Chapter Text
It’s the third time in the past 3 weeks that Shouta’s seriously considered erasing Hizashi’s voice for longer than a minute.
“I already told you,” he grits out wearily, palming his face from where he sits slumped against the wall, leveling Hizashi with another look. Hushed chattering and a classical love score drift low in the background, making his heart even heavier than it already is. How irritating. “'M not interested in hearing about your ‘escapades’.”
Hizashi had all but dragged him over to this Mediterranean restaurant just an hour ago. He’d claimed a whiny sob story the other day, of course. All about how he’d ‘missed their talks’ lately, demanding to catch up for more than the 10 minutes they happened to stew in alone together in the staff room for the past few weeks.
On any other day, any other year, Shouta wouldn’t be so tentative over the idea; hell, it pleases him to know Hizashi still cared enough to haul him out by, embarrassingly enough, what he’d consider the scruff. Even when he'd protested.
As Eraserhead, he'd always managed it before with the other staff; slipping off before they could eventually corner him and badger him into tagging along on one of their ‘trips’ to the bars, knowing all too well of what that entailed. Even Yagi insisted--an illogical endeavour, considering they'd all recently learned the Number 1 Pro Hero couldn't even drink a quarter of a pint without spitting blood.
But then again, Hizashi has never been just ‘staff’ to him, nor just ‘an old friend’.
So Shouta had always been led away, content to follow wherever Hizashi trailed off to.
It’s different now. The past few weeks have been nothing but choking.
He wouldn’t widen his eyes if someone just so happened to inform him of the truth; that Hizashi had been wrapping his own capture weapon around his neck as he shoved him out the door, wiry fingers made for piano and love songs, and not to play with Shouta’s hair, all but tugged tight around the carbon fibers and pulling.
Hizashi shakes his head, laugh jittery, making Shouta’s own tilt up to face him. “Shoutaa! They're not 'escapades', that's lame.
If there's anything Shouta hates about Hizashi's face, it's the way he can so easily jut his lips out into a pout, tilt his head with a pleading look, and subsequently not have to deal with the feelings that stir in what's supposed to be his best friend's chest. "Come on. Just hear me out here, yeah?"
Shouta pulls a face. “Why can’t you go to Nemuri for this? She’s way better at this than I am. You know that."
"She’d probably get a kick out of this too, knowing her," he snorts.
As much as he enjoys listening to Hizashi talk -- as attached at the hip as Nemuri loves making them out to be -- even he has limits.
“Yeah, sure,” and Shouta has to stifle the hurt that shoots out of his chest, stomping it down with Hizashi none the wiser as his friend barrels on. It’s easy, though, as his grin catapults from one of his softer looks, all the way into Present Mic's eccentric, soothing yet suave smile. Shouta reminds himself that everyone else can see this version. “She definitely would. But you’re my favourite listener, ‘yo! Number 1 and all that in this DJ’s heart.”
He snorts low, doing his best to act oblivious to the last bit.
“Cut it out, ‘Mic.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Hizashi shrugs cheerfully, sighing. It doesn’t sound apologetic at all. “Minato’s used to it, is all. Guess I’m still psyched out.”
At the mention of Minato -- Hizashi’s latest date -- he frowns.
Even if he’d been zoned out of most of the ‘talk’, Shouta’s protective roots have never gleamed its teeth brighter, and thus, not all of him could block out every single tidbit of information offered up. It’s not like it hasn’t been handed to him on a silver platter.
He can’t exactly take it back to the chef and ask for a refund. Especially not since said ‘chef’ is sitting right in front of him.
“Minato?” His lips curl unpleasantly around the name, eyes narrowing. He twists his elbows against the wall, bracing himself as he wrenches himself upright. He nearly regrets it the instant he’s no longer slanted-- given the vertigo that’s begun to spin in his eyes, hitting hard and fast. Neither of them have been teenagers for years, that’s for sure.
No matter, he thinks, as familiar, nervous laughter rings out into their booth.
“What about him?”
“Oh, you know,” Hizashi has the audacity to simply wave it off, gesturing rather madly for how relaxed his eyebrows are. Shouta can’t even grumble at it. “The people love Present Mic. S’only natural, of course, I get it, but lately it’s been kinda hard to snap out of my usual pizazz whenever Minato comes over.”
His chest tightens.
Hizashi rambles on, motioning something that Shouta recognizes to be ‘jazz hands’ -- something he’d normally expect if Hizashi is content. It's difficult not to see green whenever he imagines such happiness funneled away to some other man. “It’s much easier letting go with you around, buddy! You’re like the wind in Hizashi’s sails, eh?”
Keep it together, Shouta. Don’t escalate this.
Tell him it’s only natural, that of course people will take advantage of the thrill of being with a celebrity, and, irrationally, not expect anything besides the person you portray.
He, decidedly, keeps his mouth shut.
“Yeah," he can hear drawled out. "I really missed this, you know. Us. Hanging out."
Across from him, Hizashi curves his fingers around the rim of his drink. Shouta doesn’t notice how the other’s eyes are planted right onto him. His fists are clenched far too tightly at his lap for that, having given up on poking at the dish he doesn’t even remember a name for, because Hizashi had ordered it, suspecting he’d like it.
Knowing he'd like it, because Hizashi has been by his side for nearly 2 decades, now, and they're supposed to know everything about each other.
Tell him his boyfriend’s an idiot.
“Of course, I’m not expecting you to talk to me every day, but it’s been weird not seeing you for more than a split second. All I’ve heard about you lately is along the grape vine, and from those students of yours, no less! They’re so rowdy, and I know how ya get, but you’ve been even harder on ‘em latel--”
Don’t tell him it’s endearing how he refers to himself in third person.
“--ah. You could even say it’s been too quiet. Ironic, huh? I mean--"
Tell him anything but that.
“Break up with him,” he barks out, cutting Hizashi off.
There’s no time to regret the words that leave his mouth.
As if on cue, Hizashi breaks out into a wheezy coughing fit within an instant, banging his fist so hard onto the table that their plates jilt sideways-- Shouta almost doesn’t manage to make it in time to grab for the cup at the far end of the table, ribs aching something fierce from where he’d bruised them the other day on patrol as he twists forward, but all he can think is “Hizashi will try to pay for it if it breaks”, and that’s enough to propel him.