Work Text:
🎤︎︎
“Yooouch. Looks like it’s raining cats and dogs today, listener,” a voice seems to huff beside her, sounding vaguely amused as they plop on down. There's a wet squelch as leather makes contact with the floor. “Think Eraser’s a fan?”
She tilts her head up from where she’s perched beneath the stall. Her eyebrows furrow, mouth falling open before snapping firmly shut. If she hadn't, the resounding, embarrassing squeak that left her wouldn't have been as muffled, just as brown eyes fully deadlocked onto the pro hero that's cozied right on next to her.
Cozied up. As if he belonged there.
Why was he here?!
Ochako watches hesitantly from the corner of her vision as Present Mic... Mic-sensei, she reminds herself, tucks one leg over the other, somehow folding himself into a cross-legged position.
He clearly doesn't. Belong, that is.
He’s much too tall for the stall to completely fit all of him -- she herself had all but managed to cram into the small space the owner kindly offered up as shelter -- so his boots don’t manage the same luck as the speaker around his neck has, left prey to the rain.
The black leather shines more vibrantly than it usually does; which says a lot, since Mic-sensei buffs them out more times than she’s seen even her friend Izuku mutter to himself.
Well, maybe not quite. Izuku mutters more than Aizawa-sensei ever leaps at the chance to nap in his sleeping bag.
"Well, your sensei's a bit rainy on some days himself, so he just might be," Mic whistles sagely. "You know, when we were your age, that man never dried himself off after gettin' absolutely drenched. Always waved it off with an excuse about him feelin' rainy! Haven't got a single clue on how that man's managed to avoid hypothermia all these years. I've always been jealous, and he's always kept the secret behind it quiet! Unbelievable, right?"
But just about.
Now, they’re being assaulted by the downpour, droplets beading and sliding off in a way that makes her chest pulse with guilt.
He doesn’t really have to be here, does he? She hadn’t even expected him to be in this area at all. No pro heroes go this way, last she’d checked.
“Your boots…” she starts, in lieu of a reply, lapsing back to what he’d said first.
She’s not sure how to address the comment about Aizawa-sensei without offending Mic-sensei in the process. They’re close. Their class has eyes. Would it be in poor taste to say Aizawa-sensei would look like a wet cat? She grimaces. The last thing she needs right now is Mic-sensei broadcasting that out of context tomorrow morning. It probably is.
Wait, Aizawa-sensei never--?
“What about ‘em?”
Broken out of that thought process, Ochako glances to her left. Her reflection’s crystal clear in the mirror of his orange sunglasses. The glass highlights the shadows under her eyes even more, marking the dark circles stick out like sore thumbs against her usually rosy cheeks.
She curls in on herself, raising a finger to her chin, head tilting down to force her vision to fixate on the boots-- it’s best not to look at that, of all things.
Maybe she can ask Momo to make her a new set of concealer?
She winces. Probably not. Ochako can practically already hear the gears that would collide with a buzz in the other girl's head, the frantic panic of ‘it wouldn’t be good for the economy’ ever present.
Quick as it’d come, the thought is abandoned with a sullen snort.
“The leather,” she murmurs, gesturing loosely. “It’s not exactly made for this, right?”
“Oh,” Mic-sensei laughs, dragging her attention away as the pro hero’s wiry hands quickly rise to gesture to his boots. “These old things? Nah. They can dance through gloom and doom all they want, but they’re not getting away from me that easily.”
“And if they do,” he continues, raising the index to his mouth as if he’s revealing a hushed secret. Albeit poorly, considering his voice still overpowers the pitter patter surrounding them. His grin isn’t much subtler. “I’d be a poor DJ if I didn’t have spares. Don’t sweat it, kiddo.”
A relieved sigh escapes her, then.
Of course he’d have spares.
That makes sense. Just because she doesn’t have spares of most things doesn’t mean the same applies to everyone else. She's smart enough to know that.
Especially not with a pro hero like Present Mic, who likely has tons of spares-- hadn’t Izuku said, once, that the man had 3 jobs? 4?
She shakes her head. How does he handle that?
She’s green with envy, knowing what he must be reeling in behind the scenes (they’d seen the absurd thickness of his wallet during training once and nearly fainted at the sight of it), but there’s the stinging realization that he’s wasting his time here. Time he could be spending anywhere else.
But he’s here, cooped up in a stall with her, wings clipped because he’s far too tall and much too good of a teacher to even bother leaving.
She wants to ask him why.
She needs to ask him why.
“I’m glad, Mic-sensei,” she whispers instead.
But it’s true. She is glad. She’s not lying.
The man has the gall to finger gun at her, grin even wider, somehow, like he knows time’s on his side. “No problem-o.”
Not that it bothers her. The finger-gunning, that is. It’s not that cringe.
He’s… oddly sweet about it. It reminds her of her dad.
The rain continues pouring in. It drums against the metal of the stall, against the tin roof with a harsh, tapping that would normally set her on edge.
They don’t say much else for a time. Stewing in (mostly) silence is not a pastime she often gets to indulge in; having parents who run a construction company doesn’t exactly leave much room for it.
Not that she minds. After all, she’s never been one to let it boil over without a cheerful smile and her rather incessant need to see people happy (a good thing, her Dad would say).
But with Mic-sensei as a companion within it? It’s a bit weird.
Again, she realizes-- he doesn’t have to be here. Quiet as he is.
Ochako passes another glance at him. The downslaught of rain makes it to the leather of his glove this time, red rims at the fingers turning darker as he reaches out to crunch the water in a fist. Small snickers begin to leave him, not too dissimilar to popcorn kernels popping in the microwave on one of their class’ movie nights. The kind that he’s always been there for, even at Aizawa-sensei’s behest (yet barely stifled gratitude).
Her hearing’s not perfect on some days, and neither is his, with the reveal of his hearing aids during that disability lecture in class last month, but his quiet mumble of -- ‘the sky’s really feeling it today, huh?’ -- is loud enough to overwhelm her.
He's here. For her.
The giddy laugh that escapes her makes her body tremble, and the surprise on Mic-sensei’s face when he turns to her is almost as bright as the neon on his costume.
Laughter hums out from his as well to join hers in a chorus, and while she’d normally wince, the static-crackle of his quirk infused into his voice more common than not, the way his voice is controlled has the tell-tale sign of clear effort, years of practice at holding himself back.
It makes her laugh harder. Him even more so when she does.
🎤︎︎
The noise settles into a pleased sigh after a few moments. Ochako’s oblivious to the few passersby who glance their way, initially confused-- at least, until they recognize Present Mic.
Some try to veer toward him, before he shoots them an apologetic glare beneath the sunsets of his glasses. He gestures firmly towards his student. His expression softens out into a knowing grin as the people are left with their mouths agape, shaking their heads as they’re quickly sent hurrying back on their way.
Maybe Present Mic wouldn’t do well online with all the mojo from people calling him ‘mean’ later, but Hizashi Yamada couldn’t give less of a damn.
🎤︎︎
“Come on,” Mic-sensei says out of the blue, voice dropping into that rare, serious register as he slaps his soaked palms against his thighs and pulls himself up with practiced ease. He quickly shimmies out into the sidewalk, holding out a hand to her. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand, yeah?”
Ochako stares up at him with wide eyes. “But what about your speaker?”
Something is gently shoved into her hands with an oof. “I think this’ll help.”
She looks down. It’s a yellow umbrella; likely his own merchandise, she giggles, from the orange sunglasses that peer over at her through the sheath winding the fabric tight.
To her relief, when her eyes rise up to assess him, he seems to have one as well. There’s one still wrapped tight in its bindings, unfurling within his hands. It’s an odd choice of colour, especially for someone like him; she’d assume the Present Mic merch was something he used on the daily, but as she runs her hands over the material of the yellow umbrella he’d just tossed her, it seems much too new to be loved right.
There’s a clasp of grey over his black umbrella. It reminds her of Aizawa-sensei’s scarf.
Wait. She tunnel visions back onto the hue of yellow. The colour seems to flood her senses, now.
Why is he giving this one to her?
“Wait,” Ochako blurts after a moment. “We?”
He wiggles a brow at her over his sunglasses, right hand tilting them down as his left retreats from where he’d been just offering it to her. It furls over his hip in a confused motion as he shifts his stance, tilts his head.
“Uh. Yeah?” he scoffs, not unkindly, then adds, ”What, were you just gonna wait for the rain to blow over? From what I’ve seen, that’s gonna take ages.”
Before she'd left UA, Iida had dutifully informed her and the rest of the class that it would rain until midnight.
“It’s really okay,” she tries to reassure. On instinct, the umbrella drops into her lap as her hands reach for the nape of her neck. The palms rub over the clammy skin with a low noise she hopes sounds like gratitude. “If you let me keep the umbrella until tomorrow morning, I think I’ll be fine.”
Because she is. Grateful, that is. He’s already done so much for her.
If she’s lucky, and if he’s serious about just the umbrella, she could run on home with just this in hand. She wouldn’t even have to catch a train. Not that she would’ve been able to, anyway.
To her disbelief, he frowns. “No,” he shakes his head. His tone doesn’t allow room for argument. “I think Aizawa-sensei’s got a lot more to teach you yet if ya really think I’m just gonna leave you here. In this downpour? No can do, listener.
Before she can protest, he adds, “I know what you’re thinking, and don’t cha worry in the slightest, alright? You’re probably worried about the ‘how’, right?
She nods.
“Well, one thing’s for certain, we’re not walking,” he huffs, posturing in a mock shudder at the mere idea; he does it so smoothly that she resists the urge to shudder along with him. Albeit for different reasons. “No no, no, I’ll drop you off. My ride’s just a ways away from here, I think I parked it somewhere over…”
His kind offer dissolves into muttering as he places his fingers on his chin, head twisting to survey something in the far distance. It takes a short while yet before he erupts with something in English, the man pumping his fist as he seems to find what he’s looking for-- right as he seems to remember himself, head revolving right on back to look right at her.
She gawks as Mic-sensei shuffles on forward. Both hands are extended this time, still soaked.
“Whaddya say?”
Brown eyes peer at him in awe. He’s much too kind of a teacher, and far too good a person.
She’s going to have to tell Izuku and the rest of their class to update their rankings.
It doesn’t officially exist, of course, but Mic-sensei is definitely moving up.
He deserves that top spot, right next to Aizawa-sensei.
“Okay,” she whispers, outstretching her arm. Maybe while he drives, she can ask him how he does it all.
The resulting smile he gives her as she’s pulled up is enough to spark that ember of curiosity into a raging fire.
(The ruffled hair less so -- because the first thing she'll have to do as soon as she arrives home is file into her bathroom -- but she can forgive him for that, too, she thinks, because the fact she’s arriving home at all is bittersweet and all thanks to him. The seatbelt clasped heavy and light against her as she rides along in the dim of his car makes that part even more certain.)