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Aizawa Shōta was roused from sleep by a firm shake of his shoulder.
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”
Shōta groaned and cracked one eye open to see Yamada Hizashi crouching down in front of him and grinning his Present Mic smile. Shōta shut his eyes and muttered, “The hour break isn’t up yet, so you better have a good reason for waking me up.”
“’Course I do! I brought food!”
Shōta opened one eye again and peered up at him suspiciously. “Unadon?”
“You know it!”
Shōta sat up, still in his sleeping bag, and squinted sleepily up at Hizashi, who was now standing up. Shōta closed his eyes again and only reopened them once Hizashi had sat down next to him on the floor of the announcers’ box, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. Shōta watched him unpack the food and listened to him hum to himself. It wasn’t until Hizashi poked him in the side that Shōta realized that he’d dozed off again.
“Are you going to need help with yours?” Hizashi asked in between shoveling large bites of oyakodon into his mouth.
Shōta would deny it if anyone ever tried to call him out on it, but when Hizashi used his real voice with him, rather than the loud over-the-top exuberance of Present Mic, he always felt a wave of warm affection. It was precisely the quieter (okay, less loud) expression of his authentic self that had made Shōta realize he was falling for Hizashi in the first place, not his hero persona. That was not to say that Hizashi’s hero persona was an inauthentic expression of himself. It was just...different. Present Mic and Yamada Hizashi were two different entities. And Shōta was married to Hizashi, not Mic. So sue him if he was a bit partial to getting to see his husband under the exaggerated sheen of Present Mic.
“...maybe,” Shōta said gruffly. He hated not being able to do basic tasks by himself, but both his arms were in casts, after all.
Hizashi hummed in understanding. They sat in relative silence for a while, Shōta floating in and out of consciousness as Hizashi ate. When Shōta opened his eyes again, Hizashi had scooted closer so that their legs were brushing and was holding Shōta’s bowl of unadon in one hand and fresh chopsticks with another, looking at him with such soft eyes that Shōta had to look away.
“You ready?”
Shōta grunted in affirmation.
“Okay! Open wide, here comes the train!”
Annnnnnd just like that, Present Mic was back.
Shōta glared at him. “Mic.”
Hizashi grinned, unrepentant. “Come on, Shō-chan! Aren’t you hungry?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Don’t be like that, baby. Now, open wide and let the train into the station!”
“I would rather starve to death.”
Hizashi’s grin grew wider. “That’s not very logical.”
“Talk to me like a normal human being and I might reconsider.”
Hizashi pouted. All the same, he held out the loaded chopsticks without any further comment, and Shōta opened his mouth around his bandages to receive the food.
Silence didn’t settle over them as Hizashi fed him; this was Hizashi, after all. Instead, Hizashi talked animatedly about whatever came to mind, from his adventures while grabbing their food, to his predictions for the rest of the sports festival and who he wanted to win — “You’re being extremely unprofessional by taking sides,” Shōta grumbled — and his opinions of different students’ fighting styles with respect to their Quirks.
Once Shōta had eaten everything that he could eat, Hizashi stood and bent down to kiss his bandaged forehead. “Okay, sleep now, love. I’ll wake you up when the break is over.”
Shōta sighed and closed his eyes. He heard Hizashi throw out their trash and move towards the door to leave the announcers’ box. As the door opened, Shōta said, just loud enough for Hizashi to hear him, “Yamada.”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
Hizashi smiled softly. “Of course, baby.”
But Shōta was already asleep.