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“It’s not that simple,” Hizashi insists.
Shouta glares at him with the fervour of a man clearly desperate for sleep. Hizashi swallows guiltily as he watches the other man’s eyes twitch. “Looks simple enough to me. Just let me do it.”
He shudders at the look, skin tingling.
“You really don’t have to.” Hizashi tries, again. They’ve had this conversation before. And he’d won, twice over.
So why was today any different? Why hadn’t he taken the hint already and gone to sleep?
Why did Shouta have to be so caring?
“Hizashi,” his lovely, brooding husband of the night, who was definitely not flashing him the meanest glower in existence - one he hadn’t witnessed since Hizashi had tried sneaking off to work in the eve of the morning while his shoulder was dislocated - hisses. Hizashi gulps. “You haven’t slept. In. Two. Days. Let me do this for you.”
He blinks. Two days? Surely it hadn’t been that long.
He could admit having the tendency to shove his way into work; three jobs was no easy thing to juggle, and it was arduous enough of a task to coerce himself into relaxing that he eventually just gave up entirely and stayed behind more; but he’d always been diligent with his sleep.
(always 3 hours you need at least 3 hours you will die die die)
And unlike a certain somebody he knew, he wasn’t the resident insomniac dangling his foot between too much sleep and no sleep at all. No sir, he was just typical, good old Present Mic, loud and boisterous and fun, fun, fun. He doesn’t need sleep.
Okay. Yeah, maybe that’s where it all started. But who cares? It wasn’t affecting him.
“It is affecting you.”
He yelps.
“What the fuck, Shouta?!”
He finds himself slipping on the swear, hash green eyes widening in shock when Shouta’s own also raise in bafflement. His brows furrow as Hizashi fumbles on what could be used as an excuse for throwing out such a curse - maybe the fact that he'd been so startled by his husband reading his mind, possibly proving that he did have two quirks like Hizashi had expected when they'd met for the first time 15 years ago before he'd determined that no, he did not, Shouta really was just that damn lovable - but at the moment, his mouth is persistently fickle, and so he snaps it shut.
“...What the fuck indeed." Shouta deadpans.
A stifled wheeze leaves Hizashi then, bursting and blooming out of his chest like a starved succulent.
What the fuck, indeed. God.
He hasn’t cursed in years. He remembers having that illuminating conversation with Shouta, admitting (subsequently acknowledging, bringing the damned topic to light) his unease with curses and how he wouldn’t use them around others. ‘They’re just despicable,’ he recalls muttering furiously, and he does agree, now. Somewhat. He’d never been fond of swears, always having been brought back to small memories void of affection and swarming with rebounding, hushed fear, every time they managed to crawl their way out of his throat and resurface.
Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation washing over his brain - and it’s not the clean kind of washing, not like you’d find from shoving detergent into a washing machine and walking away with clean clothes, but the kind of dirty, umber water you’d find in a broken filter - but he can’t seem to care much for his moral integrity, or the memories. It’s weird.
So Hizashi tests it again. “Fuck,” he mumbles, pressing his palms to his face. The hero’s only mildly surprised when they make contact with something damp, and he scoffs.
He inhales. Lets out a shaky exhale. Hizashi chuckles darkly. “I’m such a mess, aren’t I?”
“Not usually.” He can hear Shouta reply instantly, and Hizashi stiffens, spreading his fingers to make room for his eyes to see his husband. When he finds he can’t see anything (obviously), he lets his palms fall to his sides, and glances right into his eyes. He waits for the other to respond with something, anything at all.
Shouta freezes. Then nods, biting his lip. He clears his throat. “But you’re kind of a mess right now, I’ll admit.”
“You’re so kind,” Hizashi remarks, ignoring how his voice pitches up a frequency higher than he’d intended. He’d only been trying not to let anything contemptuous or inherently scornful fill his words - as he knows the truth. However, it seems that he doesn’t have to worry, given his voice at the moment made its very first, sentient, conscious decision to change. And it just sounds more mournful than anything. It makes him sound more Hizashi than Voice Hero: Present Mic, and…
He’s not sure how to feel about that.
He is a mess.
Such a mess.
He’s…
“Will you let me help you out?”
Present Mic looks back up.
With a breath that sounds more teary than helpful, Hizashi swallows, and nods.
Present Mic steps back.
“Okay.”
…so lucky.
—
Later, when Hizashi’s curled up to himself in bed, he won’t notice Shouta muttering haphazardly to himself in the dead of night, nor will he ever be vindicated for being correct when the man ultimately transfers the files for his radio show to someone more capable.
‘Told you so!’
He’d probably tease the other relentlessly, prodding needlessly about how ‘right’ he was.
It was not Shouta’s fault that his husband’s scripts were coded in an entirely different language, mind you. He did not deserve the pain of humiliation in the slightest for failing such a project. It was not a logical conclusion to strive towards if he couldn't even bring pen to paper, or even lift his finger off his chin.
So he does what he does best, and Shouta leaves well enough alone. He lets Hizashi sleep. And he hands it off to someone else.
What the other doesn’t know won’t hurt him - and hey. He’d been meaning to make that damn intern of his husband work harder for months. Can’t have another college wreck coasting off his husband. The man works too hard already.
They can’t have two workaholics split between the two of them. That would be highly, highly irrational. Hearing him curse was bad enough.
Ah, right. And besides.
At the end of the day, Shouta’s fingers find themselves curling into Hizashi’s, tugging them gently as their trajectory shifts toward his lips.
He presses a soft kiss between the callused knuckles, humming softly, right before he presses Hizashi to the side as delicately as possible to make room - not that he needs too much care, the other put too much effort into his body to really make a dent if he wasn’t trying - and shifts his body in between, shuffling onto the bed. When he feels the wisp of hot breath meet his neck, his body inches in further.
This was way better.