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There’s a burning itch in his throat.
Hizashi Yamada knows all too well of the feeling. The onset dread sparking in the roof of his mouth, twisting and coiling as he tries desperately to use his voice, to no avail, but a mouthed, pitiful wheeze. He knows how to move his hands, remembers all too well how to sign in JSL when the unease settled further into his skin.
Remembers what it's like to tap on his friend's shoulders to let them know. Remembers how Oboro learned his tell of a bad day and became even clingier, dragging him and Shouta off to the roof as always. How Shouta (un)easily became louder for his sake, despite the twitch in his lip, and became his translator for people who couldn't understand his gestures. How Nemuri always giggled and laughed, but still dampened her own jokes about his voice on those days when the itch grew stronger.
...
Present Mic doesn’t understand it in the slightest. The itch, that is. The feeling of loss. He needs his voice. He has it all the time. He needs it to speak, to present, to perform; a ballet dancer can’t continue on the stage with a broken leg, so how can a radio star do so lacking a voice?
The thought is absurd. An itch shouldn’t be able to take it away from him.
But it does, sometimes.
Which leaves Hizashi Yamada scrambling, because Present Mic always slips away on those days.
Or, as the hero would say; the mic drops, and he takes off running without a word.
Not that he can speak anyway, but it's rude! Rude.
Man, though. Hizashi can’t particularly fault Present Mic for it. Not really. He would leave too, if he had the choice. He would make a break for the door and return home to their cats, to Shouta, to their bed, and just lie in it forever. Let the pressure drop onto someone else’s shoulders (a very selfish thought, he chides himself for even thinking of it) and not think about it anymore. Just be silent and brooding for once.
But his role between them is the more responsible, savvier, level-headed of the two, and so, he has to. Just deal with it, that is.
Present Mic has a reputation to keep up, after all - to keep being the loud, ditzy, unabashed Voice Hero that he is, keep being a charming radio host, and keep standing as UA’s English teacher without fear.
Like he always says, it’s better to have villains underestimate him - them, he corrects himself, he’s not the only performer on stage, that would be rude - if he’s seen as dumb. Even if it stings every time a lone group of students mention how dim-witted the other man is, even if Hizashi’s lungs always empty and heave, turn purple at hearing such a thing…
It doesn’t matter. Mic is gone anyway. He won’t hear it. Any of it. The itch is still there.
Hizashi knows. Absentmindedly, his hand reaches to rub against where the handprint shaped bruise lies.
There’s a burning, wet itch in his throat, and Present Mic is gone.
He sighs.
On the other hand, his eyes are really dry, and that's Shouta's thing.
His lips curve upwards, and he snorts.
Such a Shouta thing. With a pang he wonders if his husband's throat hurts beyond relief sometimes, too.
A large part of him hopes it doesn't.
The smaller, more bitter part licking his wounds, doesn't know what to think.