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In the hum-drum dark of Musutafu’s night sky, a small red dot gallivants past, shaking in the straight line it paints across blue black.
Comet or an airplane? Neither of them sitting up here on this rooftop care too much to know, devil in the details.
“If I’d known this old gal was this beautiful at night, I would’ve come up here sooner,” a voice says.
Tucking his knees together, Shouta lets himself snort, shifting so that more of his weight leans back on the other’s back.
“Old gal? Just makes me believe I shouldn’t have come up here with you at all,” he points out, scowling just hard enough to make him believe it’s visible.
It’s far from a place he’d describe as ‘old’.
Maybe he just doesn’t want to think about the age that’s crawled into their own skin over the years, or reconcile with the fact it’s grown up with them.
Albeit subdued, there’s a chuckle, light on its feet as it is brief. “Let up on me, would you? I’m just being nostalgic.”
Black eyes flick back to the world above.
The stars, while never too visible on account of the scars from harsh pollution years before them, seem to glimmer bright tonight, yellow and white.
Retreating, the silence creeping in, his gaze opts to turn back onto the doorway.
“How’d you even get clearance anyway?” he asks, curious.
“Hm?”
“I thought this place was closed off.”
From behind him, he can hear fingers tap away. Tap, thump, tap, tap. They thunk and think in rapid succession. “Would you believe me if I said I was very convincing?”
Lip jutting out, he huffs. “You didn’t.”
The cheeky smile’s just loud enough to paint a clear picture. That, and the jingle that rings out in the open air; from what dramatics Shouta’s had the privilege of bearing witness to and putting up with over the years, the other’s surely twirling the keys between his fingers. “Just a little persuasion on your behalf did the trick.”
He doesn’t even want to think about how that particular conversation -- conversations? -- went. Grazing on other pastures is always wise. Some battles you just can’t fight.
“Well, if they ask, you dragged me into it,” he says, not seriously.
A disbelieving snort.
“Eh? Well,” the other considers, “They’d believe that. It’s always me doing it nowadays!”
They pause. “But it’s like Nem said, you just need a little push,” they offer, not unkindly.
He hesitates. His eyes flit back to the rest of the roof, trailing to the brick the four of them etched their dreams into.
‘LOUD CLOUD, PRESENT MIC, ERASERHEAD, AND MIDNIGHT WERE HERE!’
‘PLUS ULTRA! GOODLUCK ON YOUR LESSONS, EVERYBODY! EVERYBODY SAY HEEEY!’
“I’m glad you did,” he murmurs. “I don’t think I would’ve come up here otherwise. I’m…”
The stars wink back. He shakes his head. “I would’ve thought, with all the memories, that you wouldn’t have wanted to come up here yourself.”
Chirping, he can hear a black bird squawk as it flutters past, wings flapping carelessly in the wind as it soars on high. A crow.
“What can I say,” he hears, after a moment. “I’m nothing if not an expectation breaker,” and he can glimpse the smile, “Maybe even the icebreaker.”
He frowns. Lacing his palms together on one knee still drawn to his chest, he lets the other leg outstretch, sighing loosely as the ache in his joint lets up. “You’re still as shitty as ever with your jokes. I need to have a talk with Fukukado.”
There’s blue laughter. “Wow! And you’re still as mean as ever!”
“You’re just easy to tease.”
“Harsh.”
“Easy.”
He startles as the weight on his back suddenly shifts away. Shouta would’ve nearly toppled over if not for experience from training, hastily slamming all his weight vehemently onto his leg not folded forward -- he assumes, at least, that it was his saving grace.
Erasure activates almost instinctively as he twists his head around, glaring upright just as the traitor has the nerve to laugh.
“Easy,” they mouth.
His mouth opens. Then it shuts. Lips pressed together, he manages to grunt out a, “does this seem funny to you?” he grumbles. “That seemed like a murder attempt to me.”
“Only you, Aizawa Shouta, would call me leaving our huddle a murder attempt,” the other muses, his eyes glinting in bemusement. One of them is glazed over, for a reason he’s been well aware of for years now. They point a lazy finger. “Look under you.”
Unblinking, a hand reaches beneath him, rear lifting so he can grasp at whatever the hell his friend is yammering about. Finding nothing, the yellow glare intensifies, lifted up hair whistling in the night wind.
“Ooooookay. Maybe not under you,” they reason, somewhat apologetic. Shouta can tell he isn’t entirely sorry; the snicker underlining his words is evidence. Their unmarred eyebrow raises as if to point alongside his hand. “On your back, then. The small of it or whatever.”
Amusement is not a word he would describe when finding one of Oboro Shirakumo’s clouds.
“You’ve done this before,” he accuses aimlessly.
Blinking, his hair falls back to his sides as trained fingers whip away at the solid smog, softness taunting in the dim light as he sways it back to its owner.
He sits upright now that the cloud’s no longer supporting his back.
Oboro’s eyebrows raise higher, creases curling confusingly. His hands furl over the clouds easily, hair betraying the clear amusement. “My contingency plan, you mean?”
He ignores it. “Back in UA,” he elects to explain.
Allowing a small, demeaning laugh, Shouta adds, “Yamada and I hated it.”
We loved it, he doesn’t say.
Oboro imitates a buzzer sound. It’s faintly reminiscent of something he’d heard in the car while they were driving up here. Shouta’s chest aches from where his heart’s supposed to beat, the noisy reminder dull. “I don’t know about you, but I think ‘Zashi loved it.”
Crossing his arms, he sighs languidly, gaze soon stolen away by drunken screams tearing through the air. The excitement embedded in their voices is too obvious to show much concern for.
People -- particularly drunks looking to get their party on, as revolting as it is -- shouldn’t be this near UA’s gates in the first place, let alone loud enough to reach them from up here, but they do anyway. Perhaps he should slide a plan Nedzu’s way; soundproofing.
“Yo yo yo, DJ MIC in the HOUSE! This Emcee’s ready to take over the vibes from here! Let’s keep on cruising, YEAAAAAAH?”
“Yamada, do you have to be so loud.”
“Aw, Shouta, leave Hizashi be! He deserves this!”
There’s an oof as a weight falls onto his other arm, velvety blue hair landing on Shouta’s shoulder as Oboro takes the liberty of using Shouta as a prop-up stand. He barely shifts as the other man leans, used to it time and time again.
“DJ, huh?” he hears, a snort working its way up. “Didn’t Hizashi want to be something like that?”
He freezes, mouth hanging open. “You heard that?”
“Course,” Oboro says easily, scar glinting from where he’s propped up against Shouta. If he noticed Shouta tensing up, he doesn’t comment as he continues, tone light. “You didn’t?”
He couldn’t have heard that.
“I mean,” the other mutters, “Those idiots down there are preeeetty loud, if you ask me. And not in the good way. The DJ guy sounds obnoxious. What, DJ Rocker? What a weird name.”
He breathes a sigh of relief. Of course. It’s nothing.
“Yeah,” he agrees. Pressing a hand to hold Oboro’s hand in his, he looks on, barely glimpsing the knowing blue eyes staring back. “What a weird name.”
Musutafu’s night sky gleams dim in someone’s absence. At least they have each other to wane away the dark.