Work Text:
Hopping to socialize in a cafe this early in the morning's never been a good omen in Shouta's books. He'd all but managed to slam his hand down on his alarm once 9 AM had hit, crawl out of bed after convincing himself not to rub his dry eyes off, and change into something somewhat approachable in the dark.
From what he could pull out of his dresser, anyway, wardrobe limited and dull with cotton monochromes. Light reflection means nothing if colour lacks a presence. His closet can testify.
Explaining his habits to someone already familiar with them is certainly an omen far from being good. It tinges a sense of regret in him for not bringing his capture weapon.
"I work around the clock. You know this."
Folding his arms together, Hizashi fixes him with a nasty look from across the table. "So, same old deal, huh? No social life?"
Shouta should've heeded Nemuri's warning and not gone on this outing.
"Semantics," he forces out. Sliding his fingers through the handle, the steaming mug of delightful coffee is lifted to his mouth. At least something's right in this world.
If there's one thing this wretched cafe does justice -- and it's not their pale flooring, or the sheen on the wall they claim not to be glue -- it has to be the consistent quality of their products.
Which doesn't change the fact his friend's eyebrows are going haywire. Helpful.
"Semantics," Hizashi repeats, rather bluntly for his usual taste.
Turning the tables seems far-fetched, but it's worth a shot if it means making those green eyes look at him with anything but anger.
"You have three jobs," Shouta counters, voice a mutter. "That's two more than I've got. When do you have time to socialize between the sleeping, drinking, heroics, and that radio show of yours?"
The crickets between them is answer enough.
Hizashi huffs. "Laundry day's been hard," he admits.
He won't laugh. Present Mic's hero costume is rather... extravagant, and presumptuous, and quite the flashy kind even without all the leather. Amplifying his voice's just one way of showing off his inability to be quiet; his looks more so.
No chance about it, that anything Hizashi wore for work wouldn't display shimmering rhinestones as enrapturing as himself; the day Present Mic doesn't don something elaborate and ridiculously difficult to clean is the day he turns villain.
For a silver lining, at least he has something mundane to worry about.
Hell, the only reason Shouta doesn't worry about laundry at all, whether it be due to time or just simply the effort of hand-washing his clothes, is because he doesn't carry too many to begin with. His jumpsuit's good enough for all occasions.
Shouta thinks that'll be the end of it.
Hizashi usually doesn't let silence tick on for this long, ever a loudmouth, so maybe he's safe.
Keyword: Usually.
Definitely a false narrative. A determined grit settles onto Hizashi's features as he barrels on.
"And sure,” the other mutters, “I have three, you have one. Who cares for numbers? You’ll have two anyway, soon, once Nemuri gets a hold on ya! And my jobs' are all about socializing. I get my kicks. I get sleep! Sometimes!"
Doubtful. Last time he'd seen Hizashi's eyes close behind those sunglasses, it'd been entirely involuntary, knocked unconscious by hospital drugs when he’d been called over to reassure ‘Mic’.
Hold on,‘get a hold on him’? Is this about UA?
"And you don't," and of course Hizashi has to point the spotlight back to him, forcing Shouta to squint in the hypothetical ensuing beam, "--and you barely cast anyone a second glance if it's not either me, Nem, or someone whose quirk makes 'em look like a cat."
Wearily, his eyes squeeze shut, head slightly leaning forward. "You make me sound like a shut-in."
"A recluse?"
"Same difference," he shrugs. Keen on a surveillance check, one eye lifts open.
At this time of day, he notes, gaze spanning the vicinity, the place's barren -- what with most people already off for work -- but there's still a lucky few meandering around the coffee shop. They're either twiddling their thumbs as they wait, or, like a much more unluckier demographic, getting interrogated by someone meant to be on their side.
(RE: Shouta)
Hizashi's voice draws his attention back. Light, airy this time, with barely even a hint of the indignation from earlier.
"Shoehorning yourself's no good, bro," the other insists. There's a bit of his quirk infused into the last word, lithe and pitchy enough to make a passerby wince, and for Shouta's other eye to screech open. "You really need to branch out. Live a little; don't be a recluse."
There's a whole slew of reasons on why it's an irrational proposal.
Nursing his steadily raising brow, willing it not to move in his haste to get this conversation over with, he deigns to open his big mouth.
"I have you and Kayama," Shouta drawls. "That's enough 'branching out' for me."
He pauses, thinking back to the non-fiction on his night-stand. "Books too."
A solemn look rests itself on Hizashi's features, cozying up like lightning in a storm. Simultaneously, some form of affection arises in his pupils, undercut yet somehow obvious as he dips his head down to reveal his eyes from beneath his sunglasses.
"Don't tell her that," he doesn't expect Hizashi to say, but nothing breaches his actual expectations nowadays, so the words aren't much to marvel at. Improvising is Present Mic's burden, not his. "She'll think you'd been quirked."
Shouta would laugh if need be.
"Let her," he mutters. "Leave it to her to assume what she wants."
Again, still her fault that he's here at all. It's more so his, but Shouta will never pass up the chance to toss blame around if the situation calls for it. Comedy's Hizashi's thing, but this? All his.
Hizashi's laughter is bright. Bright enough to make him want to reach over the table to snatch those sunglasses of his and put them on himself, lest he be blinded. "Oh, this is definitely going in the groupie."
He scrunches up his nose. "You're still calling the group chat that? You're disgusting."
Like a preschooler, Hizashi has the nerve to blow a raspberry at him. "You're just dirty minded, my man! Why, next you're going to tell me I can't call our trio a--"
Shouta reaches over to pinch Hizashi's cheek with the same vigour that one would earn from years of swinging around via capture weapon.
"Oye!" the other complains, hand rubbing at the reddening spot. It's faint under the warm, artificial light, but there's a certain flush to his cheeks that wasn't there before. Shouta pronounces it a success.
"That’s it!” He exclaims, other fist raising in the air. "Now you're really in for it this time, listener! I'm gonna drag ya out for clubbing this Saturday, and I'm not going to hear one word 'o complaint outta that mouth!"
Shouta opens his mouth. For what, he doesn't know, as protesting is rather useless against someone as insistent as the living equivalent of sunlight, but at least no one can say he didn't try.
Tutting, Hizashi reaches over to unveil his hand and clasp it over Shouta's free one. "Nope," he mutters, popping the p, "You're not swindling me any longer. No buts until you get your own butt wasted-- what'd they say in that American pony show? Enlighten yourself with the power of friendship, and all that? Yeah!"
Feigning disinterest, Shouta glances down at his coffee, taking a slow sip. Miraculously, none of his drink spills out at the way his fingers tremble slightly. Small mercies.
“‘Kay?” Hizashi probes. "Capiche? I need a response from you, yanno. I’m not that monstrous as to tear ya away if you’re actually busy.”
“Aren’t you supposed to know the names of everything you reference?” he deadpans instead, gratuitous.
They both already know what his answer is. Even reluctant, he won’t shy away from such prodding.
Hizashi’s palm squeezes at his joints. The ache being whittled away with the pressure would be nice to fixate on if not for the sound of Hizashi snickering.
“Tryin’ to gatekeep Western animation, huh? You dare-devil dog, you, you’ve been hiding from me all these years! You have a favourite, don’t you? Spill!”
“That’s not what I--” he pauses, then holds his tongue.
After several minutes of pointedly ignoring his latte on the side to torment Shouta, Hizashi lifts the cup -- ice melted into the liquid just enough to rise it a level or two on the scale of ‘concerningly-about-to-overflow, caramelized foam and all -- to his mouth in what must be victory.