Chapter Text
It only takes until Present Mic’s hero debut for Hizashi Yamada to begin evaporating. Like the same way the scent of petrichor vanishes from soil hours after rain clears, fading as the clouds bleed away into the horizon. By the time anyone is lucid enough to notice, image of Hizashi impeccably blurry in the sunlight, a smudge on orange lenses to be wiped away-- only Present Mic is called up to the stage.
The haze in which he drifts could be considered living. He laughs and smiles and has fun and drinks and goes out and talks and hangs out and talks and talks and talks too much for it not to be. Radio is his name and his show is the first born he holds in his arms on Fridays from 1 to 5, bundled up in leather and sunglasses and listeners and all the songs he’s never put out; they claim eyes windows to the soul and mouth to the heart but they never seem to look nor listen.
Only one listener has ever held the title true, and even then. It’s not enough. Because for the last decade and almost a half, Shouta has looked through Present Mic. Reached a hand out. And he keeps doing it over and over again, like some new chord will strike in this one-sided song and dance they’ve taken together, and someone will reach back to take it when the melody's strummed better. Over and over and over.
A hand Hizashi won’t take lest he lose himself in this grandiose idea it threatens to hatch, a blank reverie of a crush Hizashi refuses to let crush him yet won’t run away from.
Why? Why delay the inevitable? It would only add fuel to the fire, stoke the roaring flames that insist on dousing the drought Hizashi will inexorably leave behind when he eventually goes.
Present Mic will smile in his wake. Raise his hands and clap them together, stroke his mustache and pump his fists to the sky like he knows there’s a tomorrow, rain or shine, because there is, for him-- when his heart beats, another will follow, when he takes a step, the other will pursue and leave a footprint in the dried up snow, because everything he leaves behind is warm and bright and burning and all, too, too much.
Rain will pour in from overhead and replace the scent he leaves with something less sour; whether he likes it or not, status quo means nothing in heroics, within the vast world of Japan, within the world overseas that cares not for some lousy radio host.
Clocks will tick and their hands will keep moving and the world won’t even know when Hizashi is gone.
“You’re drunk.”
“No, I’m--” Mic loses his train of thought, mouth dry, before narrowing his eyes when Shouta’s eyebrow arches. “Not.”
For effect, he pouts, because that’s what Not-Drunk people do.
Disapproval drips from Shouta in droves as the other just doesn’t seem to get it, pinching the bridge of his nose. To which Mic huffs.
People always believe his shticks. The same rhyme and tell. If it exists, he’s a good drunk.
When he gets up to reveal this Astounding Fact, his foot catches on something, leaving him unable to resist the woes of gravity as he falls forward. Arms catching under his are his only mercy.
“And you wonder why I worry,” he hears Shouta grunt above him. Above? Ah. He’d nearly fallen. That’s why. “Up and at ‘em, tiger.”
Left foot, right foot. With relative ease he manages to plant himself back fully on the ground, with only a touch of Shouta’s help to boost.
Oh, tiger? "You like cats.” Mic states plainly, like it's a fact.
A stunned sound leaves Shouta. “…Yes.”
“D’you have cats?” tilting his head, hand finding itself on his hip, he shifts his weight to one side.
Shouta seems to contemplate it. Vaguely, Mic wonders what type of cat his friend would have. Would it have long whiskers the same way he has stubble, or short ones? A calico? Would it be as black as the atrocities he calls clothing? Thankfully, the next reveal helps a lot. “You were with me when I got her.”
Helps to show him how much of an idiot he is. Stupid, stupid. Wow, you’re killing this. You forgot his cat? Black-haired, orange paws... you remember that, but you don't even remember her name?
Finger gunning, wanting to step away from the cliff he’s suddenly found himself at the edge of, he goes, “Real cool, listener! Cats are so your style, man, I bet she’s dazzling. Felines... awesome."
The other fixes him with a look. The Look. Something Mic would usually pride himself on recognizing, but soberness is five hundred miles away in this lawless land they call a bar.
Involuntarily, Mic finds himself reduced to hysterical laughter. “What, got somethin’ on my nose?”
There's a distressingly long pause. Not even his intermission breaks are this long.
Or, maybe they are, and time just really, really hates his guts.
“…We should get you home,” Shouta mutters, alert as his head spins from side to side like he’s checking if something’s hanging by.
Which, when Mic turns his own to look, doesn’t really matter in the tizzy of patrons grooving and grinding on the dance floor-- oh, he wants to join that. That's fun.
Pointing, he gestures a lazy finger at them, like a child petulantly demanding the last lollipop from the store.
“No.”
Mic sulks. “‘Kay," he mumbles. "Worth a shot.”
Crossing his arms defiantly, he barely resists when Shouta drags him by the shoulder and out into the cold air, but there’s no helping the shiver that makes its way out of his mouth.
He feels-- woozy.
Out of the corner of his eye, Shouta stares at him with something that could be mistaken for worry. "You good?"
Swallowing, he smiles. "Suuuuper, man."
The cold is going to kill him.
"You look like you're about to freeze over," the other says, unconvinced. It metamorphizes quickly to exasperation, wings fluttering in a hail mary of pity as those dim eyes judge him up and down. A huff. "Why'd you wear all that? So gimmicky."
The last word is tagged on like a fragile sticker for a box that will definitely break on the delivery trip.
Still, it's insulting. For reference, as he doesn't know exactly what he wore, he looks down.
Okay, he thinks, wanting to laugh, maybe Shouta was right. Saying he'd packed for the weather would be laughable.
Mic had worn something light, wearing a-- is that maroon or red? Are they the same colour? A maroon, he decides, v-neck button-up, his usual pairs of pearl blue and orange necklaces drizzled on top of the scarlet, and his usual pair of ripped leather jeans. The shirt's rimmed by rhinestones that must've glimmered real nicely back in the bar, but only shimmer with a glint of their usual lustrous shine in the moonlight and the dingy red-and-blue lighting of the alleyway. Not his best look.
Besides, though pale, the tiny scars criss-crossing his collarbone are accentuated even further by the way the v-neck curves out. Where'd he get this shirt from? Did he buy it during a shady deal?
Maybe he'd bought it in this same sketchy alleyway, he reasons, frowning.
There's not much time to dwell on that thought. Something warm loops its way around his neck.
Mic startles, hands scrambling to press against it, only for his skin to make contact with a very, very familiar material. Too familiar.
"You should've dressed warmer," Shouta mutters.
"Your..." He looks at it again. Tugs. Then looks back at Shouta, because evidence does not worm its way into your hands this easily. The frown pulls his lips into even more of a downwards trajectory. "Scarf?"
Beyond the subtle sweeping gaze, Shouta barely admonishes it with much more than a "You need it more than I do at the moment."
One scan over Shouta's attire (and he doesn't look twice, no sir) tells him all he needs to know; Shouta definitely doesn't need to worry. Not with his accursed wardrobe.
And, well, as much as he wants to give it back, knowing this is something that Shouta has chosen to give him willingly encompasses the amounting desire to grovel and insist he doesn't need anything. Plus, it's his best defense against the cold right now.
Even if it does seem like Shouta must have heard his thoughts and reasoned, yeah, the marks on his skin are vile to look at, it wouldn't make much sense. Shouta would tell him outright if he did. Wasting time is not a thing he does.
He nods. In his best imitation of Aizawa-sensei, he goes, "Very logical."
Shouta is funny when he's haughty about things. There's a sigh drawn out into the air. Definitely not his.
"We're going back to my place," the other emphasizes seriously.
When Mic waggles an eyebrow suggestively, he receives a hand to the face and a strangled "Hizashi!"
There's no helping the laughter that spills out of him.
"You know that's not what I meant!"
"Lead me away, 'o Prince of Slumberland," Mic returns, fully serious. Unsure as he is about the way home, he points, in a random direction, "Onwards! Away we go!"
When all is said and done, Shouta is scarily efficient when it comes to the trek back to his place.
With Mic leaning on him as he is -- he hadn't been able to hold his weight up after a while of walking, bouldered down by the alcohol and the fatigue bordering his brain on empty, so Shouta had easily propped him up into a piggyback (and Mic had ignored the fluttering of wings flapping around in his chest) and continued forward, struggling only a bit -- they make it back home within what must be barely an hour. Or less. Home's not that accurate of a term but what else can he call a place he so easily breathes the air of in? Though, it is stale.
"Did'ya do some spring cleaning yet," Mic elects to mumble out, looking around. There's jelly packets scattered on the floor, both empty and full, with what must be bits and pieces of supplies from his friend's utility belts' pouches joining them on the pitch-navy rug that Hizashi remembers dragging in, but Mic doesn't, though he does regret it a bit after spotting the rich blooming dyes of yellow within the geometry of blue.
That's a really nice centerpiece. No wonder Shouta kept it despite protest.
Clothing, too, had found its way to join the menagerie of messy things. All folded yet crumpled in a corner on the couch he can spot beyond the genkan, in the living room. The usual black clothing juts out from under a pile, but something red folded neatly beside the wreck catches his eye.
If he looks long enough, he could mistake it for-- Hold on. Is that one of his shirts?
An almost laugh leaving Shouta prompts him to turn back.
"What, were you looking for a five star experience?" he asks.
Any experience with Shouta's five-stars, but even the mighty hand of booze's not enough to sway his steadfast reluctance against admitting such humiliation.
So, he answers honestly.
"You never change," Mic sniffles. Hiccuping, he adds, unlooping the scarf from around his shoulders as he nods, "The beauties of-- such a lost art are lost on you. What a... total waste. Cleaning's great. You could make it to four stars if ya try hard 'nough, yanno!"
He has no clue what he's saying right now.
It must be fine, because Shouta snorts. His keys fall with a clink into the bowl. "I highly doubt that, but," and to this his friend sighs, scanning over the contents of the room with weariness screaming on his face. "Ridiculous as you are, I could do a bit of cleaning..." he seems to admit.
"You like when I'm ridiculous."
To that, Shouta doesn't answer.
Hizashi hangs the scarf over a hook.
"...Where's your cat," he says, suddenly, feet tapping away in the kitchen.
Shouta sighs. Hizashi watches him reach into the fridge as Mic ponders the question. "Having a playdate with Sushi."
Mic squints. "With Nem?"
"With Nemuri," the other confirms.
He hums in assent. "Nice, nice."
"You should drink some water," Shouta suggests.
Sticking his tongue out, Mic crosses his arms. "Hydration's for losers."
He's sat not on a kitchen stool -- because Shouta, apparently, hadn't trusted him enough to not keel over and 'fall to his death' -- but on the couch. Warmth explodes with how much of Shouta's only blanket is draped across his lap. It's so ugly, too. How does something this ugly exuberate this much heat?
Shouta sends him a warning look. "You're going to regret it in the morning if you don't, Hizashi. Drink up. I don't have all night."
Mic had tolerated it earlier, but that's just not cool.
Room spinning, he snaps, "Don't call me that."
Stunned, Shouta blinks at him. Then twice. "What?"
He nabs the water bottle from Shouta's hand.
"I'll drink it if you're goin' to be this buggy 'bout it," he sighs. Mic pops open the bottle cap. "I'm tired. I wanna sleep."
Speaking of sleeping, could he sleep in Shouta's bed? Though they've done it before, it might be out of the question. With how much he tosses and turns, especially when drinking's in the question -- his dreams always get real weird after a night out, whether it be downwards or up -- there's no way he can even consider subjecting Shouta to a restless night.
But, it would be very nice...
Unfortunately, Shouta still seems oddly agitated.
"What did you--? Hizashi, no," he says, voice filled with too much irritation for Mic to reasonably deal with or measure. His hands clench against his sides. "We can't just skirt over that. What did you say?"
"I'm tired," he repeats. "I wanna sleep."
Though it's muffled as Shouta leans an arm over to speak into the crook of his elbow, he can still hear the muttered "He probably didn't mean it... just ask in the morning if you're so concerned..."
Morning will creep in and, luckily enough, he'll probably forget. He's not even sure what Shouta's so freaked out about. On a more reasonable night, he'd reach out to try and mow down the concerned creases in Shouta's face by pressing down on them, but that might be pushing it.
Instead, he settles for leaning back against the couch cushions, bottle having been tossed aside once he'd taken a sip or two.
With two hands, Shouta reaches under Hizashi, sliding his hands beneath his knees and lower back, dead weight barely making a blip in his balance after years of dealing with the blond. As Hizashi had already fallen asleep -- something Shouta himself wishes he could do right this instant, had Hizashi not beaten him to it-- there's barely any resistance as he swoops his friend into his arms.
Leather and all being hard to grasp, Shouta is cognizant of the fact he'll have to take care of him clothing-wise as well.
Slim as Hizashi is, one of Shouta's spare pants won't necessarily fall off him; they just won't fit.
Well, fuck it, he snorts, already halfway to his closet after he deposits Hizashi onto the mattress, if he can run around in leather all day, he can deal with baggy clothes. Or small ones, depending on which they are; though rare, it's not like Hizashi hasn't raided his closet before.
Fingers still wrapped around a pink pair of sweatpants he's sure was Hizashi's in the past, over his shoulder, he spares a glimpse back at the sleeping form snoring away on his bed. Miracle of his snores being quiet aside, Shouta still can't help but think back to what they'd exchanged earlier.
"You're going to regret it in the morning if you don't, Hizashi," Shouta sighs. Holds out a water bottle he'd snagged from the fridge earlier as a peace offering. It would be best for Hizashi to sober up a bit before sleep claimed him. That, and maybe he'd rather not deal with the raging headache the other's bound to get, even if unlike him, Hizashi wouldn't become a cranky person overnight, it'd be much too close for comfort. "Drink up. I don't have all night."
Green eyes still glazed over with the aftertaste of their night out, Shouta could feel something shift in the room as Hizashi snapped his head around, the carefree attitude he'd been keen to show off earlier stripped clean away. "Don't call me that."
Addressing that in the morning seems rational.
Pausing, he reaches for something buried away in the corner of his closet; another black shirt. It's already baggy on Shouta, meaning Hizashi will drown in it, so it's perfectly sound. Picking it up, he makes his way toward the bed.
Or, he thinks, looking at Hizashi's back rising and falling. Maybe he should leave it well enough alone.
Conjuring up an excuse -- especially one invented by drunken ramblings that likely wouldn't even hold up a place in memory -- just to have something to ask Hizashi about in the morning seems counterintuitive. Shouta already preferred burrowing his head into a pillow and suffocate rather than getting up early in the mornings. If not for UA and patrol or his friends, he wouldn't even be up before noon most days. Hizashi would demand to know if pigs had flown.
He grumbles once he's done dressing the other, task arduous enough without the added difficulty of not letting his eyes linger longer than was necessary or appropriate for someone who's only his friend.
Which is, unfortunately, not a thought he has enough energy available to unpack. Not when morning is looming overhead, or how he's stuck thinking about how the next day in UA won't be anything but miserable: he'll be worn down and likely have to take a trip or two to his sleeping bag once opportunity arises.
Which nearly always does. Hellions they are, his class seems rather understanding of what buttons to push and what not to, so perhaps it won't be all too bad, but he doubts the same for Hizashi, having English class first thing in the morning and patrol in the Musutafu area come the day's end.
Hizashi already has natural light sensitivity, so the sunglasses are logical to have and won't be questioned unlike if Shouta were to dig out one of his friend's spares for himself.
Maybe Nemuri can make him her infamous hangover cure. It's a nightmare, but effective. Shouta would know.
Plopping himself down onto the part of the mattress that Hizashi hadn't already stolen, he lets his eyes fall shut and listens close to the familiar sound of Hizashi's snoring until fatigue catches up to him.