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The sound of something breaking caused you to practically rip the door from its hinges.
It’d been a couple of days since you’d last spoken to him: Hizashi Yamada a.k.a Present Mic. His behavior seemed off, a little too jovial than normal, you could hear him physically clench his teeth before hanging up the phone.
Normally you would take off your shoes before entering his apartment, but dull thuds could be heard behind a closed door.
“Yamada?”
Silence.
The apartment was in disarray with broken furniture scattered around the room.
Fear blossomed in your chest as your eyes landed on the door leading to his bedroom. Had something happened to him?
You hadn’t noticed any signs of blood anywhere.
Maybe you hadn’t noticed it yet?
The sound of your boots echoed loudly in your ears as the blood rushed to your head, you could feel your veins throbbing as you reached for the doorknob. Light flooded into the room, only illuminating a rectangular space before you, otherwise the room was dark, but you could see an even darker shade sitting on the bed facing away from the door.
“Hizashi?”
The figure didn’t move, its body was hunched over.
Without turning on the light, you made your way to the bed, sitting adjacent, if you stretched out your hand, your fingertips would barely brush against his thick leather jacket.
“You wanna talk about it?”
He shifted away from you, standing up, “Aizawa put you up to this?”
No answer, just a question in return.
“No, haven’t seen him since the last time we hung out, thought I’d stop by to see why you barely pick up my calls.”
“Been busy babe,” the sound of his voice was hollow, “can’t ignore my lovely listeners.”
“But you can ignore me?”
The bed creaked beneath him, he'd sat further on the edge, away from your touch, “don’t make this about you. I needed some space, alone time.”
Clicking your tongue, the sound causing his head to whip around, “well I can see that, since when did you become an interior designer?" He turned away again, acknowledging that he was aware that you'd seen the state of his living room, "didn’t your mother gift you that table?”
The conversation sounded wrong, flat, stale; like two strangers attempting to form some kind of relationship. Instead of letting him speak, you stood up and switched on the light; the first thing you saw was patches of blood on the wall; stamped on, blood seeping into the cracks, forming webs around the plaster.
Hizashi’s followed your field of vision, flexing his bruised hands, he couldn’t remember when he’d punched the walls.
“I doubt you’ll get your deposit back,” he snorted at that.
“That’s the least of my troubles.”
He felt the bed creak behind him, “now we’re getting somewhere,” two thuds told him that you had taken off her boots; warm hands found their way over his shoulders.
“You don't have to tell me what's wrong," your words soft, tickling his ear, "just don't shut me out again."
Hizashi rested his head against your chest, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d truly just relaxed. His mind was spiraling after the visit to Tartarus with Aizawa, his heart raced as he thought of the thing masquerading as Oboro, using his body like a puppet.
As if sensing his anxiety, you start to hum, low at first, a lullaby you'd heard in your youth, arm's shielding the man against you, your fingers caressing his cheek.
You sat there for some time before he pulled himself way from his embraced, "It's getting late, I need to head back to the dorms," he stood up, shifting his jacket without looking at you.
"Hizashi," he stood at the door, his shoulders sagged, "take care of yourself," instead of facing you, you watch as he gives you a thumb's up before letting himself out of the room.
It would be a few days before he'd return to the apartment on a weekend; the first thing he noticed was that table his mother had given him was repaired. The second being that the blood on the walls of his bedroom had been wiped clean.
Shame flooded his body, his mind going back to that night, leaving you behind in the dark, what good was he if he couldn't make those he loved happy.