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It's an ugly Saturday morning when he wakes up to the trill of his ringtone. Not that there’s any distinction between any other days; most of them tend to be, if you’re up this early.
Groaning, he pushes himself up by his elbows, plastic bottles clattering onto the floor as the futon's sheets shift around.
The phone keeps ringing.
When he finally reaches for it, it's buzzed over five times.
Click. It's work, he assumes. Though they should know better, they’re one number out of three he knows have access to his just as he has to theirs. And no one else would be this persistent.
"Eraserhead speaking," he grunts.
"Shouta, where were you?”
Maybe someone else would be this persistent. He should've known.
Likely a home call, too. Not this again. "I thought I told you to piss off, Mic."
Since they'd finally 'reunited' -- a word too grand for the situation, for he'd been unwilling, attempting to slip away before realizing he'd blow his cover permanently if he ran from another Pro Hero as a civilian -- Yamada had been up his ass for the past few weeks. Probably considering him another hopeless case he could weasel 'recovery' out of. He's seen the articles. The headlines. Been through the motions enough to know when Present Mic is in the spotlight and Yamada is in the clear.
Though they have their history together, history means nothing to celebrities, and Shouta understands the ideal of 'friends' is not a classification well suited for them any longer. Whatever they were at UA, they couldn't be that again.
He has no right to call him this early.
There's a pause on the other line. "Nemuri said you bailed out on her last night," Yamada accuses, before the irritation in his voice seems to soften out. Again, another kind term. Present Mic is not someone he'd ever consider 'soft'. "She was worried."
"Let her worry," he retorts, back creaking as he sits up. Shouta stifles a groan and pushes himself up by his free hand. Looking around now, he realizes something fairly obvious; he should've just gone for the sleeping bag again. Uncomfortable, but less mess to clean away. It would be a hassle. He elects to tell the truth. "It's not my fault they needed me back at patrol."
Yamada's frowns are loud even over the phone. "Goddammit, are you serious?"
Fumbling with the phone still pressed to his ear, his feet tumble out onto the floor as he veers sideways. Stagnant, there's a pungent odor hanging in the air. Maybe from the takeout boxes. He'll have to take care of that. Brushing his bangs away from his face, his nose turns up, smell strong enough to break through him.
"As a bullet," he says, when he realizes Yamada is waiting for an answer.
A shudder. "Some days you make me wish I could just shake some sense into you myself," the other spits out. Some of the syllables get cut off as the other seems to shift, footsteps loud in the background as he paces. "Working on your day off? Ditching your friends and going on patrol, of all things, yo? You're going to run yourself into the ground. Nemuri was waiting for you, you know. ”
Violent-sounding. With the way the anger vibrates in his ear, Shouta can find peace in knowing it's nothing reminiscent of the boy Yamada was at UA.
And, though he knows not of Yamada’s schedule, he can already testify it’s hypocritical at best. “Like you’re one to talk.”
Yamada scoffs. Ignoring it, spotting a can on the floor, Shouta drops into a crouch. Folds it over in his hands curiously, eyeing the label. It doesn't hold a candle to his usual choice of jelly packets, and wasn't his usual taste, but the Shouta of-- he wagers a sniff, despite his strong lack of it -- what, two, three days ago, now, had likely favoured it at the time. Maybe he'd try again.
“Seriously, I wish I could--”
“Good luck with that,” he interrupts drily.
Yamada grumbles in his ear vexingly. "Shouta, c'mon."
Standing up, Shouta crushes the can. He tosses it aside. "What do you want from me?”
Is an answer from Yamada really something he seeks?
Maybe the media can tell him. They seem to have all the answers nowadays, he thinks, remembering Present Mic’s photo shoot for a shampoo ad a month or so back. A grimace spreads across his face before he even realizes what it is.
"I want you to go out with me today."
A pause. It's unsure of who clings to it first. Maybe it's him: he can pinpoint the exact moment his composure spills out of view, breath hitching. The wretched silence rings out like his capture weapon’s carbon fibers against metal. Although he likes the quiet, and breaking it is always Present Mic's thing, he finds himself at a crossroads.
Shouta pads over to another corner. Bending down, he reaches for his go-bag. Zips it open. Reaches a hand into its depths and rummages around for something that feels remotely edible in his hand. While he does so, the phone is still pressed tight to his ear, heavy breathing on the other line; an interesting contradiction, as whenever Yamada takes a breath, it’s not audible. Shouta can't even wager whether it's either a learned habit of lie or simply a new change he hadn't been there to witness.
“It’ll be nice,” Yamada promises, lowly, “We won’t go anywhere loud.”
Not that he should have.
Sighing, he shakes his head, despite knowing Yamada can’t see it. "Are you going to be annoying about it?" he asks, not making a sound in success when his fingers close around a packet of beans. Then, registering what he'd said earlier, he almost laughs. “And, to be frank, I would’ve thought you’d be the one making it loud in the first place. You always have a way of being a nuisance."
Experimentally, Shouta shakes it, and doesn’t falter when the contents inside slosh around. He wagers a look at the expiration date, and hums when he spots it’ll expire two weeks from now.
“You always think I’m annoying about things,” Yamada informs him, rather bleak for how cheerful his voice usually sounds, “Might as well be annoying when you can take advantage of me, eh? And I’m not that loud,” he tacks the last bit on like a lie.
Shrugging to himself, he closes his eyes. It's not the worst thing that could happen.
Shouta sets the packet aside, letting the other hand drop from his ear.
Eyes fluttering open, he scans the end call button. “I’m hanging up now,” and, just to be generous, he adds, “Text me the time and place.”
Yamada seizes instantly.
“Shouta, wait,” and the other’s voice sounds frantic, to which Shouta can't fathom why, because he gave him what he wanted. “We should t--”
Click.
Shouta cracks open the can.