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Life does not stop for anyone. It’s a highway filled with people who all think their lives matter more than everyone else’s pitiful constructs of borrowed time, sunflower seeds in their stomachs sprouting and spouting out acidic nonsense. Agnostic conglomerates of civilians who believe heroics is an end-all be-all.
Hizashi does not think along the same veins. The blood that pumps through him is the same blood as anyone else’s, albeit Type B, but at least he has the capability to recognize that he shares that category. Shares the classification with everyone else who has Type B blood. Sharing is caring.
What distinguishes him from everyone else is that in the showbiz, they call him Present Mic. His belief is that for Present Mic, heroics happens to come with him. By accident. Like a 2-in-1 deal, except instead of 2, it’s a 4-in-1 package he can’t necessarily shake off. Like someone with a mosquito attached firmly to their leg hairs and sucking at their blood, holding onto an electric fly swatter that isn’t charged right and only has one charger in an outlet that can only work at certain angles.
Voice Hero extraordinaire. Radio-host hard at work on a frequency that specializes in Heroes. DJ part-time, when he’s not away on his Hero gigs. An English-teacher part-time at the best damn Hero school in the country.
They don’t pick him out of a crowd because he’s Hizashi Yamada, aged 30, who adores colour commentary on shitty commercials and bad reality TV. Not because he’s the kind of guy to stop for a stray kitten in a drenched cardboard box in some off-shoot, creepy alleyway. Not because according to the books and good television, he's supposedly in love with his best friend, Aizawa Shouta -- and so terrified of doing what he does best that he’s resorted to just shutting up about it.
No-- no one would stop for Hizashi even if he were a traffic light and flashing red. His eyes happen to be too green for anyone to think of anything but ‘go’. Even himself. Hizashi’s only noticeable under the spotlight of Present Mic, only if he’s wearing Present Mic.
His resumé says the same thing, too. More jargon, less footwork in the department of charm and elegance, but it does the trick.
He’s a hero, life is a highway, and all he can do is speed along it in his Mustang when he knows damn well nobody would care if he crashed as Hizashi Yamada.
Unfortunately for everybody else, Hizashi is all too willing to stop for them.
Good things Mustangs have brakes in them.
“I thought you said you were going home.”
“Y’know, some wise folk might say home’s where the heart is,” Hizashi remarks cheerfully, pen tucked behind his ear keen on pinching at a loose strand of hair, to his annoyance. A faint plea from his scalp to free it echoes in his head like fireworks. Youch. “And who would I be if I didn’t say radio has mine? Eh? Eh?”
"We go live in a few days. You have everything pre-recorded, as usual, so there isn't even anything for you to do with the radio."
"Can't a man like to keep busy?" Which is true. He does.
“Don’t you have a girlfriend or something? Doesn't she miss you?"
He can see why Aizawa placed a ‘no-personal-talk’ rule in the workplace. People butting into his personal life is a one-way ticket to snoozeland. The typical heteronormative standards being pushed on him is all so boring.
Hizashi takes the offender out and away from wrecking his hair, clicking it shut. The pen tip snaps closed. “No. Remind me, who files your pay stubs again?”
“Well, you,” Obara answers sorrowfully, as if he doesn’t pay her enough. Which he does. Very well, in fact. “Doesn’t have to be, though. You could probably get away with siccing Kawaguchi on the administrative work if you had a girlfriend to fall back on.” A pause. “Like, y’know how Katu takes time off to spend time with his family? Like that, but more fun. Brothers, ugh. Maybe I'd take the work too if I had them."
Naruhara, brother to 8, and Kawaguchi, unfairly framed and put on the spot for doing more work, both seem to reach for a defence. “Hey!”
Coerced into answering by her pouting lips, Hizashi takes an induced intermission from his paperwork.
Hizashi spins in his chair. "So you’re saying I should get a,” and he chooses his next words carefully, not one to lie, even if the bit about Katu is far too true, and happens far too often, for him to discredit her words. “Partner… to not do my job? Do it less?”
He frowns when something comes to him, chair faltering in its movements. It lands in the same direction -- like a trivia spinner on the ‘WHODUNNIT?’ gameshow, conveniently rigged to face the best-splayed prize -- as he started off with.
Facing Obara.
“Are you saying I shouldn’t pay you?” he asks curiously.
Picking the pen back up, he presses his thumb against the trigger to unlock it, and presses the ink-filled stub back to the sheet he’d been working on.
Quick as they come, a snort leaves her. “Nope! Honey likes her money.” As expected. The lady's fond of her pay checks; Hizashi doesn't ever miss the bear grip she has on the sheets when pay-day arrives. Last he'd heard, she'd been saving up for another monitor. “But when you put it like that, you make me sound like a loose cannon,” she muses, fingers planted on her chin. “Think I’m trying to lure you away from work with the promise of love? White Day’s soon, I’ve heard! Everyone's eager for a hero like Present Mic to swoon over."
And the promise of Hizashi’s sanity lost, but he doesn’t venture to point that out.
Right. White Day. He'd been planning on spending White Day either running away from the lovely gentlemen and ladies chasing after Present Mic, or wallowing fruitlessly in the confines of his man-cave after work with just him, a HD TV, a remote, a blanket, and the damn good caramel popcorn from 7-ELEVEN that always gets stuck between his teeth.
Hopefully Shouta, too, if he doesn't already have hundreds of other attractive, more viable men after his stubbled glory, and Hizashi could do the typical, best-friend no-homo gig where Shouta accidentally falls asleep against his shoulder and they bump noses when they wake back up in the morning, sun shining warmly on their skin in the way an oven bakes homemade cookies...
“Hold on,” Naruhara says, yanking him out of his fantasies. Something scrapes harshly against the floor -- presumably one of the chair legs from the bad one he’d assigned to the back of the studio, not having had the time to order a replacement -- and pricks Hizashi’s ears in a not-so-good way, thoroughly locking him out of better places. “Mm. Picture this: imagine a siren, newly-changed, now hard at work trying to please the boss with tales of romance. Now imagine that’s you. Young. Enchanting. Career on the line. A lonely hero boss who refuses to listen."
“Ever the dramatic, Naru, I like it,” Hizashi chimes in, beginning to write down March 2nd on the date for the studio’s location tax. Being in the busiest part of Musutafu pays off nicely. Play some David Bowie here and there and one might even say it pays off tenfold with the curious passersby that orbit the speakers outside the station, beneath the street lights the city chipped in to convert to eco-friendly LEDs. “Apply that energy somewhere else though, yeah? Not me? We could probably clip that. Good material.”
“Right, super enticing,” Obara interjects, eyes shining with mischief and sounding not enticed at all. Shouta would hate talking to her. Hizashi doesn't even know how he's off the hook with his friend right now. “If we were anything but peasants working for this hot single’s radio show, that is! Can't exactly star in a romance column when Mic won't even consider going home."
Naruhara frowns.
“Obara,” Hizashi warns, decidedly not liking where this conversation is going. He's not sure what's worse; being considered attractive (that's probably not bad at all, in hindsight), having her use 'single' like it's offensive, or the fact she's taking advantage of his workaholism to comment on said singleness. What if he just likes filing paperwork?
Nobody likes filing paperwork. Bad example.
Turning back to Hizashi, she stares him down. He eyes her warily. Unsure of whether to laugh or be offended or go back into the Present Mic bit and shriek in falsetto, he decides to go for the silent treatment.
"The theme fits,” she says simply.
For her efforts last month with taking over the grunt work for a little while, while he was recovering in the hospital, he’d been considering handing her a raise.
Perhaps he should do as Shouta suggested and, bzzzt, not do that. Arguing about fanatastical creatures… usurping his interest with the mention of sirens and Voice… bringing up all this dashing nonsense, too. Three strikes and you’re out, isn’t it?
“Just get back to sorting those audio files, Obara."
She rolls her eyes. “Buzzkill.”
“Poser,” he counters, voice citrus-sweet.
"Loser?" Kawaguchi adds.
Seemingly amping herself up, Hizashi can pinpoint the drop in oxygen as she takes a large inhale, shooting off a glare to Kawaguchi before turning back to Hizashi.
“Loser, poser, sure," she sighs. "Whatever name you want to call me, I'll take it. But go home, boss."
He sighs. “This again--”
“Preferably find someone to date on the way, too. Maybe that would make coming home nicer?"
The drop in oxygen feels appropriate. Hizashi feels like he’s been sucker punched with a huge bout of carbon-- he’s as close to a cargo ship’s furnaces being refilled with coal as one can be. Too far.
Man, people his age can be even more a-n-n-o-y-i-n-g than actual children. He’d prefer teaching past simple over this a million times over.
“Okay,” he whistles. Notching a tick below ‘MEDICAL PROXY’ that says ‘YES’, scribbles Shouta’s name and HERO ID quick, Hizashi remains oblivious to the oddness of having memorized the 15-CHARACTER ID by heart. Mountains of paperwork await him.
Being interrogated over something the regular folk would read in the tabloids and consider a fluff-piece is, well, something he’d rather nip in the bud and do away with before it worsens. He's already said he doesn't have one.
Who said he needs a partner anyhow?
“Okay!" Hizashi repeats. "Here’s this, folks! Hear ye, hear ye! If I don’t see those audio files all ordered chronologically and prepped for Friday’s stream by Thursday from Obara, I’m deducting exactly 4490 yen from her next paycheck to pay for my honmei-choco.”
Her eyes light up before they narrow; like a disco-ball at a party he’d be chaperoning for at Yuuei, but with less pizazz or teenage angst, and entirely not built up by his imagination; or the Mississippi River before one of its fault lines breaks.
(Hey, if he propositioned for a party, and managed to convince Nedzu, could he persuade Shouta for a dance? All those tap-dance demonstrations back in their Public Relations class couldn't have been for naught anyhow. It'd be killer to see Shouta kick out the shoes again. Especially now that he's no longer a teenager, but someone with city-ending thighs rivalling Mt. Lady's, and--)
Mind-Hizashi shakes his head. Real-Hizashi reaches in for the kill. Closes in.
“Full disclosure; I won’t be sharing that chocolate with anyone, for your rivetin’ information and gossip-wantin’ ears, and even if I did, it wouldn't be any of your business.”
A frown quickly spreads over the expanse of Obara's freckled face; another intermission ensues as he pinches the bridge of his nose, standing up.
His pen hovers over 'signature'.
“And if you ask me about my romantic life again, instead ‘o just telling me to screw off back to my flat like a regular person should, not only will I be deducting your pay -- to a reasonable level, I’m not a monster -- I’m putting you in charge of queuing up all the tracks for the night and co-hosting with me, live, instead."
A shudder runs through the collective staff, the likes of which who'd gathered during his torrent of words. "We'll play Sudoku on air with another hero starring," Hizashi adds, a purposefully mismatched yet seductive flair to his voice as he speaks. "You'll do all the odd numbers and split half of the even ones with me. All's fair in war and numbers. Oh, and the number one hero himself!""
They call using connections brought in with the help of family nepotism.
With good friends and a direct line to the man himself, it's called negotiation.
"Oh, c'mon!" Obara protests. "All Might? Are you serious? You'd humiliate me in front of All Might?"
"If you keep askin', yeah."
"Whooweee! Harsh, Mr. Mic, I like it!"
"Serves her right!"
Hizashi jerks a thumb in Katu's direction. "Ain't got a place on the mic there either, man. I could sign you up for media direction and sign you off with Flow."
"Fuck no. You'd send me to the wolves? Really? I'd rather be on trash duty with Darren."
"American Darren?" Naruhara asks.
"No, this Darren's with the maple leaf," Obara corrects, slighted.
Katu harrumphs. "So the French one!"
"Canadian, dimwit," another member of his staff, Itsuki, butts in. "Promo work sucks. It's not trash, though. We're talking heavy duty."
"Sure. If you're an idiot."
With that sorted, Hizashi's own worries dissolve and saturate into thoughts on his own students as the noise of his employees all fade into one another, completely done with thinking about White Day and Shouta and literally anything else.
He should probably make do on his promise and pack away, too. Clock out. Obara's right, in her own way-- he has no business being here on one of his off-days where he has nothing else to do but paperwork he could get away with doing and filing at home.
"Honey, I'm home," Hizashi singsongs. The keys jingle in his palm as the door slams shut with a push of his foot.
He jams the circular holder onto a loose hook, already knowing to look past Shouta's binding cloth sprawled against the two or three hooks -- efficiency, the man reminds himself, his friend is rational in all things but spatial awareness with that scarf of his -- and gets to work on the mission of taking off his boots.
Cumbersome it is, doing all this work with his hero costume just to do it all over again. Guess that's what heroes are for; repetition. Grunt work.
"Would you shut the blinds," he can hear Shouta groan out. "It's too sunny."
Hizashi looks at his watch. 7:00 PM.
Oh, dammit. Does Shouta have one of those things again?
"Did you take medication for your headache yet," Hizashi calls out, careful to not be too noisy. A hard bargain as it is-- even without his quirk, he's not particularly the quietest. He can already hear Shouta's grimacing reply of 'no' at the other end of the genkan. He's probably in the living room, wallowing away.
The overhead lights flick on when Hizashi's finger curls against a switch on the way.
He walks toward the offending place, striding past an limp form -- clad in all black -- on the couch.
Hizashi pulls the curtains shut, and steps back to evaluate the sights.
"Did you forget to hydrate again too?" he pouts. "We've talked about this. There's nowhere for that water in your bod to replenish without a fine cup or two of it, so why subject yourself to going the whole day with no liquid W? You sweat like a pig under that emo jumpsuit of yours!"
"You wear black leather," Shouta groans out eventually. "During all seasons. Rationally speaking, you're worse."
"That's 'cause I'm vain and love fashion, deal with it," Hizashi says, sticking his tongue out.
Along the way from the genkan, passing through the kitchen, he'd picked out one of the painkiller packets from the counter.
He baps it against Shouta's head.
"You, on the other-hand, can't handle heat as well as Present Mic can."
Shouta grunts.
He wiggles his hips, pointing at his belt. "Beyond that, I also like a splash of colour here and there. You deal in shades, monochrome-broker, and absorb the temp like a dry sponge."
With a languid, slow movement to his hand, Shouta takes the capsules from between Hizashi's fingers.
Shouta sighs. "A sponge? Okay. I just wear what's best fitting and comfortable. It's not my fault it just so happens to be black. It's the most discreet colour."
"Again. Still all black, my man. I could pick you out from a crowd and not miss a beat on that tempo."
"Do you even know what water is?" Shouta changes the subject like a natural, packet creaking as he picks one of the units open with a nail. Once Hizashi offers a bottle of water (from yours truly) to him, he pops the pill into his mouth and swallows it dry, defeating the purpose. He snatches the bottle anyway, throat bobbing. "You seem more interested in coffee and... that... ah, pink lemonade."
"Just because I'm not water-proof doesn't mean I don't know what Mother Nature's spit is," he retorts. Hizashi modulates his voice to be more hush-hush when Shouta flinches. Migraines. Fun. "God, Shouta, I'm not a heathen."
"Might've fooled me."
Hizashi scoffs. "I drink water. There's even a meter for how much I drink on my waterbottle. Hey, look, see?" He points at the bottle Shouta currently has clasped around his fingers. "It says 'good job' whenever you reach a litre. I think I deserve a gold star for even buying the thing-- and, hey! I just happen to like pink lemonade, y'know."
"You can fill that bottle with anything, and get a gold star for anything," Shouta points out, lips jutting out into a semi-pout. "Enough of that."
"Alright sensei, whatever ya say." Hizashi flicks a finger against his temple, inciting a grousing, silent complaint from Shouta in the form of rolled eyes. "Now drink up. Let's get that migraine squared away with."
His friend rolls over on his side. "I can just sleep it off," he grouses.
"Ah ah ah," Hizashi cants cheerfully, pressing the front of his palm to Shouta's shoulder, pushing him back. "Not before ya have some more water, mister."
Shouta's glare is rugged enough to pierce through skin. Luckily for Hizashi, he's had plenty of experience dealing with this grump over the years.
What all this is? It's not love. That's for certain. He doesn't need White Day or a girlfriend to appease him.