Work Text:
Hizashi is an unstoppable force when it comes to getting what he wants.
"So, is there anything coming up on the Aizawa Shouta agenda, or is he free for the weekend?"
"Mic," he sighs, papers rustling as he shifts yet another scribbled essay out of the way, a grave expression settled on his face as he briefly contemplates the idea of crawling into his sleeping bag and never grading a single assignment again. Dealing with all of this right now seems like a divine entity's way of screwing with him. He's never believed in anything like it, but then again, before Kaminari came along, he believed it wasn't plausible for someone to misspell a word seven different times within the span of 2 paragraphs. Go figure. "If this is your way of asking me to go out with you and the rest of the staff for drinks again, here's my answer: no."
Mic drums his fingers against the desk petulantly. "Oh come on, Shouta! Live a little." His eyes turn pleading. "Please? The rest of the staff ain't going to be there for long!"
'For long' seems a rather rash understatement. Pro Heroes -- particularly UA's staff -- were a particularly nasty bunch when it came to overstaying their welcome, keyed-up as they are. Shouta had made it his personal mission never to let loose around any of them again, lest the 241 incident happen all over again, or, worse, have a bar call Nedzu over like they're not professional pro heroes with full on licenses and instead peevish, snivelling teenagers who don't know any better.
To (not) be fair to any of his colleagues, he'd witnessed one too many a time where Nemuri had coerced people like Kan, Snipe and Maijima, of all, inane pro heroes, into drinking her 'alcoholic concoctions'.
Which, in Shouta's humblest, most honest opinion, was simply a disguise for straight poison laced with some alcohol here and there. Having borne witness to Hizashi kissing the ground after trying one.
More than anything, looking at his steadily growing pile of Class 1-A's best attempts at tormenting him, he's never wanted to go out any less. Especially not with these people.
When Shouta still seems not to have moved an inch closer to giving in -- not his fault, he'll add, remaining fixated on his work -- Hizashi weaponises his usual, second-best tactic. Typical. "Y'know, it could just be the two of us, then."
A pensive look crosses Shouta's face.
Mic barrels on. There's something strained to the way his fingers stop tapping. "I even promise to keep my mouth zipped most of the time if it's noise you're worried about."
It's never been noise that's the problem. Untrue, he thinks immediately, scowling internally (presumably internally) when he recalls Ms Joke and her... incessant need to yammer on at his expense.
Still, with Hizashi, it's never exactly noise that irritates him to no end. It's something else, but Hizashi's entirely blameless when it comes to it. Just another means of Shouta's irrationalities.
Worded as it is, he can still get away with simply preferring a quiet night out, nearly all-expenses paid for, courtesy of one Hizashi Yamada. Ultimately, however, it's the offer of time alone with him that tempts Shouta. "Fine."
Hizashi blinks. "Fine?"
That, and the idea of downing a shot or two doesn't seem that awful.
"I'll go. No need to bring a zipper either," he continues flatly, "I'm sure you wouldn't be able to keep your mouth shut anyway."
The back of Hizashi's hand, leather gloved, in his best mimicry of his usual dramatics, is brought to his temple. "You wound me," he whines. Bright, the smile that washes over his face is just enough to betray his obvious elation at Shouta playing along; something he never understands.
If Hizashi's an unstoppable force, then let it be known that Shouta won't pretend to be an immovable object. Not when it comes to him.
Shouta may have forgotten to deliberate on whether or not he wanted to get drunk around Hizashi tonight.
In a stark, rather bleak comparison when they're put up side by side, you'd pick Shouta out of a crowd as another aloof, heavy drinker, Hizashi some sort of stickler light-weight with an inability to keep his hands to himself from how touchy he is. Lamentably, he's the one whose world spins the moment he even goes a shot or two above what he can reasonably tolerate. While Hizashi, the lucky bastard, could perform on the level of an Olympic athlete and throw one of his 'DJ PUNCH' moves out there without breaking so much as a sweat even after he breaches Shouta's usual tolerance level.
Breaking societal expectations has never made him feel worse. Granted, given he doesn't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks generally, this shouldn't necessarily faze him. Along the same vein, it's still well within his rights to sulk just a bit. Just a little.
Self-care, he'll call it.
Tipsiness is not exactly the type of state he finds himself falling into miserably. Lowering his inhibitions as it does, that's the whole point; to 'let up a little'. Nothing about him changes much beyond the simple fact his memory goes straight to hell after soberness eventually catches up to him. Losing his memory of anything that goes on with Hizashi, even if it could, on his part, be potentially cringeworthy enough for him to voluntarily scrub away from his thoughts, is terrible. Not that he has before -- Hizashi would never be able to shut up about it, though, notably, Shouta thinks, face burning, he's a good enough actor to possibly get away with it -- but he could confess ten times and forget the eleven attempts. It would never happen, given he'd take the 'confession', juvenile a word as it is, to the grave and beyond, rationalities be damned, but it's still a good comparison for the situation.
Maybe he should leave the comparisons to a sober Shouta. Someone who would know better than he does at the moment.
"Holy [shit]! You've gotta be pullin' my leg, right?" A hand claps onto his shoulder, the warmth from the skin-to-fabric contact flooding his synapses pleasantly. "Seriously? The little listener did that?"
He huffs. "I wouldn't really call Bakugou 'little'."
"Shouta, when you get to my fossilising, dusty, old age, everyone's little. Even the loud ones."
"You're five months older than me." The irony isn't lost on him. "Also, pot, kettle. You're louder. Much, much louder."
Hizashi ignores him.
"See? Ancient."
"Insufferable," he grumbles, itching a little when the cold comes biting back in as Hizashi's hand retreats to fold around the handle of his new beer, bringing it to his mouth. Free from his own drink, having had it swatted away after Hizashi had shot him a knowing look after they'd come back to the bathroom to the abandoned drinks, he cusps his chin on top of his palm and sighs. "You should sit through one of Ectoplasm's lessons. Maybe learn a thing or two about the difference between a month and a year."
"They learn that in-- kindergarten, Shouta."
"Now you're getting it." His fingers brush against his stubble unevenly. Shooting a cast-away glance at Hizashi from the corner of his eye. "You're not old."
Hizashi sputters a laugh. "Of course not, I'm just joking." The red spirals of his green eyes look like painted tiles Shouta wants to crawl into when he retires. Or dies before retiring. Either option works. Getting this far had been a complete accident. Hizashi pulls at his cheeks with a tentative look. "But, I mean, not like I'm complaining or anything, it's just... we're not getting any younger, Shou."
Oh, great.
"These little listeners?" he continues, slowly. "They're great. Just-- they've experienced so much in such a short amount of time, and yet, they're still so happy, y'know? Hell, I don't even remember being as bright-eyed as most of 'em are."
Brightness is a default for Hizashi. It's like the sun saying it doesn't give off any light because a star a million, billion lightyears away from it happened to burn out.
It makes Shouta barely able to stifle a disbelieving laugh.
Hizashi's eyes tilt up to him. The world falls on its axis. "You've gone through a lot too, man. Too much, for these kids. And they love you. And you're-- not even--" A rapid hic leaves him. "You're not even 31. We're not even 31, yet."
Stupefied, Shouta hasn't a mind to consider whether this is his fifth beer or not. Maybe he should've stuck to grading in relative peace, rotting away in his home -- lest the others think he has enough free time to potentially be available for other things he deems rationally unimportant -- as opposed to letting Hizashi drag him out again, wind up drunk himself.
He's never quite seen Hizashi this open. Not in public.
"We're still going to turn 31," Shouta reminds him dutifully. How'd the conversation get here anyway? "No matter what we face, we're still turning 31. We're not really that old."
That's not the answer he wants.
His mouth closes. Opens again as another thought comes to him, while Hizashi's looking right at him, flushed face and all. "Look." He sighs. Brushes a hand over the scar under his eye, leaving him to notice how Hizashi's eyes narrow in on it. His fingers fall away from touching it. "It'd be illogical to think we can turn back time, Hizashi--
Hizashi shakes his head. "Mic, please."
"Mic," he corrects seamlessly, ignoring the churning in his stomach, knowing Hizashi preferred retreating behind the performer at times. Though he despised it, he wouldn't deny Hizashi a way of coping. "What's done is done, and the kids... the kids are, okay." He pauses, thinking on what might possibly be soothing. "I'm okay."
Believing it himself is still a long mountain he'll have to climb. The kids' well being, that is. Not that he'd admit it sober.
But he worries constantly, each and every day. Since Kamino, since the world had almost fallen apart after they'd realised their supposed Symbol of Peace had collapsed right in two, pacing the dorms had been a past-time he'd voluntarily resigned himself to. Keeping the kids safe. His number one priority in a society where people were beginning to realise heroes couldn't remain a commodity. Keeping these future heroes safe, far away from danger, far away from experiencing any more than they reasonably had to before they even reached legal age.
"I'm not going to lie to you and claim I know what the future holds for us." He watches idly as Mic digs even further into his beer. Slamming it down his throat, practically. Still, Shouta continues, if for his sake, and the mere fact he knows he'll forget this come morning. Maybe he'll write a note down just in case. "We could walk out this bar, right now," and to this he gestures around loosely, ostensibly referring to something beyond the stale air and the loud, booming music that's hushed in his ears, now, "And a villain could slit our throats. Maybe we'd react in time. Maybe we wouldn't. Perhaps we'd be dead before we'd even hit the floor..."
"How reassuring," Mic mutters.
"But it wouldn't matter anyway. What's done is done, what happens happens, and all we can do is keep going, because that's what we're meant to do as pros." He looks through Mic's sunglasses. "As people."
A small sniffle.
Not one to intrude, Shouta makes himself look away, bottom lip disappearing under his teeth clumsily. Tucking a hand into his pocket, he waves over for the bartender to shake him another drink, tossing the cash from between his index and middle finger. Depth perception screwed, he nearly tosses it farther from his target -- the bartender's trembling palm, which, in a way, might've contributed to his near miss -- but years of underground heroes and flinging a capture weapon around prove useful when he manages to hit just an inch from where he'd intended. Not bad.
When his drink arrives not a few minutes later, the sniffling dying down, he scowls at the umbrella add-on in the drink. Taking it as a personal offence. Really, he should be focused on making Hizashi feel better, but he's also quite focused on letting Hizashi take his time, put himself together. As much as he wishes to rub away the obvious tears, it's out of his jurisdiction and hands.
Because if there's one other thing besides crying that Hizashi detests more, it's having the crying be acknowledged at all.
The umbrella is an ugly shade of yellow, he notices, eyes scanning over the offending item again, resisting the urge to simply pluck it out. He has no idea whether the drink will collapse on him or not. A side-glance to Hizashi makes him keener on exploring the idea.
It's not that ugly, he eventually settles on, picking at the stick. Then over the canopy of the umbrella. The colour, anyway. It's just not in his usual taste, or the kind of yellow he likes seeing, he thinks, gaze passing briefly over Hizashi's blond hair before retreating the instant he gathers himself together.
"It's been a lot, these past years."
Shouta twists his head only to find Hizashi presenting his beer to him.
"So it has," he agrees.
Instinctively, he clinks his own drink against Hizashi's, the echo barely noticeable in the growing volume of the incessant noise they call music. He has half a mind to suggest Hizashi go up to DJ, if only to stop the racket, but he falters when he recalls what they'd just been talking about. Getting this drunk was a horrible idea.
"Y'know, if you ask me, I didn't think we'd make it this far."
Shouta hesitates. Making up his mind on it comes rather quickly. "Me neither," he admits, reaching through his binding cloth and rubbing the back of his neck. Recoiling only slightly when his hand comes away with sweat.
Hizashi lets out a long exhale. "I think it's cool, that we're older. Makes me wonder how long we can go."
Perhaps he should've stuck to keeping his hands in his pockets. Or, better yet, changing his wardrobe, if only for his own comfort and not the appeal of strangers and Hizashi's desperation to get him to 'wear colour'.
Unimportant. What were they talking about?
Taking the matter into his own hands, pointing out the elephant in the room comes first-place to actually addressing the wider issue. There's a time and a place, and it's not in a dingy bar. Realising Hizashi might have similar... problems to his own is distressing enough. "Do you wanna get out of here?"
Initially, Hizashi looks tempted to wink suggestively at him, likely for the innuendo, Shouta grimaces, but the man seems to decide better on it as he simply blinks wearily. "Where would we go?"
Unable to help himself, he snorts. "The back alley-way, where I'll murder you." A shrug. "You know, the usual, typical, villain shtick. Definitely leave you for dead. Make some proper use of my pro-hero license and run away, not a single soul clued in to my wrongdoings."
Shouta rolls his eyes when Hizashi remains unmoving. "My place, Mic, where else?"
He ignores the gloved hand that quickly rubs at the corner of Mic's eyes as the man scoffs. "Oh, I'm sorry, is the great, elusive Eraserhead actually inviting me over to his place? Excuse me if I'm so startled!"
"You drove here, didn't you?"
"You used your capture weapon," the other quickly counters.
"Touché." The stool's legs screech as he backs up, sitting upright. Clearing his throat, he continues on his case. "However, the difference between us is that one of those actions will get you promptly thrown into jail if you're caught, and the other will just land you off a ravine if you're not careful enough. Which I always am," he points out, diligently.
Seemingly cheered up, even if only slightly, he's relieved when Hizashi tilts his head and offers a teasing grin, scooting out of his own stool. "Y'know, Mini-Shouta would definitely disagree there. I seem to remember a time where you, mister, nearly got a one-way ticket to heaven's gates 'cause you timed the landing wrong."
"That was 13 years ago. Let it go, cop," he grumbles, merely content to finally be getting out of here. Perhaps he'll even save the grading for later.