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There's nothing to complain about in his life.
He has a good career going for him. Two others in the wings, and juggling them will be a breeze.
Sure, maybe there's a few setbacks here and there, and maybe it isn't perfect per se, but there's no reason for him to open his big mouth and whine about ancient history. Hizashi Yamada is no historian, and he doesn't plan on digging anytime soon for some rusty fossils. That's old news.
After all, there's a roof over his head. The lights are on. A hero license declaring 'PRESENT MIC' in his pocket; the name he'd dreamed of using since he was just a hero-hopeful. His own radio station to drum up to and the occasional performances where he gets to show off his DJ prowess.
Which is to say, radical. Amazing! A total jamfest.
Coming this far had been a startling feat in of itself, and there's nothing anyone can do to dispute that, make him think any less of himself than he already does.
Not that he does, mind you.
But if he did, no one would be able to nudge him that way.
What's not to love about his life? Getting to gel his hair up, make others squawk in their fashion-deprived squalor? Don on some shiny leather, polish his boots in the morning before hunkering down for another patrol, the real deal? Getting to rearrange his paperwork and documents into the shiny new black binder he'd bought and soon accessorized is the next best thing to crawling into bed when he gets the chance to. Eight hours is a long lost tune sung by teenage dreams, though Hizashi will be damned if he doesn't get to indulge here and then; he's only a man.
Maybe the fact he has to amp himself up to go outside most days is alarming. Concerning. He'll give the audience of none that, considering they won't even have to stand up from their seats to throw tomatoes at him. A fact which doesn't help to tug along the rumors. The things he finds while doom scrolling. Exacerbating them, maybe, when the newly debuted Voice Hero: Present Mic, his team having already released a forum page dedicated to primarily him, doesn't tune in quite right to a certain frequency on his worst days.
Nothing a shot or five won't help.
Overdoing it is a no-go, though, so he leaves that whole shindig up to the real party people he has to entertain sometimes.
Besides. Get too much booze in him and he'll run the risk of thinking of him again. Hizashi would rather deafen himself on purpose than to even think of short black hair, peach fuzz fading into stubble, or the determined, dry eyed look... no.
He shouldn't.
Listeners help to make him talk. Rattle on and on about the mundane. Fill the air with meaningless and meaningful garble. Spin folly into fallacy, one after the other, coo a tune to precede the love confessions listeners sent in sometimes for their new 'special', something forcing his hands to loosen around the microphone before the speaker breaks. Let the inaudible remain inaudible, because who the hell cares about a ghost?
Wincing, he settles for calmer shores, biting his lip before his fork plunges even further of a scratch into his plate. He'd finished his food long ago.
Why should he care about someone who'd made themselves a ghost?
The dead don't care much for the graves they're buried in. Shirakumo wouldn't have cared. He hadn't cared, because he was dead, is dead, and had died a long while before that man had chosen to follow him uselessly in pursuit. Accepting he'd died had been tremendously and abominably awful, but made worse by the fact that he'd been alone in his grief, and made to mourn what felt like two.
Two-in-one deal, right? What a damn joke.
Smiling and putting up with it and making sure that man hadn't started digging so soon, dragging him off before training scratched more blood into his palms or that damned capture weapon nearly choked him out in two.
Placing his headphones around his ears more often than they were off, save for lessons when he knew he'd be yelled at for it, was just one way of coming to terms with the static that filled in his head. To drown it out in what he could consider his first and best rendition of Dealing With Things Responsibly.
Fixing his fingers around the rim of the plate, careful not to touch the wet part, lest he let the charming red liquid of his katsudon bleed into his bandages and force him to re patch it, he picks it up effortlessly. Tossing it with much more care than he'd focused on it earlier, into the dishwasher, to be dealt with another day. The machine's broken, and his landlord refuses to pick up the slack, so he'll have to hire somebody off the web to fix it.
Maybe he can get a recommendation from his agency. If they could fix him, they could fix this. There's no use in remaining morose when the problem is screaming I Am Here the same way All Might announces himself to villains and civilians, hooked right out into the open with pre-made bait. His show wouldn't do with a host that could only be a debbie-downer when he was sober. Replacing that scratched track could only happen with a trip on down to another patrol, ease back into the thrill, get his game on. Pretend he doesn't see him in certain crowds sometimes.
Talking to Nem is something he usually does as well, but lately she'd been rather... pushy, about certain things. Texting her later seems fine. She always understands.
He has a good life.
Good careers. Good friends. Good days.
There's nothing to complain about.