up into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, tucking a few shorter locks behind his ears. This way it’s out of his face and he looks a bit less shady, at least according to his students. It has nothing to do with the fact that Hizashi always compliments him when he does his hair up.
God, what am I doing here?
Before his nerves can get the best of him, he crosses the remaining distance to the mansion with broad strides. Fake it ‘til you make it. That’s what Hizashi always says, right? He can do that, just for tonight.
A red carpet setup greets the guests as they step out of their cars, complete with reporters and paparazzi and whatnot elbowing each other for a better vantage point. He has the passing thought that it’s a shame Hizashi had to arrive early, he lives for this kind of attention. Shouta, however, does not. He bypasses the crowds and the line and slinks up the side to the door. Two men wearing suits and obvious ear pieces flank a stylish woman with a tight skirt and a sleek, black clipboard. She side-eyes him, mouth twisting subtly, as the men behind her make a show of flexing their arms. What a joke.
“Name?” she asks in a flat voice.
His anxiety spikes, but he shoves it down. He was invited. He’s supposed to be here. “Shouta Aizawa.”
She makes a show of slowly flipping through her guest list to the S’s - what kind of idiot alphabetizes by first name? - and her eyes widen in surprise when she finds his name there. “Ah, Mr. Aizawa, so happy you could join us! I see you’re Present Mic’s plus one, how...interesting!” She forces a smile. Shouta doesn’t return it. “You’ll find him in the main ballroom, we’ve got him set up in the northeast corner. Enjoy the party!”
She ushers him through the door into a vast foyer and once again he feels hopelessly out of place. Everything around him screams of wealth, from the massive crystal chandelier and the gilded couches lining the walls to the sculptures and paintings displayed at tasteful intervals. He’s almost afraid to touch anything, to even look at anything, knowing that most of this crap probably costs more than he makes in a year.
If the interior design is bad, the people around him are worse. Flashy men and women in gaudy outfits mill about with drinks in hand and heads held high to show off glittering accessories. How he can feel underdressed while he is in fact the most dressed up he’s ever been in his life escapes him. It’s fine, he reminds himself of his attire, fighting an urge to fidget with his sleeves. It’s fine or Hizashi wouldn’t have picked it out. Heat prickles under his skin and he barely restrains himself from pulling at his collar. He needs something to occupy his hands, so he snags a champagne flute from a passing waitress. He drains it immediately.
Making an educated guess, he joins the steady stream of people flowing into the hallway to the left. The music crescendos to a ridiculous volume as he moves toward the east side of the house, and suddenly he finds himself in a room that might be bigger than his entire high school smushed together. Bright, colored lights sweep the floor where partygoers dance too close to one another. The windows vibrate with the bass blasting from speakers set strategically around the room. His gaze follows the curve of the wall to the opposite corner where he recognizes Hizashi instantly. Tight jeans, tight shirt, a handful of bracelets on each wrist, and those stupid sunglasses perched on his nose. His hair is loose, cascading gracefully down his back with the top half tied up away from his face. Despite missing the horrendous signature hair swoop reserved for his public appearances he is undeniably in full Present Mic mode tonight, and he is unmistakable for it. A broad grin takes up permanent residency on his face, head bouncing easily to the beat as he mixes or whatever he calls it. He transitions smoothly from one song into the next with long fingers working the board like he could do this in his sleep. He probably could.
No, this is not Shouta’s scene, but god, does he love to watch Hizashi in his element.
He slams the door on those thoughts as he drags his eyes from Hizashi’s energetic form. If he goes down that path he’ll spend the rest of the night brooding, pining, and avoiding Hizashi at all costs. And Hizashi can always tell when something is off, though he’s long since learned not to bring it up. Shouta knows it upsets him, worries him to death, but sometimes he just can’t. Can’t be around him, can’t smother his feelings, just...can’t. He couldn’t stand to see that hurt in Hizashi’s eyes right now, not on his special night. Back into the box with his cumbersome emotions. Save those for Nemuri and a bottle of wine.
Dessert tables line the walls, tasteful towers of cream puffs and mini-cakes and glazed fruit. Gag. He supposes that hoping for a punch bowl was too senior-prom-chaperone of him, but it doesn’t take him long to find another glass of probably-champagne. He doesn’t really taste it as he throws this one back as well. The waiter gives him a knowing look and points him in the direction of the open bar against the far wall. Were he anyone else, he might have kissed that kind and merciful waiter. Instead, he shoulders his way in to lean on the counter and order a double shot of whiskey. He knows better than to rush through this drink like he had the others, but the temptation is strong as he carefully picks his way along the wall to Hizashi’s booth.
He recognizes more celebrities than he anticipated, even if he can’t put names to all the faces. It’s possible this event is a bigger deal than Shouta realized, and the freshest wave of I-Don’t-Belong-Here dies under the weight of the realization that Hizashi...well, does. And he’s proud of Hizashi, he’s so proud it almost hurts. Hizashi worked his ass off to get where he is, pulling fifteen hour work days, seven days a week for seven weeks straight when he got his first internship. He clawed his way to the top with a strong resolve and a fiercely charismatic personality, hasn’t once stopped pushing for his goal since they graduated high school, but they’ve been roommates on the outskirts of the city for seven years and Shouta hasn’t missed the way Hizashi longs for something bigger, brighter, grander. Something better.
He wonders if this is the tipping point, the event that will propel Hizashi into the spotlight, into stardom, into the life he deserves. And propel him out of Shouta’s dull world.
Fuck it.
He moves to throw the remaining shot and a half down his throat, but the glass is plucked from his hand before he gets the chance. Hizashi slots himself against Shouta’s side in the way he does when he knows Shouta might be overstimulated by the situation, tossing an arm around his shoulder with an excited smile.
“Shouta!” he greets, like it’s a pleasant surprise, like he wasn’t expecting to see him. “Glad you made it, yo! Ooh, look at your hair! You look great! Isn’t this amazing?!”
He gestures broadly to the room with the whiskey glass and a manicured finger before taking a generous sip. Shouta watches the curve of his neck, the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, the way he wipes his lips on the back of his hand -
Nope, stop the train, we are not doing this tonight.
“It’s loud,” he says instead, partly to be difficult on purpose. Hizashi pouts, and fuck, lips, so he amends. “It’s amazing, yes.” And then, because he can’t resist, “Amazingly loud.”
Hizashi rolls his eyes, but his grin never wavers. He starts back toward his booth, dragging Shouta along by the neck. “Come on, I got you the best seat in the house!”
Immensely glad to finally be by his friend’s side, somewhere he knows he’s welcome, Shouta goes easily as Hizashi walks them up a short flight of metal stairs. The booth is crowded with equipment and a few bags, but Hizashi still managed to squeeze a folding chair into the back corner where he deposits Shouta with a smile and a final swig of whiskey. Shouta gladly accepts the glass back - it’s noticeably lighter, should Hizashi really be drinking on the job? - and finishes it before he loses his chance again.
Hizashi digs through his bag and comes back up with a pair of headphones. They're the same brand, black with yellow trim instead of the neon pink, blue, and green eyesore around his own neck, and Shouta eyes them incredulously when they're offered. After some insistent wiggling on Hizashi's part, he takes them.
"As Present Mic’s plus one you get the exclusive privilege of watching my ass while I work!" He sways his hips and winks, and Shouta suspects he's had more to drink than just the stolen shot of whiskey. "But! No reason you can't be comfortable while you do it!"
Suddenly he's in Shouta space, crouched in front of him with a coy smile. He reaches as if to take the headphones back but instead his fingers linger, their touch light but very much present against the backs of Shouta's hands. It’s deliberate, it has to be. Hizashi never does anything without purpose, and if Shouta had any doubts about it the flush that spreads across freckled cheeks confirms it. He could easily blame the alcohol, Hizashi always gets absurdly affectionate when he drinks, but something about this feels intimate in a way that Shouta honestly has no idea what to do with. He holds his breath as slender fingers slip between his own. Hizashi opens his mouth as if to say something, glancing up to meet his eyes with an intensely charged gaze.
“Ten minutes until we need to move to the other ballroom, Present Mic!”
Hizashi snatches the headphones from Shouta’s lap and whirls around to give the tech assistant a thumbs up. She returns it and hops down the stairs, hand to her headset as she scans down a checklist on her clipboard. The moment is gone. Hizashi looks almost frustrated for a second before he slips back into his radio persona.
“These’ll help with the noise, my man! Ten more minutes, so just hang tight and enjoy the show!” He places the headphones over Shouta’s ears with a wink and turns away to finish out his set, leaving Shouta reeling.
What. The fuck. Is happening.
It takes Hizashi no time at all to find his groove again, bouncing around and nodding his head and shaking his hips far more enthusiastically than he had before. And it might be Shouta’s imagination, but he swears Hizashi keeps making up reasons to lean too far over his controls. He can’t tear his eyes away, but he doesn’t feel too bad about it. He’ll beat himself up about it tomorrow, kick himself for adding fuel to the dumpster fire that holds his unspoken feelings. Tonight, his cheeks are hot from the drinks he downed too quickly, his head buzzes pleasantly now that the headphones have his headache in check, and Hizashi literally told him to enjoy the show. It’s his exclusive privilege after all.
“Allllllrighty, listeners!”
Shouta blinks as the music fades and Hizashi’s voice rings across the room. Slowly, he moves the headphones to rest around his neck. Has it been ten minutes already?
“It’s been a blast, but it’s time to get the actual show on the road! Let’s make our way to the west ballroom so we can give some awards to some real groovy people, and I’ll catch all you cool cats on the flip side!” The music continues quietly, background noise that Hizashi sets to fade out in fifteen minutes when the room should be empty. He picks up his bags and jerks his head toward the door. “You comin’, man?”
Shouta stands and follows him out of the booth into the slow-moving crowd. Immediately they are surrounded by people vying for a chance to snap a picture or talk with Present Mic. Ever accommodating, Hizashi takes it in stride, chatting and posing while still managing to steer the group toward the door. They nearly lose each other a few times before Shouta finally reaches out to hold the back of Hizashi’s shirt. There must be something showing on his face when Hizashi looks over his shoulder because he receives a fond half-smile in return and Hizashi takes his hand instead, linking their fingers with a squeeze.
Someone gasps, there is a flurry of typing and phone cameras clicking, several people nearby begin whispering behind their hands. Shouta surprises himself by not caring one bit.
“Sorry, listeners, but this is where we part. I still gotta change and all, ya dig? It’s been real!” Hizashi directs Shouta down a smaller side hall and through the first door on the right. Dropping his bags at his feet, he leans against the door and lets his head fall back with a long sigh. “Sorry about that. I should have asked first, I wasn’t thinking. That’ll be all over the tabloids tomorrow, you can bet your fine ass on it.”
“I don’t mind.”
Hizashi levels him with an odd look, something curious and questioning. “You don’t?” Shouta shrugs and Hizashi groans, smacking his hand to his forehead. “You mean I could’ve been holding your hand this whole time?”
“You never asked, so that’s on you.”
Shouta tries not to read too much into it. Hizashi holds hands with everyone. Half the media is convinced he’s dating Nemuri, which is laughable for a number of reasons. It’s...relieving to know Hizashi just thought he wouldn’t want to hold hands. Not that he didn’t want the media to think…
“God, I wish I had time for a shower. Can’t believe I gotta squeeze into a tux all grimy and shit."
Hizashi strips his shirt off and Shouta decides it's a good time to inspect his surroundings. They're in what he wants to call a powder room, but that's probably not right. A mirror lines one wall, couches line the other. One long counter holds five sinks evenly spaced, and Hizashi carefully washes his face in front of one before shrugging on his jacket. He holds his arms out and spins twice for Shouta.
"How do I look? Super hot, right?"
Shouta can’t pass on an opportunity to tease, makes a show of really thinking about it until Hizashi starts to pout. “Let your hair down,” he finally says.
“Huh?”
“Your hair.” They don’t really have time for a whole conversation about something that should be self-explanatory, so Shouta reaches around to gently pluck the hair tie loose for him. His hair falls over his shoulders, and he turns to squint at the mirror and move a few pieces around. “Your hair looks good down.”
“Huh.” Hizashi straightens and gives Shouta a considering look. “Well, look at you, Mister Fashion. C’mon, we’re gonna be late.”
Hizashi takes his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
From the foyer they can hear applause and the muffled sound of an announcer. Hizashi makes a face and speeds up, practically jogging down the last stretch of hallway, pulling Shouta along behind him. The west ballroom is just as large, but the spread-out setup somehow makes it feel far more crowded. Tall, round tables are spaced evenly, large enough for six guests or so to stand around one. Elaborate flower arrangements sit at the center of each table, the edges left open to hold drinks and handbags. Along the north wall a stage has been built, standing about four feet high with heavy curtains hung from the ceiling as a backdrop. Ridiculously large metallic balloons reflect the light from along the walls. Wait staff bustle in and out of a door opposite the main entrance with trays of drinks. At the podium, a celebrity Shouta recognizes as some pop singer his students are obsessed with cracks a joke before segueing into the first category of awards. Hizashi pauses for a moment to collect himself. He starts to say something, changes his mind, and moves so that their arms are linked instead of their hands. As he takes a step forward, Shouta stops him.
“Hey. Relax. You deserve this.”
The nervous look on Hizashi’s face shifts into something sweet and some tension visibly drains from his shoulders. “Thanks, man.”
By some miracle, there is an entirely empty table in the very back corner, closest to the door. From the look the event coordinator shoots them, Shouta is pretty sure this is not where Hizashi was meant to be, but it’s not like it really matters. A waitress glides up to offer champagne and Hizashi takes two flutes before Shouta can decline. Shouta sets his on the table and takes Hizashi’s once he’s drained half of it.
“Slow down,” he murmurs, placing his hand over where Hizashi’s is tapping out a nervous rhythm on the tablecloth. Hizashi just bites his lip and turns unfocused eyes toward the stage. Without any better ideas, Shouta begins rubbing circles into the back of Hizashi’s hand with his thumb.
The awards ceremony drags on for over an hour before the radio category is finally announced. Any tension he’s managed to draw out of Hizashi seems to snap right back and he resumes his nervous tapping. It occurs to Shouta that Hizashi never actually said what the award was. He forces himself to pay attention so he doesn't miss it. Maybe five or six awards are handed out before Hizashi's hand suddenly flips to grab his tightly. It startles him, and he raises a brow but Hizashi stares intently at the stage as the last recipient wraps up their speech and the host takes their place.
"And our final award for the night! This one is for best overall radio show, and tonight we're making history by awarding it to our youngest ever recipient. You know him, you love him, ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Present Mic!"
He worked non-stop for seven years, built his show up from nothing, fought and schmoozed and negotiated his way to the top with an unstoppable and undeniable personality, but Hizashi doesn’t move until Shouta untangles their fingers and pushes him toward the stage. He stumbles, just slightly, looks back over his shoulder, and positively blinds Shouta with the unadulterated joy radiating from his smile. It almost hurts to look at, and his mouth is suddenly dry as he offers an encouraging thumbs up. Everything else fades away as he watches Hizashi stride onstage and accept the glossy plaque, glowing under the attention and the flash of cameras.
He belongs here.
As the applause dies down, Hizashi takes a moment to touch the plaque with an uncharacteristic reverence before switching his Present Mic grin on. “Wow, hey, look at this! This is pretty sweet, huh? I’m so honored to be here tonight! Thank you for your consideration and support. I worked my ass off to get here - not literally, thank god -” He shakes his hips with an exaggerated eyebrow waggle, drawing an easy laugh from the audience. “- but I gotta give credit where it’s due! I wouldn’t be where I am without my listeners, and especially my favorite listener.” He looks directly at Shouta, and his voice softens in a way that anyone else might miss. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Whew, some ceremony, huh? Let’s wrap this up and get back to the party!”
Present Mic earns the usual enthusiastic cheer as he bows himself off the stage. The host steps back in to wrap things up, but hardly anyone pays him any mind. Hizashi is slower to return to the table, stopped every few feet by another hand to shake or witty remark to laugh at, but when he does reach Shouta he immediately presents the award for approval. It twists at something in Shouta’s chest, and he laughs at the absurdity of it, of the number one radio personality asking for his validation, but he takes the plaque with the same reverence Hizashi showed earlier and grins at Hizashi’s stage name etched into flawless glass.
Looks good, he means to say. Bet this’ll look great in your studio.
What comes out is, “I’m so fucking proud of you, Hizashi.”
Bright green eyes blink at him, once, twice, then blur. Shouta lifts a hand to wipe at the tears that escape, lets his thumb linger on the soft, delicate skin beneath Hizashi's eye. This is dangerous territory, he really should stop, should put some distance between them, but Hizashi leans into the touch and he just can't bring himself to move.
"Thanks, Shou. I really don't know what I'd do without you."
The accompanying smile is soft but no less bright, but for Shouta the spell is broken. You’d do just fine without me. He pulls his hand back and looks away, toward the door where people are making their way back to the other side of the house. The buzz of conversation around them is so loud, how had he not noticed it until now? Fuck, he has to get it together.
“Aren’t you supposed to be setting up music or something?”
Hizashi starts guiltily, glancing toward the door unhappily. “Oh, uh, yeah. We should go.”
They walk in silence. Hizashi doesn’t take his hand. They duck down the same narrow hallway so he can change back out of his tux. Shouta uses the pieces of the suit to carefully wrap the plaque, and when he goes to slide it into Hizashi’s bag the blond finally pipes up again.
“Oh, I totally forgot, I brought you something to change into. If you want. You’re gonna stay and dance with me, right?”
He’s in the middle of putting his hair up, but he pauses to wink and do a finger gun with his free hand. Shouta snorts.
“Yeah, fine. Since it’s your special night and all. I’ll stay and attempt to dance with you.”
“Hell yeah!” He finishes with his hair, the full length of it up in a messy bun, and tosses a smaller bag to land at Shouta’s feet. “Everything’s in there, and yes, you have to accessorize. I gotta run, I’ll see you in there, yeah?”
His hand touches the small of Shouta’s back and then he’s gone.
... What the fuck was that about?
Suspiciously, he begins pulling items out of the bag. Black jeans, okay. Dark gray v-neck, not his favorite, but fine. He makes a face at the bright yellow buckle on the belt he finds, but the real issues are the accessories nearly lost to the bottom of the bag. Hizashi knows he wouldn’t voluntarily wear this crap. Sneaky bastard. He picks through them with a frown, nearly dropping the lot when the sudden reintroduction of music shakes the walls. He selects a single black leather bracelet from the handful he finds and tosses the rest back into the bag. He very nearly chucks the three necklaces away without looking at them, but one catches his eye. A black cat pendant, with an exaggerated smile and bright yellow eyes. It’s...still not something he would pick out for himself, but if he has to wear a necklace he doesn’t mind this one so much.
He changes, shoves his suit into the bag in a way he knows Hizashi will give him grief for later, and slips on a pair of hightops he finds in Hizashi’s third bag. They’re Hizashi’s, so they’re a size too big, but if he ties them tightly enough he doesn’t really notice and they are infinitely more comfortable than his dress shoes. He goes back and forth briefly on whether or not to bring the bags with him, ultimately deciding they’re probably safer in the DJ booth. Taking a deep, bracing breath, he ventures back out into the noise of the party.
As he makes his way to the other side of the ballroom, he has to practically hug the wall to avoid running into anyone. The crowd is messy this time around, sprawled out into each corner of the room, and he regrets his decision to bring the bags the third time he has to yank them out of the way of someone’s tipsy flailing. He ends up cutting through the swaths of dancers to avoid the clusterfuck in front of the bar. By the time he reaches the booth, he finds himself seriously reconsidering his decision to stay.
Hizashi isn’t there. He’s out of his booth, presumably working with a set playlist now, but it doesn’t take long for Shouta to find him in the crowd. He practically glows, standing out like the moon among stars, though maybe that’s just Shouta’s bias. He could just stay here, sit hidden in the corner of the booth and watch Hizashi enjoy himself, but that’s...kind of creepy, now that he thinks about it, and he did promise the man a dance. He tucks the bags away and throws himself into the fray before he can talk himself back out of it.
Now that he isn’t elevated above the crowd, it becomes much harder to find Hizashi. He keeps pushing in what he’s pretty sure is the right direction, but he has a sinking feeling he’s already gone too far. He turns, finds the DJ booth to reorient himself, and tries again. It’s hot, and he keeps jostling against other people, and he’s just about ready to call it quits when a hand slips into his and yanks him back. He stumbles. Hizashi catches him with arms around his waist and a smile that feels far too intimate for the setting.
He ruins the effect immediately by yelling to be heard over the music. “Hey, Shou! Took you long enough!”
There is no way in hell that Shouta can match him in volume, so he takes him by the front of the shirt to drag him closer, moving his mouth to the other’s ear. “I had to move your bags, smartass.”
Hizashi laughs, but it sounds vaguely nervous, and his cheeks are red when he pulls back. “Well, hey, thanks! I knew you were my favorite listener for a reason! Now, come on!” He holds Shouta at arm’s length and bounces on the balls of his feet. “Let’s dance!”
The last, and only time, Shouta went out with Hizashi and Nemuri, they’d told him he dances like a bobblehead, sort of standing in place and nodding to the beat. Was it accurate? Sure, but he took the opportunity to be offended anyway and refused to go out again after that. Hizashi, on the other hand, dances like a rabbit, bouncing around with seemingly endless energy and enthusiasm. Already his hair falls loose from its bun, sticking to his face and the back of his neck. He’s got Shouta by the shoulders, facing away from him, and his erratic movements keep throwing them both off balance, and Shouta should be annoyed, but he can’t bring himself to be anything but amused.
They dance for who knows how long, the music all sounds the same to Shouta, he has no idea how many songs have passed. His buzz is wearing off, and with it his tolerance for crowds, and he’s about to let Hizashi know he’s reaching his limit when a particularly energetic arm gesture knocks Shouta forward into a guy carrying too many drinks. Cocktails spill onto a suit that looks too expensive for Shouta to even think about. He’s stunned, stammering out apologies, but Hizashi slides up smoothly to wrap an arm around his waist.
“Wow, sorry about that, my guy! Nice catch, huh? Woulda been a real pain to have to stop the party for a couple shattered glasses!” Hizashi digs in his pocket and comes back with a business card. “Send the cleaning bill over and I’ll take care of it, no worries! Have a good night, man!”
Without waiting for a response, he pulls Shouta away, moving his hand from hip to fingers to better maneuver through the crowd. When they hit the wall they stop, leaning up against it with shoulders pressed together.
“Sorry.” Shouta isn’t sure he’s loud enough, but Hizashi tips his head toward him and winks from behind his glasses.
“Don’t be. That was a massive power play on my part. Do you know who that was?” Shouta shakes his head and Hizashi grins. “That was Ren X. The previous number one radio personality, the runner up for best overall radio show. I guess you could call him my rival, and you, you beautiful man, dumped mojito all over him!” He cackles. Shouta can’t help his own chuckle, hiding a smile behind his hand as Hizashi wipes a pretend tear from his eye. “Oh, I could just kiss you!”
Shouta freezes. There is no follow up, no laughter, no just kidding! He dares to look and finds Hizashi’s face far too close, soft and fond, cheeks rosy, lips parted, what the fuck is happening. He looks away quickly. Pinches himself on his other leg where Hizashi won’t notice. Nope, not dreaming. He doesn’t know what this is, but he does know that it’s too much. He pushes away from the wall, intent on escaping outside, but Hizashi’s hand closes around his wrist and pulls him back around.
“Hey, can we talk?” he asks, loud enough to be heard but soft enough to twist hard at the anxiety building up in Shouta’s chest again. Not trusting himself to speak, he nods, and Hizashi’s tense smile eases just a bit. “Okay, cool. You can head out…” He turns Shouta by the shoulders toward the double doors in the west corner. “...that way. I’ll grab us some drinks and meet you out there?”
Again, all he can manage is a nod. It’s enough, apparently, because Hizashi slips into the crowd to fight his way to the bar. Shouta sticks to the wall and makes his way to the double doors, sighing in relief when he finally escapes into the night air. A few small groups and a handful of couples occupy the spaces nearest the door. He gets the feeling this is not a conversation he wants to be overheard so he moves further down the terrace until he can no longer make out the lyrics to the music and leans against the railing with a long sigh. His head falls back, but the stars are washed out by the light from the house. Even the moon seems like it wants to avoid being outshined, hiding behind the only cloud in the sky. Shouta almost wishes he could hide, too, as the staccato of Hizashi’s energetic footsteps approaches. He takes a steadying breath even as his heart begins to race.
“Hey there, stranger.”
“Hey,” he replies, taking the offered glass. Resisting another urge to slam the liquor back, he occupies himself with a slow, measured sip while Hizashi hops up to sit on the railing. Acceptably perched, he takes the glass back from Shouta and swallows a sizable swig. They sit in silence. Hizashi swings his legs back and forth, and Shouta avoids eye contact. Normally their silences are comfortable, but this one feels tense, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with it.
"I got a job offer."
Shouta glances up, but Hizashi isn't looking at him, staring off at something in the distance. He taps the glass against his lips and takes another sip. Shouta waits for him to continue, but apparently that's all he gets.
"Congrats? That's good, right? Someone wants to produce your show or something?"
"Mmm."
The silence stretches again, and Shouta opens his mouth to ask what's wrong when Hizashi suddenly blurts, "I accepted. I'm moving to Osaka."
The world stops. The party fades, the chill of the night vanishes, his headache quits throbbing against his temples. His heart plummets, and his stomach turns, and all he can manage to say is, "Oh."
Hizashi snorts. It hits like a knife to the gut. "Oh? That's it?"
And no, of course that's not it. He wants to scream, beg him to stay. It's all he ever wanted for Hizashi and his worst fear manifested all at once. The thought comes unbidden to spill his guts right then and there. Just tell him how you feel. But would that make Hizashi more likely to stay?
Or go?
"...What do you want me to say, Hizashi?" he finally sighs, attempting to tame the frustration in his voice by channeling it instead into yanking his hair free so he can hide his traitorous face. "It's a great opportunity. I'm really happy. For you."
"For me?"
"It...I mean -"
"No, just stop."
Hizashi's fingers were tapping a nervous rhythm on the glass but now he sets it aside to take the hair tie from Shouta. He spins a finger in a circle until Shouta turns around, and he makes quick work of tying dark hair back again. Shouta finds he can't meet Hizashi's gaze when he turns back to the railing, but Hizashi doesn't seem to mind. He straightens Shouta's shirt, tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, and finally takes his hand.
"Okay," he sighs. He's nervous, though Shouta can't imagine why. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume you don't remember confessing your undying love to me three years ago."
“...excuse me?”
“Ah, man, I knew it. I knew it!” Hizashi slides down from the railing to pace, fussing over his own updo with agitated fingers. He turns back to Shouta, arms crossed, and his face slowly flushes as he speaks. “I know you don’t remember anything when you’ve been drinking, I’ve known that for years, but I guess I just thought...something that important…”
“Hizashi.” Shouta’s face feels about as red as Hizashi’s looks. He’s got a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach and it clashes harshly with the sudden hope blooming in his chest. He feels sick. “I know it’s hard for you, but please, for the love of god, explain what the hell you’re talking about in a way that makes any kind of sense.”
He pauses pacing to jab a finger in Shouta’s direction. “That’s rude.”
“Bite me.” Shouta pats the railing next to him. “Just come here. Calm down. And talk to me.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Hizashi takes the offered spot, hopping up to sit again, just far enough away that they aren’t touching. With a roll of his eyes, Shouta closes the small gap to bump their arms together. His heart pounds, but he keeps a calm facade to counter the nervous way Hizashi bounces his foot, taps his fingers, keeps looking at him and then quickly away. And he waits for Hizashi to speak. It doesn’t take long.
“Okay, remember three years ago when I launched my show? And we went out with Nemuri to celebrate?” Shouta nods his acknowledgement, but Hizashi hardly seems to notice. “And we got plastered, I mean, just wasted. I’m talking we had to walk home, I thought someone stole my car the next morning, hangover-all-weekend wasted. You slept in my bed, because Drunk Shou thinks it’s more comfortable but Sober Shou won’t buy a new mattress for himself.”
“Alright, alright, I get it.”
Hizashi laughs, but it doesn’t sound quite right. Too high, too loud. “Right! Anyway! Uh, before we went to sleep you said you wanted to talk to me about something. I won’t embarrass you with all the sloppy details, but…”
He goes quiet for a moment, crossing his arms in a way that seems more like he’s hugging himself. Shouta has never seen him like this, nervous and scared and so unsure of himself. He...doesn’t really know how to help. But he has to do something. He rests his hand palm up on Hizashi’s knee as an offering. Hizashi eyes it suspiciously for a second before linking their fingers. It seems to give him the resolve he needs to continue.
“You told me you love me. Which, yeah, obviously. Of course you do. As friends. But you said you wanted it to mean...more.” Shouta’s grip tightens without his permission. Hizashi returns the pressure. “But then you went into this whole thing about how I’d just gotten my foot in the door and the future of my show was still so uncertain, and you wanted to give me the space and time to get my career off the ground. Said you wanted to support me, and that meant not distracting me.”
“Yeah, that...sounds about right.” Shouta rubs at the back of his neck with his free hand, frowning. “Why didn’t you ever mention it?”
“Well, I mean!” Hizashi yells, frustrated and embarrassed. “Something that big, I thought you would remember. And it’s not like you’re subtle, you know! You wear that crush like a neon sign around your neck, I just assumed you weren’t trying to hide it anymore!”
“God, am I really that obvious? I owe Nemuri an apology…”
“So obvious. Like, high school crush in one of those sappy, cliche jock-falls-in-love-with-nerd movies.”
They laugh, bumping shoulders with the movement, and Hizashi’s gaze follows the line of Shouta’s arm down to where their fingers intertwine. His expression sobers and he sighs, leaning into Shouta’s side.
“Shouta, everything in my life is coming together right now. The show became so much more than I could have ever imagined, I just got this awesome award, I found a producer… And with my twenty-fifth birthday coming up in a few months, it really just feels like...fate? Is that too corny?” He laughs, but it’s strained. Shouta rubs his thumb across Hizashi’s knuckles encouragingly and is rewarded with a bright smile. “But there’s one piece left to put into place. And that’s you.”
The urge to pinch himself again flares up, but Shouta squashes it successfully. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I want you to move. With me. To Osaka.” Hizashi inhales sharply, and the next words rush out so fast Shouta almost misses them. “As my boyfriend.”
He’s stunned, and it must show on his face, because Hizashi is quick to continue.
“Obviously we would have to go long-distance for the next month so you can finish out the school year, but I figured it would be easier to move all our stuff a little at a time anyway, you know? And I already found an apartment close to the studio, and there’s a really prestigious school nearby that may or may not have an opening, and I may or may not have given them your resume already, and you may or may not have an interview next Sunday for the position, and would you please say something so I can stop talking already?”
“You…” He pauses to clear his throat, finds the glass on the railing, and polishes off the whiskey. “You’ve really planned this out, huh?”
Hizashi deflates like a popped balloon. “Yeah, well, I kind of thought all of this was a done deal. Didn’t really count on you not remembering. Guess that was pretty selfish of me, right? Left you high and dry when I already had my assurances. And now I’m not even sure you still love me like that, or if you ever did in the first place, and -”
Almost on its own, Shouta’s hand cups Hizashi’s face, thumb brushing across his cheek. A gentle pressure coaxes Hizashi into looking at him, and before he can think too hard about it he presses a kiss to lips that are just as soft as he’d always imagined. It lasts only a few short seconds before he pulls away, huffing an amused chuckle when Hizashi tries to follow. Hizashi grins and bites his lip, cheeks stained red again.
“I do,” Shouta says simply.
“You do what?”
“Love you.”
With a giddy smile and a finger hooked under the collar of Shouta’s shirt, Hizashi pulls him in for another kiss, practically vibrating in excitement and relief. Shouta pulls away first, setting his fingers over Hizashi’s mouth when it opens it to protest.
“We’re still in public. Very high-profile public.”
“Ugh, so what? I don’t care!”
“Yeah, well, I do.” Shouta consoles him with a swift peck. “You have no idea the kind of shit I’m going to get from my students on Monday. Last thing I need is for them to have that kind of photo evidence to blackmail me with.”
“Fine, fine. I’m holding your hand, though! You can’t stop me!” Hizashi squeezes his fingers as he slides down from the railing.
“You can hold my hand if, and only if, you take me home.”
“Home, huh?” Hizashi cocks a brow and grins. “Buy me dinner first, why don’t ya?”
“Ooh, food. Food sounds good.”
“Food sounds amazing , my man. Greasy takeout from that shady twenty-four hour place near our apartment?”
“Sure. I’m sleeping in your bed. Drunk Shou thinks it’s more comfortable.”
“You’re not even drunk!”
“Debatable. But, since we’re confessing things tonight, Sober Shou thinks it’s more comfortable, too.”
Hizashi throws his head back to laugh and releases Shouta’s hand to sling an arm around his shoulders instead, leaning his head against the other’s. Shouta takes advantage of his newly freed hand to wrap his arm around Hizashi’s waist, hauling him just that much closer as they walk.
“Are you saying you don’t want me in your bed?” He’s teasing, but the question comes out with a hint of uncertainty.
Hizashi dissipates it with a nip to his ear that sends a shiver down his spine. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, love.”