Chapter Text
Shouta is ready for bed.
Ready to huddle up under his covers and think about nothing and everything all at the same time as he tries to fall asleep. Fail at falling asleep, think about that time Present Mic ate him out, jerk off to the thought, then smoke. It’s what almost all of his nights have ended up becoming, embarrassingly enough.
All because Mic won’t fucking talk to him.
It’s early, actually. It’s mid-evening and Shouta doesn’t go to bed for another three hours. Today, however, everyone is out doing… whatever it was Compress planned for them. Eh, he trusts the guy enough to make sure nothing goes awry, and as boyish as Shigaraki tries to appear, he’s got a pretty good handle on things too.
So up in his head, he doesn’t even know what the hell his comrades are doing in their free time. He should be there, making sure they don’t do anything stupid.
His fingers itch for a cigarette again, but he ran out yesterday. He needs to scrounge up the change. Make sure everyone else is situated before he decides to indulge in his own addiction. It’s bad for him, he knows, but he really doesn’t want to quit. Especially considering that the only other person he’s really interested in speaking to doesn’t want to speak to him.
It’s basically empty here. Just Shouta holding down the fort. Even Kurogiri went and joined them, so he knows they’re in good hands. Shouta just wishes he could be there.
Finally somewhat finding a footing in his exhaustion, his eyelids feel heavy and maybe a little bit of shut-eye may help the anxiety that coils in his stomach like a snake. Like it’s threatening to crawl up Shouta’s spine, wrap around his throat, and choke him to death.
Then, a knock at the door.
Shouta’s breathing catches slightly, and with careful, quiet movement, he approaches the door and twists the knob.
Of course, it’s none other than Present Mic, his blonde hair falling past his shoulders in waves. He’s wearing a worn oversized shirt that’s showing its age, and he looks absolutely dejected. Nothing like the Mic that was grovelling at Shouta’s door a week ago.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Can I come in?”
“Depends,” Shouta says, then glares. “Are you going to continue ignoring me?”
Mic gives a smile that reeks of guilt. “I’ll try my best not to?”
Shouta wants to slam the door on his face. Shouta wants to pretend like Mic never knocked on his door in the first place. Maybe if he really wanted to, he could pretend like none of this is real, like Mic didn’t just come knocking on his door and act like nothing ever happened between them.
Shouta steps out of the way for Mic to take a step inside and he does. As soon as that door is closed, the first thing Mic blurts out is, “can I kiss you?”
Everything inside of the Erasure Villain stills and he thinks his legs are about to give out. He should say no. Mic hasn’t spoken to him in a week and the first thing he asks is if he wants to kiss him? It’s an insult to his name.
However, Shouta is a lot of things. Shouta, especially, is a desperate piece of shit who has dreamt of Mic touching him again.
“Please,” Shouta murmurs, and Mic wastes no time stepping forward to cup Shouta’s face.
When Mic kisses Shouta, it’s not perfect. Far from it, actually. Shouta thought he was desperate, but Mic swallows his mouth like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to experience physical touch again.
Mic pushes Shouta against the wall. It shakes the wall and for a moment, Shouta’s heart stops in his chest.
“Too loud,” he scowls and Mic grins sheepishly.
“Nobody’s home,” Mic sings, before leaning in to kiss Shouta again. Finally, something in his mouth that isn’t the bitter taste of cigarettes.
They’re propped like that for what feels like an eternity. Mic takes the lead (of course he does, Shouta usually has no idea what the hell he’s doing), and Shouta can already feel Mic’s hard on pressing incessantly against his crotch. God.
“You’re fucking greedy, y’know that?” Shouta pulls away just for a moment to say, and all Mic does is grin. But there’s something more depraved behind those green eyes. Something more desperate.
“Who woulda guessed?” Mic mumbles, unable to take his eyes off Shouta’s reddened lips, before pulling him back in.
Teeth gently graze his bottom lip and Shouta quickly understands what Mic wants from him. And Shouta is just as depraved, if not more. He wants more. It’s all he can think about. He’s not porn-obsessed, but he can’t get Mic’s fucking mouth on him out of his head. He sees it behind his eyelids, in his dreams, when he dozes off.
Shouta whimpers into Hizashi’s mouth, hot and gross. He cranes his neck just slightly and Shouta feels the touch deepen. The throb between his legs grows and grows the longer Mic kisses him. He can cum just from this alone, he thinks.
But he’s got his head screwed on a little more than cumming from just a makeout session with none other than Present Mic.
When they pull apart for air, Mic stares right at Shouta, then buries his face into the crook of Shouta’s neck. He doesn’t expect it, doesn’t mind the feeling of Mic’s hot breath against Shouta’s skin leaving tingles in its wake. He shivers at the feeling and his mouth falls open with a shaky sigh.
“Fuck, sorry,” Mic murmurs. His breaths are shaky and uncoordinated. If Shouta were thinking more clearly, he’d almost assume Mic was being more pathetic than him. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m a mess.”
Shouta takes his time to think out a proper response. “Happens to the best of us,” he settles on, because he truly doesn’t know what else to say. He can’t say that it’s okay, because it really isn’t. Whether Mic is apologizing for barging into his room just to mouth-fuck him, or if he’s apologizing for acting like an asshole for this last week, Shouta isn’t sure.
“Shit, I don’t mean to ruin the mood,” Mic says, and before Shouta can think of reassuring him, he feels a pair of lips suck a bruise into the side of his neck and he gasps at the sensitivity. After an unreasonably long moment, Mic finally latches off Shouta’s neck and gives a little whine against his skin. It sends another wave of arousal down Shouta’s stomach. “Does that make it better?” Even his voice is wrecked.
“Fuck,” moans Shouta, a little embarrassed at the noise that escapes him.
“Can I keep going?”
“I will kill you if you stop.”
Mic grins a little, looks up at Shouta, and Shouta’s heart soars.
Mic is supposed to be pissing him off. He hasn’t spoken to Shouta since they last slept together (literally and figuratively), and now he’s getting him off again. Shouta definitely isn’t one to talk about his own feelings, but he’s insulted. How dare Mic act like he owns Shouta’s body and then ignore him?
“God,” Mic moans around another piece of Shouta’s skin, marking it up like he belongs to Mic’s mouth and his own alone. “You’re ethereal.”
Here comes the pretty words Mic uses to rile Shouta up. Get under his skin.
Mic moves further down until he’s tugging on Shouta’s shirt to silently ask if he can take his shirt off. Shouta takes a moment to understand what exactly Mic is asking, but he ends up shaking his head, and Mic mouths, “okay,” before getting down on his knees.
He’s never had Mic on his knees like this before. He watches as Mic presses another kiss to his obscured belly, before nosing down to where his arousal is hot and ready. Every touch Mic leaves has Shouta shivering like it’s the middle of winter.
“Can I take these off?” Mic asks, tugging on the waistband of Shouta’s sleep pants. Shouta doesn’t hesitate to nod his head and Mic chuckles. “So desperate.”
“You came into my room asking to make out,” Shouta shoots back without much thought. Just to defend himself. “You’re fucking pathetic, Mic.”
Unexpectedly, Mic lets out a shaky breath, then a laugh that trembles as it leaves his throat. “Keep callin’ me pathetic and I may just bust in my pants from that alone.”
Shouta blinks as if he didn’t hear Mic correctly the first time. “You like the degrading bullshit?”
“Hmm,” Mic hums, and finally pulls Shouta’s pants down to his ankles. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Want me to keep calling you weird shit?”
“What, like those pet names? Babycakes, sweetheart, my love,” Mic riffs from the top of his head and Shouta rolls his eyes.
“Fuck off,” Shouta grumbles, almost apathetic. Almost. “I’ll call you a good boy once you’ve deserved it.”
“Oh, I like the sound of that,” Mic says, and doesn’t hesitate to kiss against the dripping cunt in front of him. He lingers for a moment, then sticks his tongue out to drag it up to his clit. Just the single lick has Shouta gasping, before clasping a hand over his mouth.
Mic pauses, pulls away, and looks up to Shouta with a smile. “It’s okay, no one’s home. You can sing, baby.”
Shouta wants to cringe at how corny all of Mic’s so-called dirty talk is, but it’s also sending waves of heat down to his core. “Fuck,” is all he manages to get out. His fingers tightly hold onto the sleeves of his shirt and he takes a deep breath to compose himself.
Mic, however, doesn’t give him time to calm down before he leans back in, getting a nice taste of Shouta’s slick. The brush of the back of his tongue, firm against his clit, has Shouta already yelping at the sudden, almost overwhelming influx of pleasure. He’s dreamt of this.
Mic pulls back, brows drawn together like he’s annoyed. “No one’s home, Eraser. You’re allowed to be as loud as you’d like.”
“D-don’t wanna be,” Shouta says. His voice has already been stolen from him and Mic’s tongue has only come in contact with his clit a total of two times.
“Why not?”
“Em-embarrassing,” Shouta replies with a shuttery breath.
“Oh, baby, it’s not embarrassing at all,” Mic replies. Shouta wants to melt into a puddle.
God, his head is already mush. What type of spell did this ex-hero cast that makes Shouta as dumb as rocks? “N-nuh uh,” he mutters.
“Oh, I haven’t even put my dick in you and you’re already acting like you’ve been fucked stupid,” Mic chuckles lowly and the words are sent straight to Shouta’s cunt.
It’s not his fault he’s never felt like this before with another person. Usually his sexual experiences had him with a cock in his mouth or in his hand. He’d finish himself off in his own time within his own privacy. None of the men he’s ever been with were interested in pleasing him anyway.
However, Mic is here, ready to please, and that makes Shouta’s head foggy. The grand idea of having someone willing to make him feel so good and ask for nothing in return makes his head spin.
“I’ll make you scream,” Mic says, just as low as if it’s a threat and a promise rolled into one, “just give me a sec. Gotta warm you up before you lose your fuckin’ mind, baby.”
Shouta feels he doesn’t need to respond. Mic doesn’t give him time to think of anything anyway before there’s something thin and blunt probing at his cunt. Mic only pushes one finger in, then licks at Shouta’s clit.
Even though he’s experienced this before, it still feels like this is the first time he’s ever experienced being eaten out. Mic starts to pump his finger and press again the inner wall by curling the digit. Fuck, it feels so good.
It’s a pretty awkward position, with Mic’s chin somewhat pressed against the heel of his palm. He times the firm press of his tongue against Shouta’s clit and the pump of his fingers perfectly, so that his long fingers and his tongue are rubbing Shouta just right. While Shouta can feel everything Mic is doing to him, reaching inside of him to make him sing just right.
Mic starts off slow, frustratingly enough, but then he begins to pick up the pace and Shouta’s thighs start to tremble the harder Mic flicks his tongue. His nose is somewhat buried in Shouta and he has to adjust to make sure he’s breathing, and every time he does, Shouta thinks he sees the light.
“Mic, Mic—“ A hand flies down to grip at Mic’s scalp and he takes a fistful. “Oh, god. Please, Mic—“
Mic pulls back and Shouta legitimately whines at the sudden lack of pressure. “You gonna start throwing around those pet names yet?” His voice is so raspy and wrecked, it almost helps Shouta finish right there. His finger is still inside of him but he isn’t moving. God, he can feel himself practically gushing onto Mic’s finger.
“Mic, I will end you if you stop now.” Shouta tries to sound all tough like he usually does when he wants someone to do something, but his voice is wavering and high and it’s not threatening at all.
Mic cocks an eyebrow. “You’re in no place to demand anything from me,” Mic says with a grin. “Wanna move to the bed? You’re shaking.”
Shouta finally realizes how shaky his legs have become and he hesitates, before dipping his head into a nod. Mic - the bastard he is - takes Shouta by his waist and practically holds him up as he leads him over to the bed, sits him down, and gets back down on his knees. The shift in position should be awkward and Shouta assumes it would be difficult to shift back into the scene, but Mic’s mask flips like he’s done this a million times before. He knows what he’s doing and he knows he does it well.
Once so caring, now looking up at Shouta through his blonde lashes. “How’s that? Better?” Mic queries, even though he probably already knows the answer to his own question.
Shouta bites his bottom lip. “Mhm.”
“God, Eraser,” Mic leans back in and firmly presses his lips against Shouta’s folds. He only kisses, though. Doesn’t lick, doesn’t even let his tongue anywhere near Shouta’s clit. Like he’s teasing Shouta. “Do you know how gorgeous you are?”
“You tell me all the damn time,” Shouta grunts. “Makin’ me feel like fucking slime every time you say nice things about me.”
“That’s the goal, sweetheart,” says Mic. He then licks a stripe straight from Shouta’s cunt all the way up to his clit, flicking his tongue, then wrapping his heavenly mouth around the hardened nub. Shouta screams into his palm as Mic sucks hard, but it only lasts a moment before he pulls away. “I always mean it.”
“Mic,” Shouta rasps. He’s so fucking turned on, he thinks he’s going to start crying.
“It’s Hizashi.”
Shouta isn’t sure if he heard him the first time. “What?”
“My name,” he says, and looks up at Shouta. Fuck, he looks so ruined. There’s a light sheen of sweat, matting some pieces of hair to his forehead, and he’s so pretty like this. Then there’s the disgusting mix of Shouta’s slick and his own drool coating his chin. He’s practically slobbering all over Shouta. “My name is Hizashi. Call me that.”
Shouta thinks he’s going to explode. “Oh, okay. Uh, Shouta.”
Hizashi grins. “That’s your name?”
“Yeah,” Shouta replies, and Hizashi hums.
“Good choice,” he croons, “suits you.”
Shouta doesn’t give himself time to think about why the name Hizashi sounds so familiar, because the blonde is licking down Shouta’s cunt again.
“Fuck, Hizashi—“ Shouta moans. The name doesn’t sound foreign in his mouth. He finds himself liking it.
“Oh, fuck, baby.” Hizashi groans, noses at Shouta’s folds, before pulling away. “Love when you say my name like that.”
Then he dives back in like he’s a man starved and Shouta arches his back, can’t help the strangled cry that escapes his throat, can’t help the loud noises he makes that echo off the walls of the small room. He can feel every one of Hizashi’s touches, from the hand on his thigh to the arm that wrestles him down onto the bed. The added aggression makes Shouta whine with need.
“I’m gonna cum,” Shouta warns and Hizashi immediately pulls back. He’s almost keening with desire.
“Proposition,” Hizashi says and Shouta wants to grab him by the back of his head and shove his mouth back into his cunt. “You can cum now. But I’m not going to stop until I’m satisfied. Or you can wait until I’m done.”
The breath in his lungs squeezes out of him like he’s a dog toy. “…What?”
“Ya down? Or I can just let you finish and that’s the end of it, but I wanna see just how far I can make you lose it, Shouta.” Hizashi grins with all of his white teeth. “You liked it when I made you cum twice in a row last time, right? I wanna see just how far I can take you. I’m gonna blow your fuckin’ mind.”
It’s so tempting. Shouta should say no. Should just let Hizashi finish and then kick him out.
“Fine,” and Shouta wants to smack himself.
“Perfect,” Hizashi’s grin swoops lower into a little, affectionate smile. “Tell me if you want me to stop. I won’t stop unless you audibly say ‘stop’, understood?”
“Like a safe word?”
“Exactly like a safe word,” Hizashi says, “believe it or not, I care about you. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Fuck. Fuck, all of this is making his chest fuzzy and pushing cotton into his skull. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
Hizashi gives one more smile before he leans back in, wraps his lips around Shouta’s tiny length. Shouta feels the slightest graze teeth and he’s fucking gone.
He knew he was already pretty close to his orgasm, judging by the way the muscles in his stomach twitched and his legs shook, but he didn’t expect to cum so intensely. It washes over him in waves and he can feel himself gushing onto Hizashi’s mouth.
But obviously, Hizashi doesn’t let up. No, he keeps going like he said he would. Until he’s satisfied.
The sting of overstimulation hits Shouta after his initial orgasm and the sensitive nub Hizashi won’t get out of his mouth pulses. Shouta isn’t sure if he wants to kick Hizashi off or force his face further into his cunt.
He doesn’t have to, though, because Hizashi hums. Hums slightly, a gentle vibration that makes Shouta’s hips twitch upwards. Then Hizashi puts just the slightest bit of his quirk into it and Shouta is screaming.
Of course he knows how to make his mouth vibrate. Maybe that’s why he’s got such a damn oral addiction. He loves putting his mouth where his money is.
Shouta’s second orgasm has him rutting into Hizashi’s mouth with a gasp and moans spilling out of his mouth that he’s sure the apartment buildings down the street can overhear. He grabs onto the covers beneath him as Hizashi hums right through his orgasm.
Finally, Hizashi backs off. Shouta’s barely able to catch his breath before Hizashi gets up to kiss him again, swiping his tongue right into his mouth. He can taste himself; tangy and bitter. If Shouta were thinking more clearly, he’d probably think it’s a little gross. But he moans into Hizashi’s mouth and tries to return the favour by kissing him back.
“On your back,” he says, and Shouta’s head is so up in the clouds that he simply does what Hizashi tells him to do. He lays down on his back, and what should feel like a hard mattress feels more akin to a nice, comfortable cloud, ready to carry him away.
Shouta feels Hizashi hike his legs up and apart. He wants to question it, but Hizashi’s hands on his legs feel so good. Everything about the Voice Villain is turning Shouta into putty, ready to be picked up and played around with.
Fingers press into his cunt and Shouta gently sighs at the feeling, barely paying attention to Hizashi slicking his own cock up with Shouta’s spend, and— when did he take his pants off? Then, Hizashi shifts, pulls Shouta’s legs together, and—
Fuck.
Shouta only barely has time to look up before he feels his ass lift off the mattress and feels something hot and heavy and wet in between his thighs.
“There we go,” Hizashi says, then grins. “This okay?”
Shouta thinks his mind is combusting. Wires completely fried, hands visibly shaking.
Because Hizashi’s cock is in between Shouta’s thighs. Hizashi’s on his knees, stripped from the waist down with just his shirt on. Shouta can only see the head of Hizashi’s cock peaking past the gap in Shouta’s big thighs. It makes him even more heady.
More so, this is the first time Shouta has seen Hizashi’s dick. He feels big when he’s trapped in between Shouta’s legs, but is he actually? It’s a question that quickly fades from Shouta’s mind when Hizashi asks him, “are you okay with pulling your shirt up for me, Shouta?”
Shouta barely hesitates to pull his shirt over his stomach, letting it rest just under his chest.
“Good at following commands.” Hizashi winks and Shouta’s going to explode. “Good job, baby.”
“Mmhm,” Shouta barely warbles, and he can feel his clit pulse again at the gentle praise, “just-just get on with it.”
“Wanna be safe about this,” Hizashi hums, then gives an experimental thrust of his hips. He groans low and laughs loud. “Shit, keep squeezing. Yeah, just like that.”
“Safe?” Shouta queries, barely able to take into account what Hizashi’s trying to allude to.
“I don’t wanna put a baby in you. I don’t think you want that either,” Hizashi replies simply, “and I doubt you have condoms. Don’t wanna explain that one to the rest of the gang, eh?”
“I—I can’t get pregnant.”
Hizashi blinks. “Well, fuck, why didn’t you just say so? I’m already in position now and you’re acting cum-drunk, so maybe we’ll save proper sex for some other time, eh?”
Shouta hums in confirmation, barely able to keep himself aware of everything going on around him when Hizashi pulls his hips back before snapping them forward again and Shouta can’t help the moan that leaves his mouth as if he’s actually being fucked stupid. The feeling of Hizashi’s dick heavy between his plush thighs is pushing Shouta into a bed of clouds. He’s barely aware of Hizashi’s whispers of praise, the hand that reaches over to squeeze his love handles before pulling back, the deafening sound of skin meeting skin as Hizashi uses Shouta’s thighs as nothing more than a warm fuck-hole.
Shouta doesn’t even process Hizashi finishing, squirting cum all over his belly. Shouta doesn’t process Hizashi licking it all up, running his tongue through the coarse body hair there.
He’s not really aware of anything until there’s strong arms holding him, rocking him back and forth, and kissing his forehead like he’s a child who just tripped during recess.
“…you go, Shouta, you did amazing,” Hizashi whispers softly into his ear, before pressing another hot kiss to his head. He’s acutely aware of how much he’s dripping down there and he wants to cringe. But Hizashi’s got him bundled up in his blanket and is cooing at him.
The nice words help him breathe for just a moment.
“You with me?” Hizashi asks. Shouta has to force his neck up to look at Hizashi. He’s sitting in his lap, Hizashi now wearing his boxers, and he’s smiling down at Shouta. Dull fingernails scritch his scalp and the tension bleeds from his shoulders.
“Mmhm?” Shouta tries to speak, tries to say anything, but his tongue is heavy in his mouth.
“Can’t talk?” Hizashi smiles and Shouta melts like ice cream left out on a sunny day. “That’s okay, that’s okay. I’m not gonna leave. Just gonna stay to make sure you’re okay.”
“Nn…” Shouta stirs, tenses, then relaxes. He tries again. “W’happen’d?”
“Nothing bad, before you start panicking,” Hizashi replies, “you just started floating away and I had to make sure you didn’t go down too far, ya dig?”
“Floating?”
“Oh, you’re so new to this, it’s adorable,” Hizashi noses at Shouta’s head before kissing him gently and pulling away. “Sometimes scenes can be too intense. It was my job to make sure you didn’t start dropping. I didn’t mean for you to go that far. I thought I had it all under control.”
Oh.
“I see,” Shouta murmurs, “sorry.”
“What? Why are you apologizing? There’s nothing to be sorry for, Shouta. If anything, I should be apologizing. I didn’t mean to push you that far over the edge.”
“T’s fine,” Shouta says, then lets out a big yawn. Hizashi is just so gentle and he’s still reeling since Hizashi’s tongue inside of him. Maybe he can sit like this for the rest of the night. Get some proper sleep, better than the sleep he was getting from the cigarettes.
“You need to use the bathroom,” Hizashi mumbles, “do you want me to come with you?”
Shouta hums. “No, I got it.”
“Take your time,” Hizashi says, then presses another kiss to Shouta’s head. This time, closer to his right eye. “You did absolutely amazing. So fuckin’ good, I swear. Took me so nicely.”
Shouta groans at the affection and Hizashi laughs heartily. He wishes it could be like this forever, but of course it can’t be. Because aside from hooking up with Hizashi like this, he’s also responsible for so much. He needs to make sure he’s in his own head. What if something goes wrong and he’s not there?
“Gods - you should’ve seen the way you looked right on your back,” Hizashi chants. “You had this adorable dazed look in your eye, and—“
“I should use the bathroom.” Shouta tries to push off Hizashi, who puts no effort to fight back. He's a little unsteady but ends up reaching for a discarded pair of pants on the floor, slipping them on without much thought, and leaves through the door. He pretends not to see the expression of hurt that paints Hizashi’s face before he closes the door behind himself.
He’s not entirely paying attention when a voice speaks, “you’re still awake?”
“Fuck.” Shouta blinks to allow his tired eyes to adjust to the darkness of the hallway. “Don’t do that.”
“Or what? You’ll deck me?” Shigaraki’s laugh is dry.
“Yes, actually,” Shouta replies simply. He hopes the kid can’t smell the scent of sex off him. “When did you get back?”
“Just now,” Shigaraki replies. In the darkness, Shouta can barely make out Shigaraki crossing his arms across his chest. “I’ll tell you about it when we’ve rested.”
“Yeah, good call.”
“Have you seen Mic?”
Shouta stills. “No, why?”
“Toga’s lookin’ for him. Something about his style.”
“Check his room.” Shouta shrugs.
“Right, right.” Shouta wishes he could read the look on Shigaraki’s face. “Going to bed?”
“What is with these questions?” Shouta shoots accusatory, “do you need something?”
“…No,” Shigaraki admits. “You’ve been acting weird lately. You’re always weird, but more weird. What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” Shoura grimaced. “I’m fine. Just go look for Mic or something.”
“But—“
“I’m irritated and tired, Shigaraki. Talk to me in the morning.”
Shigaraki doesn’t say anything else and Shouta skulks past him to get to the bathroom across the hall.
After he’s done cleaning himself up (and wiping off his stomach), he rushes back to his room, making sure the hallway is clear. Chatter erupts from downstairs and Shouta can barely make out the sound of Twice’s shrieking and Toga’s laugh. At least they’re keeping themselves occupied.
Shouta enters his room and closes the door behind himself, then sighs. He looks up and Hizashi is right where Shouta left him.
“Shigaraki’s lookin’ for you,” Shouta says with a shrug. “It’d look suspicious if you came out of my room. Go find an excuse and find him.”
“Aw, okay,” Hizashi sighs, grabs his pants from the floor and slips them on. “Will you be okay?”
Shouta snorts. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Hizashi’s eyes narrow. “If you need me—“
“I’m fine,” Shouta scowls. The idea of needing Present Mic? It makes his skin crawl. He doesn’t need to rely on anyone. “Go find Shigaraki before he crumbles these walls down.”
“Right! Right, okay.” Hizashi hops on his feet and grins before taking his leave.
When the door closes, Shouta comes to a little realization of his own. Something small but just noticeable in his chest. With not another second wasted, he crawls back into bed with a soft sigh and the hope that Present Mic will stop making him feel like jelly.
Shouta’s started to smoke in the lounge when he’s alone.
Bad habit, he knows, but he can’t help it. Everything inside of him is itchy and a cigarette is the only way he can scratch that itch. Kurogiri doesn't say anything, so Shouta continues to smoke inside when everyone is out. Including Mic, who’s consistently been tagging along with the others.
It leaves Shouta alone back at the bar with Kurogiri, who keeps staring at him. Maybe Mic was right. Kurogiri does have a bit of a staring problem.
“Did something happen?”
Shouta huffs as smoke lingers in the air, pen in one hand and the cigarette in the other. There are more papers sprawled underneath him. The next big mission is infiltrating a camp and kidnapping a specific student, but Shouta’s mind is too preoccupied to pay attention.
“What?” Shouta’s head snaps up towards Kurogiri.
“You’re smoking inside,” Kurogiri remarks.
“And?”
“…Nothing,” Kurogiri turns to wipe down the other side of the bar. If Shouta knew any better, he’d think Kurogiri was actively trying to avoid him. “Shigaraki is going to be upset.”
“He can deal with it,” Shouta huffs as he puts the stick back into his mouth, dangling it between teeth. Eyes scan over notes and he sighs in content. Smoke slips through the gaps from his lips to the cigarette and he pulls it out. “We can continue physical combat again.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Kurogiri asks. Shouta’s eyes narrow.
“Why are you asking?” Shouta shoots, then scoffs. “You don’t ask me what and what isn’t considered a good idea.”
Kurogiri squints. “I apologize.”
“Don’t apologize,” Shouta sighs, putting his pencil down. At least Shouta understands when and when not to show respect, unlike Shigaraki. “Why do you think it’s not a good idea?”
“Last time we did physical combat, Compress broke two of his ribs and Toga broke her ankle.”
“Well, that’s why we’re not doing it the same way we had done it last time,” Shouta grins a little as he looks over his notes one last time. He did this. And it will work. “I’ll be taking notes and keeping a keen eye on everyone this time.”
“How will it work?”
“Everyone gets paired up with someone. I specifically paired up those whose fighting styles are different so I can see their flaws and help them out,” Shouta explains, tapping a finger down on the paper. “Hand to hand combat. Nothing more.”
“Hm.” Kurogiri squints. It reminds Shouta of a cat. “May I watch?”
“Yeah,” Shouta says mindlessly, turning back towards the papers to give them one last lookover before standing up. He turns his attention to Kurogiri and something warm inside of his chest settles. “I appreciate your feedback, Shirakumo.”
Kurogiri squints again. His tell for when he’s smiling, or at least that’s what Shouta thinks.
“Thank you, Eraserhead,” Kurogiri replies.
When the group gets back, Shouta runs through training with them, who they’re going to be paired with. It’s a simple exercise, something he recalls doing during his first year at UA. Despite the school's less-than-stellar reputation in the villain scene, Shouta hates to admit how much valuable information he kept locked up inside of his brain. He remembers in the beginning of his second year being put up against a blonde boy in his class during a sparring exercise. It was a close fight but he won and made a terrible attempt at hiding the tears in his eyes. When that boy hit him so hard in the nose, he had to go to the nurse’s.
Shouta would take a broken nose over the loss of that fight any day.
There were a few complaints flown around the bar but Shouta paid them no attention. Their incessant bickering was obvious and ongoing, and Shouta’s already accepted that part about the group of misfits he was being forced to look over.
If anything, the ones he truly got along with were Magne and Compress. Compress had a specific way with how he viewed the world, and Magne had more than enough stories to tell about her past that entranced Shouta. He liked them the most.
Then there was Present Mic.
In all honesty, Shouta still isn’t quite sure what exactly he’s supposed to do or say to him. Mic extrudes blinding confidence and a voluminous mouth with that directional speaker clasped around his neck. He’s fallen into the great graces of everyone here. Toga and Twice loved chatting up a storm with him, piercing shrieks, bickering, and laughter. But with others, such as Compress and Magne, he’d be able to quiet down significantly, as if the directional speaker and his hair pulled up were different pairs of similar masks.
His push and pull made Shouta’s head spin. And now he won’t even look at Shouta, much less speak to him. Shouta wasn’t going to force it. If Mic didn’t want to talk to him after what had happened a few days ago, then he was going to accept it, whether he liked it or not. No matter how many cigarettes he burned, no matter how sluggish and tired he felt even after being incapable of falling asleep due to his insomnia, he would accept Present Mic’s proposition.
Actions have always spoken louder than words, after all. If Mic wasn’t going to talk to him, Shouta won’t force it. He’ll just continue hooking up with him, because as much as he hates to admit it, Shouta is needy for attention and Mic gives it to him beautifully.
Kurogiri takes the group out into a clearing far away from the city. The sun’s shining brightly in the spring weather and there’s a cold breeze that bites at Shouta to take a cigarette out. But they don’t know his bad habit. He doesn’t plan on telling anyone anyway, even if he’s seen Dabi and Compress smoke a handful of times together. Shigaraki and Toga both despise the smell, despise how bitter it is, which Shouta finds satisfying enough to keep them away from the cancer sticks.
The fights begin, one by one, and Shouta is quietly watching all of them, sitting under a tree for the additional shade. Kurogiri stands silently next to him, making small comments about certain fighting styles and reaction times. Everyone is civil but aggressive with their attacks and Shouta has to remind Toga on multiple occasions not to use her nails to claw out anyone’s eyes.
The sun is setting by the time everyone’s battered and out of breath. He goes over the notes, announcing them like he’s some type of referee.
Then, “why don’t you fight, Eraserhead?”
Everyone snaps towards the sound of the voice; Present Mic. Shouta narrows his eyes. Is this really how he wanted to speak to him after avoiding him for days?
Well, not speak to him. Speak at him, like Shouta was below him. Fucking asshole.
“This isn’t about me,” Shouta replies easily, clearing his throat, then eyeing the papers in his hands again. But his hands are fucking trembling and he hasn’t realized how dry his mouth’s gotten until his Adam’s apple bobs and he swallows the thick lump in his throat.
“You haven’t fought once!” Mic complains, crossing his arms like he’s a child. “Come on, you gotta fight too.”
“This exercise was for all of you to improve your abilities,” Shouta repeats. Frustration boils inside of his skull as he squeezes his eyes closed, then opens them again. Something he’s found himself doing more and more whenever his fingers are itching to reach into his pocket and pull out that familiar box.
“It would be good to improve your abilities, too. Training’s for everyone, after all,” Mic grins and Shouta wants to punch him square in between his eyes and shatter that tacky pair of orange sunglasses.
Everyone echoes his concern and before Shouta knows it, Twice and Toga are chanting ‘Eraser, Eraser, Eraser!’ in unison.
“It would be good to know where you are at in terms of your training, Eraserhead,” Shouta hears Kurogiri say. “I will take notes for you if you’d like.”
“Fine,” grumbles Shouta, shoving the papers into Kurogiri’s chest. “Who the hell am I going to fight?”
“Me, obviously.” Mic takes a few steps forward until he’s only about half a metre away from Shouta.
Something heavy burns in Mic’s eyes, a twisted smile on his face, pupils obscured by the sunset lenses. Nothing Shouta remembers from that night.
“Fine,” Shouta replies simply, then adjusts his capture scarf. It would only make sense to keep it on during hand-to-hand combat so that on the off chance he can’t use it, he can at least know what to expect when he does have it wrapped around his neck with no chance to pull it off and send it flying.
Plus, Shouta would never admit it out loud, but that stupid bruise hasn’t faded yet and everyone would gawk. He doesn’t owe it to them but he knows them well enough to the point where they’d come up with their own crazy conspiracies.
The group clears out, giving Shouta and Mic enough space to work with. Shouta parts his legs, one hand behind him and the other one outstretched. He’s been in enough fights to know how one works, how to gain the upper hand and win one.
But Mic knows, too. Applying his knowledge from his time as a pro-hero and the lack of a speaker around his neck, he’s lighter and faster. Shouta noticed it upon his first fight with Twice; they’re both quick on their feet but Mic plays dirtier, angrier.
“Go easy on me, alright?” Mic says, putting his hands to his knees and swaying back and forth as if he’s stretching. “I’m already sore from earlier.”
Shouta doesn’t entertain his joke, so he takes a deep breath to compose himself and focus on the anger welling up inside of his chest, a black hole that takes, and takes, and takes, and never gives. “Count us in, Kurogiri.”
The two get into position, and as soon as Kurogiri shouts, they’re off.
Shouta acts first, fast, eyes wide and calculating. Even though Mic's quick, Shouta’s strong.
The first punch comes in and Shouta barely avoids it. He moves out of the way, adrenaline pumping hot through his veins, and grabs Mic’s wrist. His grip is bruisingly strong as he tries to hold the taller man in place, but his feet stumble and he’s only able to pull Mic through the gap as his grasp falters.
Fuck.
Shouta’s back on his feet though and barely has time to recover when Mic kicks his feet below him, letting him crash down onto the grass with barely any time to process what’s happening. Weight presses down onto him as he sits right on top of Shouta, and Shouta’s pressed in between Present Mic and the overgrown grass.
Heat rushes to his face, practically a ticking timebomb about to go off inside of his head, and he scowls at Mic. Something pulses in his stomach and then in between his legs and it only fuels his justified anger hotter.
“Fuck you,” Shouta spits. The hand he’s about to lift is suddenly pinned down against the grass and he winces at the sudden pain that shoots through his forearm.
Mic doesn’t say anything. Shouta can’t read him, can’t read familiar green eyes obscured by glasses. He squeezes his eyes again, and just as Kurogiri is about to call off the match, he kicks Mic off of him and scrambles to his feet less than eloquently, parting his legs and raising his fists in another stance.
“Aw,” Mic chimes. This is his chance to finally fulfil that fantasy which has been swirling around in his head for days now. He gets to punch the shit out of Mic and he’s not letting this opportunity slip right past him. “Doesn’t this remind you of last week?”
Shouta’s heart drops right into his stomach, a bucket into a well. “Fuck off, Mic.”
The chance to elaborate is lost on Mic when Shouta moves, quicker than Mic’s mouth, and his fist collides with Mic’s nose.
Crack!
Mic staggers back as his hands clasp over his nose, crimson red pouring out of his nostrils and down his chin. The glasses are skewed, crooked, and his eyes aren’t obscured anymore.
He’s wide eyed, a weird mixture of panic and fear, as he holds his gushing nose. Shouta stares back and shakes his dominant hand with a grimace.
There’s someone talking - he isn’t quite sure from who - to him, as Magne and Twice move to check on Mic’s possibly shattered nose.
“EraserHead.”
Shouta blinks hard, then looks over his shoulder to see Kurogiri. “It’s time to go. We can treat Present Mic’s nose in the bar with the appropriate tools.”
When everyone is back in the bar thanks to Kurogiri’s warp gate, Shouta’s staring at his already bruising knuckles as his heart races. He glances up to see Mic sitting on the other side of the bar, Toga, Magne, and Twice all talking to him while Kurogiri cleans him up and sets his nose in place.
Shigaraki and Spinner are in a corner, chatting up a storm, but they’re both glancing back at Shouta and then at each other. Shouta can only assume they’re talking about him. Whatever.
One of the ground rules Shouta set was strict and simple; don’t do any bodily harm to your opponent. It was Shouta’s rule and he broke it in a fit of childish rage.
Shouta might be bad at reading expressions and social cues, but his comrades reeked of fear.
How did he let his anger get so out of hand? Shouta doesn’t do anger like that. He’s silent when he’s angry. Scowls and glares have become a staple of the EraserHead name. If he wanted to hit someone, he’d find the closest D-Tier hero patrolling a quiet area and fuck him up good. The exhilaration couldn’t compare.
“Hey.”
His head snaps towards the raspy, deep voice. Dabi’s standing right next to him, holding out a box of cigarettes. Not the brand he usually buys, but he’s been chewing on a small old scar on the inside of his mouth that’s starting to bleed again. He needs something inside of his mouth or he thinks he’s going to punch someone else.
“Not here,” Shouta replies, then motions for the balcony door upstairs. Dabi stares at him like he’s just said the stupidest fucking thing ever, then decides to take the lead. They’re sitting closest to the door that leads upstairs to the rooms, so they sneak past everyone without catching anyone’s attention.
As soon as they’re stepping on that balcony, Shouta is roughhousing with the cigarette box, pulling one out and pulling a lighter out of his pocket before Dabi can offer him his own.
“God, you’re desperate,” Dabi mumbles beneath his breath. He snags the box from Shouta’s hand and pulls out his own cigarette with more nonchalance. “Gimme.”
Using the scalding heat from his own cigarette, Shouta presses the end of his own to Dabi’s. As soon as Shouta detects the burn spreading to Dabi’s cigarette, he puts his own inside of his mouth and inhales softly. Warmth spreads throughout his body, a stinging reminder of what happened today and he lets the cigarette sit in his mouth for a moment, leaning against the concrete wall behind him and sliding his hands into his pocket.
Though, Dabi’s also never been one to beat around the bush, because he quickly asks, “the hell happened to you today?” as the smoke slips past his lips, wisping away with the question carried through the gentle breeze. The cancer stick sits idly in between his pointer and middle finger as he awaits an answer like he’s owed one.
“Mic pisses me off,” Shouta says after taking the cigarette out of his mouth. Similarly to Dabi, the smoke also falls past his lips. “Doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up.”
“You were the one to insist none of us hurt each other,” Dabi comments and Shouta wishes it was this glorified edgy manchild he punched instead of Mic.
“I got carried away. Didn’t mean to hurt him,” which technically is true. Wanting to hurt Mic isn’t the same as intending to hurt Mic. The loopholes Shouta jumps through are akin to a circus act.
“Right,” Dabi chuckles incredulously. “Punched him so hard you shattered his nose and yet you didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“Out of everyone today, you were the second last.”
“What?”
“Out of everyone here today,” Shouta enunciates his words like he’s speaking down to a child who didn’t hear him the first three times. “You were one of the worst when it came to hand-to-hand combat.”
Dabi does a terrible job at hiding the scowl that paints his face blue. “...Who was last?”
It was Spinner, but Shouta didn’t want to grant Dabi the satisfaction. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he grins.
“Fuck off,” the younger man grimaces. “I offer you a smoke and this is how you repay me?”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Shouta is lately repeating himself more often than not, “and I don’t owe you anything.”
“Fuck you, old man.”
Shouta grins wider. Getting under Dabi’s skin is always a fun game. He’s easy to rile up. “Thirty isn’t that old.”
Dabi doesn’t say anything else before he stomps out his perfectly good cigarette and storms off the balcony and back down towards the bar.
Shouta’s left to his own devices once more. He smokes the rest of the cigarette in silence, letting his thoughts fade away with the smoke that gets caught in the breeze and carried away. Though, the guilt coils inside of his stomach like that familiar snake he desperately wants to rip out still won’t leave him alone.
He stomps out his own cigarette and goes back inside, mind much clearer thanks to the fresh air and the cigarette. The bar has fallen back into gentle chatter, but Dabi is nowhere to be found. From the other side of the bar, Mic has fallen into quiet chatter with Magne. His hair is still slicked up but he’s missing the black leather jacket, the headphones, and the cracked glasses. There’s a white bandage that sits across his nose and it sends a spear through Shouta’s chest.
Fuck. He looks just like Shirakumo. From the corner of his eye, he spots Shouta and glances at him.
Then he smiles and Shouta’s brain combusts.
Why the fuck is he smiling? He shouldn’t be smiling. He should be fuming, tearing apart at the seams, angry at Shouta for not only breaking a rule but also breaking his fucking nose. Yet he’s smiling like Shouta’s done nothing wrong and it makes him burn red in the face. From anger, humiliation, or a secret third thing- he isn’t sure.
Shouta turns on his heel and heads to his room. He can deal with everything tomorrow. He’s always been good at removing himself from a situation when things become too much. He’s doing it again.
The League would probably function better without him, anyway. Kurogiri will help. Kurogiri always helps. All Shouta does is fuck everything up.
By the time he slams his door closed, he’s tearing off his capture scarf and then his utility belt, and then he’s shucking his clothes off like they’re a stain on his body. An imperfection on a perfectionist’s painting.
He doesn’t think his relationship with Mic will ever be normal again and Shouta wants to shut his own mind off. At least until he can accept that Mic will always be weird and mean and condescending, threatening to tell everyone Shouta’s secret. His interactions with everyone else is nothing more than a coat of paint. Screw Shouta’s title of perfectionist- he’s never cared about things being perfect. He only cares if they’re effective and if they work. Mic’s the damn perfectionist- getting everyone to like him, to appeal to their tastes and interests.
Present Mic is an enigma. Present Mic is a perfectionist. Present Mic doesn’t want anything to do with Eraserhead anymore.
Shouta isn’t sure how long he sits under his blankets for, but the shuffling outside of his bedroom and the hushed chatter are telling. Everyone is going to bed. Shouta unfortunately isn’t.
He isn’t sure how long he sits there for, but it’s enough for his fingers to get all fidgety and yearn for another cigarette, so he climbs out of bed, only wearing that sports bra that alleviates some dysphoria but serves as a constant reminder that he’ll never really live in the body he wants to, and shorts that are a size too small for him. Still, they fit and that’s good enough. He doesn’t have the money or time to get new clothes anyway.
As he’s shuffling through the pockets of his pants, a knock at the door halts his movement. He scowls, throwing the pants to the floor and grabs his sweater in replacement of it. He slips it on quickly and barely has time to pull down the hem before he twists the knob.
And who stands there is none other than Present Fucking Mic.
The air in Shouta’s lungs disappears, along with any words, as he stares at the man in front of him. His hair is tied up into that familiar bun and he’s wearing a regular black shirt that falls past his thighs (not like Shouta was looking). The bandage sitting over his crooked nose is a reminder of Shouta’s bruising fist.
“Can I come in?” he asks. Shouta is opening the door wider before he can ponder the question.
Mic takes a weary step inside, and as soon as the door is closed, Shouta opens his mouth to form some type of apology that could dissipate the burning shame in his stomach, but Mic beats him to it.
“I’m sorry,” he sputters, bowing his head. Shouta blinks hard and he finds it difficult to form coherent thoughts.
So he spits out a soft yet flabbergasted, “what.”
“I’m sorry for saying all of that stupid shit when we were sparring,” Hizashi - not Mic - rambles, talking with his hands. Shouta can’t stop himself from staring at him, mouth agape. “I talk without really thinking about it and I thought it’d be funny since no one really understood the context, but I would’ve talked to you about it afterwards. I’m pretty good at lying out of my ass. I think it comes with the experience of being a radio show host–”
“Hizashi, shut the fuck up,” Shouta interrupts. He pinches his brows together. “I’m sorry for breaking your nose.”
“Oh, dude!” Hizashi stifles a laugh and Shouta wonders why he isn’t angry. Is he making fun of him? “That’s totally fine. I kinda deserved it.”
“Then-” Shouta’s hand falls to his hip, before he realizes how incredibly lesser-masculine that might look to him, so he lets his arms idle by his sides awkwardly. “Why were you ignoring me? Fuck, do you realize how scared I was?”
He doesn’t think he’s ever admitted to something like that, but he still says it because if he doesn’t now, he doesn’t think he ever will. “I thought I fucked up after the night you slept here. I–I like you, and I don’t want to fuck this up. But you made me feel like I fucked up for days. Stop getting inside of my head like that and stop acting like a fucking child. Stop ignoring me.”
Judging by his wide eyes and his straightened shoulders, Hizashi’s awed. Then he hunches over a little to curl into himself and he averts his gaze under those same red frames and says, ”I didn’t know how else to speak to you.”
“So you just decided not to speak to me at all?” Shouta crosses his arms in offense. “You either talk to me or we don’t fucking- I don’t-”
He’s stammering over his words again. What is he supposed to call them? They’re not partners, they’re not lovers. Shouta’s only seen the head of Hizashi’s cock, while Hizashi has made Shouta orgasm too many times for comfort.
“I’m sorry,” Hizashi repeats louder. “I thought I took it too far last time. I got scared.”
That’s new information to chew on. Shouta’s eyes narrow. “Scared?”
Hizashi dips his head into a nod. “I, uh. I haven’t been in a relationship like this since before I lost my hero license. I felt like I pushed it and I was afraid you didn’t like it. I think your lack of experience scared me. Made me think you weren’t gonna tell me you were uncomfortable with what I was doing. I can’t let you do that.”
“Hizashi-” Shouta wants to scream. “-listen to me very fucking carefully.”
He takes a deep breath to compose himself, to make sure he isn’t grabbing at Hizashi’s collar and shouting at him. Instead, he slips his hands into his sweater pockets and balances his weight on both of his legs. He looks conventionally masculine enough, he supposes.
“I will tell you if I don’t like what you do to me. Got it? I will say something and I trust you enough to stop,” Shouta frustrates. He’s rambling and he’s more than aware. It’s like he needs to get his thoughts out, otherwise Hizashi will leave again. This’ll be his only opportunity to do something like this. He needs to take it. “Fuck, you’re the person I trust the most out of the whole group. Aside from Kurogiri. So you need to trust me too, otherwise we can’t- we can’t continue to do whatever the hell you wanna call us.”
The heaviness that once settled deep in Shouta’s chest was finally waning. Hizashi lets out an exasperated sigh and he sits down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t just… I want to get to know you, Eraser.”
Shouta’s knees want to give out. Instead, he joins Hizashi on the bed, sitting next to him with a comfortable couple of inches away from each other. Good. This is placid, better than what they had before.
“You should’ve thought of that before ignoring me.”
“I don’t wanna fuck up.”
“Either you fuck up trying or you don’t try at all. Pick one.”
Hizashi stares at Shouta, then laughs, then winces at the pain shooting through his face. Despite the dull ache in his nose and in his head, he still manages a strained smile that has nothing hidden behind it. The same smile from before, from when Hizashi caught Shouta’s glance across the bar.
“You’re good at getting to the point.”
Well, yeah. The blush on his face speaks wonders, after all. “I don’t like beating around the bush,” Shouta shrugs, averting his eyes. “You wanted to get to know me.”
“I do,” Hizashi cements. Maybe it’s Shouta’s dry eye that’s making him see things, but Hizashi is leaning in ever so slightly. “I know you said you don’t have any hobbies, but I’m sure you have interests. Something you like. Something you like talking or thinking about.”
“Cats.”
The smile that raptures Hizashi’s lips only causes the burn in Shouta’s cheeks to grow. “You like cats!”
The corner of his lip tugs upwards as Shouta lifts an elbow up to an ear to hide the burn that reaches up there. He blushes easily and he hates it. “I do like cats.”
“Why?”
“Oh, uh,” Shouta fiddled with the hem of his shirt again. All the attention is on him. Again. “Well. I guess they’re, uh, kind of like me.” His voice has hushed to a bare whisper, just enough for Hizashi to hear him.
“I can see the distinction,” Mic grins. “Both of you like belly rubs.”
If Shouta’s face wasn’t on fire then, it was definitely on fire now. He hikes his shoulders higher to his ears as his head snaps at Hizashi with furrowed brows and wide eyes. “You keep your mouth shut.”
A laugh escapes Hizashi, quiet and high. Aware enough for the sake of the people around him. “It’s true.”
“You will go to your grave with that one, Mic,” Shouta threatens. Now Hizashi can really see the resemblance between the two.
“Sure,” Hizashi shrugs Shouta off and it’s enough to have him relax his shoulders from his ears. “Other than the belly rubs, I totally see the resemblance!” Shouta burns brighter at those stupid words.
“Uh huh,” Shouta says, half sarcastic and the other half wanting to egg Hizashi on, to hear what he’s going to say next.
“Cats are quiet and jittery- but, like, in a good way, ya dig?” explains Hizashi, waving his hands in the air. He reminds Shouta of a cartoon character. “Cats know what they want and how to get it. They’re calculated.”
Shouta doesn’t think he’s ever been complimented like that before. Being compared to a cat is odd, sure, but it’s right up Hizashi’s alley of oddity. Plus the warmth that washes over Shouta isn’t going to be another thing added to the growing list of things wrong with today.
“Thanks,” Shouta rasps and internally wants to slap himself when his voice comes out wobbly and a quarter of the way broken. “How, uh. How about you?”
“Aw, is the feared underground villain EraserHead asking me questions about myself?” Hizashi muses, leaning in more. Not to do anything that’d get him smacked across the face, but rather to tease. Right up in Shouta’s face with that smug little grin. “What do you wanna know?”
“Uh.” Fuck, Shouta didn’t think this far. He’s never been a talker, much less with someone who actually knows how to carry a conversation. It’s never been in his blood. “Yourself. I guess.”
“Well, my name is Present Mic,” the blonde starts. He pushes away to put a hand on his chest like he’s reciting a monologue he’s memorized for the local neighbourhood theatre group. “I used to be a pro hero, but my license got suspended. I used to run a radio show, but I think you know that already.”
“I do,” confirms Shouta, pulling away. “I do research on everyone. To make sure they aren’t playing us the way some other assholes have in the past.”
“So you must know all about me,” Hizashi muses.
“Not all,” Shouta reminds. “Just the things I’ve found on the internet. I know you lost your hero license after bringing an occupied apartment building down in the crossfire of a villain attack. The media hounded you.”
Hizashi scratches the back of his head, moving alongside his bun as he chuckles. “Guilty.”
“...It was an accident, right?”
There’s a distinct difference between folks like Shouta, who want to change the world due to the gross empowerment heroes have (and it’s something he taught Shigaraki growing up), and then there're folks who don’t have a semblance of empathy for anyone, even civilians. So Shouta finds himself justified in asking.
But the horror crossing Hizashi’s face tells a different story. “Fuck- no. Who do you take me for? I don’t- I didn’t mean to hurt them. They got caught in the crossfire and I tried to save them.”
“I believe you did,” Shouta says softly, a heavy juxtaposition from Hizashi’s initial panic. “I watched the interviews. I don’t understand why you lost your hero license over it.”
“Some of the League don’t like me very much because I used to be a hero,” Hizashi admits softly, “but I get it. I used to be a hero before everything blew up. Just took me the extra steps to realize how nasty the hero world was.”
“Their opinion is bullshit,” huffed Shouta, crossing his arms and pressing back onto the mattress. He scoots a little further, sitting on the sleeping bag and crosses his legs as well. “You were fighting those damn journalists.”
“And they wouldn’t fuck off!” Hizashi wanted to shout, but he broke out into a stage whisper instead. “I swear, you punch one journalist after they ask you the dumbest question of your fucking life, and suddenly the internet thinks you’re a monster.”
“Media has a way of doing that,” Shouta says, matching Hizashi’s cadence. “Twisting the narrative, painting us as terrible people. It’s not black and white. They just don’t understand that because they’re so blinded by the shiny hero world. You’re not a monster, Hizashi.”
At first, the words threaten to fly over Hizashi’s head and out of the cracked window. But then the corners of his lips curve upwards and he’s doing that stupid smile, the one where his dimples are barely visible but just enough for Shouta to notice, and how the lines in his cheek deepen slightly.
“Thanks, Shouta,” Hizashi sighs and also leans back onto the bed. “I appreciate it.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not judging you for being an ex-pro hero. You were still a hero in the public eye.”
“Understandable.” The smile morphs into something more malicious. “But you were havin’ a kick out of it, right? Researching me ‘n’ all that jazz?”
“You graduated from UA High,” Shouta remarks. He folds through the memories, which he has catalogued the research he did on Present Mic before speaking to Kurogiri and Shigaraki about letting the cockatoo looking motherfucker in. “You started your radio show eight years ago and you went under fire for a collapsed apartment building that wasn’t in the range of the villain about two years ago. Now you make a name for yourself as the ex-pro hero who was wronged by society.”
Hizashi’s smile only grows wider. “You really have done your research.” He shifts to properly face Shouta and get more comfortable on the twin sized mattress. “Tell me, then… What was the name of my radio show?”
The reply comes as easy as breathing to Shouta. His readied memory has him prepared for this and the rabbit hole he went down when he was doing research on someone as famous as Present Mic lasted the rest of the night, until the birds were chirping outside of his bedroom window. “Put Your Hands Up, Radio. It ran every Friday morning, from one to five.”
“Oh, what did I talk about?”
“Hero life,” Shouta leans back. “Pop culture. You used to have guests on your show, too.”
“Hell yeah, I did,” Hizashi sighs, tension in his shoulders fading away. “I miss it.”
“I can imagine. Your viewers loved you.”
“Now they hate me.” Hizashi returns to Shouta's gaze. “But hey, I met you and the League, and I’ve learnt so much more about villains. A lot of them are pushed into this position because they don’t have another choice.”
“Only took you- what, twenty nine years?”
“Thirty!” Hizashi grins. “I turned thirty earlier this year.”
“Right,” Shouta says. Then a lightbulb must’ve gone off in his head, because his head shoots towards Hizashi as he asks, “and you went to UA?”
“Yup.”
No. That’s not right.
“I went to UA too,” Shouta admits, not really giving his confession too much thought because there are more pressing matters to attend to. “It was only for two years. Did you- did you know Shirakumo? Shirakumo Oboro.”
Shouta hopes to hear no. Shouta hopes that maybe the remains of Shirakumo’s memory died that day, but Hizashi’s lips pressed together so tightly and his brows knitted are telling Shouta a different story. A story he doesn’t like the ending of.
“Remember when I told you I had that nightmare?” Hizashi asks timidly. He still doesn’t meet Shouta’s gaze. “The nightmare was about him.”
Fuck.
“Did we know each other in school?” Hizashi asks genuinely, softly, because it’s a good question.
“…You look recognizable. Maybe?”
“Does Yamada ring a bell?”
The silence that ensues is so unbearably long that Hizashi starts to squirm under Shouta's intense glare. What’s worse; Shouta doesn’t blink. He doesn’t blink regularly (due to the regular usage of his quirk), but his stare is so aggressive, it feels like he’s digging deep inside of Hizashi to figure out every little detail. Reading his mind, his memories, flipping through his thoughts like a damn book.
“You’re that Hizashi?” Shouta asks, mostly in disbelief. He eyes the hair, then buries his face into his hands. “Holy shit, how hadn’t I seen it?”
“You did know me!” Hizashi shrieks and Shouta swats him like an annoying bug to quiet down. “The hair didn’t give it away?”
“I didn’t talk to you often,” Shouta retorts. “I only knew of you through Shirakumo.”
“Did I know you?”
Well, Hizashi already knows Shouta's secret. It wouldn’t hurt to tell.
He starts with a big breath. “Aizawa.”
Hizashi’s response is quicker, when he gasps and shoves his finger right into Shouta’s face. “You went missing after our work studies!”
Shouta falls into a solemn silence, mostly because this means he has to explain how he ended up here.
“This is what you were doing?” He motions upwards, to the rest of the room.
But then it hits Shouta; Yamada ‘Present Mic’ Hizashi doesn’t know of Kurogiri- doesn’t know what happened to the remains of Shirakumo. A secret Shouta hadn’t even realized he was harbouring inside himself.
“After Shirakumo died,” Shouta pauses to collect his thoughts, then continues; “I couldn’t stay.”
“So you joined the League? I feel like you skipped a few steps,” Hizashi says, and even if it’s intended to come off as some type of playful quip, Shouta shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The sleeping bag pinned underneath him shuffles while he settles enough to have Hizashi notice. “You say it best yourself; you don’t owe me anything.”
“I owe you something after I broke your nose,” Shouta murmurs.
“Nah, I deserved that,” Hizashi grins.
“Thanks for not being weird.”
The grin on Hizashi’s face widens into something more delicate. “Of course. So, uh, what have you been up to for the last fifteen years?”
This must be the first time he’s ever been asked that question. “Alongside Kurogiri, I’m Shigaraki’s caretaker.”
“So nothing but taking care of him? Damn, the villain scene seems a lot more boring that I would’ve taken it for.” Hizashi seems amused.
Shouta glares hard. He’s not sure about those implications, but he decidedly ignores them. For now. “Kurogiri was… out of commission for the first few years-” Shirakumo was incredibly stubborn when it came to turning him into a Nomu and Shouta notices Hizashi’s eyebrow raise at the implications. “-So I took care of him instead. It got easier when Kurogiri came around.”
“You were, what, sixteen, when you went missing? Seriously, the media was going insane over you. UA’s reputation was in the dumpster for a while.”
“Tried to cover it up to save their damn reputation,” Shouta scowls at the memory of his name slowly disappearing from the papers and the news. They stopped talking about the untimely death of Shirakumo Oboro and the disappearance of that girl who went on that work study.
Theories flew around the city for some time. It’s not everyday a UA student dies in a freak accident and then their friend disappears alongside them. Eventually, Shouta’s disappearance was racked up as a death by the media. The case goes cold and Shouta’s no longer alive in the eyes of the hero world.
It’s not like Shouta had a lot going for him before Shirakumo died on that work study. He only got into the hero course on recommendation and wasn’t even planning on going. He remembers some of the teachers whispering about his wasted potential, how he could be so much better than what he currently is if he had only applied himself.
“Meeting Shirakumo really helped,” Shouta murmurs. Fuck, he’s too inside of his head again. “Helped me realize how effective my quirk could be.”
“Dude, I remember your ass getting beat by Shirakumo during the first sports festival.”
Shouta winces at that memory. Yikes. Not the greatest look for him, when he was preparing to pry his eyes open to erase Shirakumo’s quirk and shove him out of bounds, then quickly ended up finding out Shirakumo’s hand-to-hand combat skills. Afterwards, Shouta sat on a bench, watching the festival with an ice pack to his cheek and an aching black eye after that.
But then Shirakumo sat right next to him during intermission, and he grinned widely and put his hand out and told Shouta he had done great. Nothing about his wasted potential or what he could’ve done to be better.
Just a simple, “hi! Aizawa, right? You did amazing! Your quirk is absolutely sick! Seriously, I’ve never seen something like it.”
Shouta kept his eyes glued to the floor. Mostly to ignore Shirakumo because he was under the impression he was being subtly made fun of (he’s always struggled with knowing if people were serious or not), but also because he didn’t want the boy who pummelled him in front of millions of people to notice he was flustered over the kind words.
That potential, instead of being funneled towards what society expected of Shouta, was turned towards the depressing reality of the villain world. Shouta has always been aware of the flaws laced in the system, from corrupt heroes who do it for the popularity points, to heroes who truly want to help for the sake of helping, seeing those who are in need and lending a hand.
It’s an odd grey area, Shouta realizes, but he knows the system needs to change. Violence is unfortunately necessary in the world they live in.
“Did Shirakumo ever know?”
Shouta raises an eyebrow, eyes darting towards Hizashi, who’s expectantly staring at him for an answer. How long had they been sitting in that silence for? Shouta can’t be sure. “About what?”
“Your identity,” Hizashi explains, pressing his lips together in a straight line to collect his thoughts. “Being trans. Did he know?”
“Yeah,” Shouta murmurs. “First person I told. He was so… nice about it. Nothing changed, other than his words.”
He never knew how much it meant to Shouta and now he’ll never know. Shouta never got the chance to tell him.
“Yeah, that sounds pretty accurate,” Hizashi chuckles drily, “literally the only guy who tolerated my dumbass in first year.”
“To be fair, he tolerated everyone,” Shouta tacks on, “still have no idea what he saw in me.”
“Oh, you’re selling yourself short. You’re a good person, Shouta.” Hizashi smiles and Shouta’s heart hammers a little harder against his ribcage. “Out of everyone here, I think I understand you the most.”
“You need to stop flattering me,” Shouta murmurs, struggling to find the confidence to look Hizashi in the eye. He’s suddenly grateful for his past-shoulder length hair, a shield to protect his reddening face.
“Nah,” Hizashi sings, “you’re cute when you blush.”
“Fuck off,” Shouta mutters, voice even more hoarse and broken than before. “You’re only saying that because you’ve—“
No. Shouta, come on. You’re not going to say that.
Hizashi quirks an eyebrow at that. “Because I’ve what?”
Well. He’s already in this now. Not to mention, Shouta’s done much, much more embarrassing things with Hizashi. “…Because you’ve had your fuckin’ tongue in me.”
His face burns up and Shouta wonders if Kurogiri’s accidentally set the building on fire. Then, Hizashi starts laughing and Shouta’s face burns even more.
“Stop laughing!” he groans, throwing his hands over his face in an attempt to make himself look smaller, but Hizashi is doubled over, golden hair falling past his shoulders as he laughs into his palm to keep himself quiet.
“No, no, sorry. I—“ he takes a few deep breaths and puts his best poker face on. Still, the indent in the corner of his mouth curled up is set in stone. “It’s just- wow, I wasn’t expecting that from you. I’m not flattering you for sexual favours, y’know. I’m interested in you, Shouta, but that doesn’t mean you have to be interested in me. We can stop all of this if you want—“
“No.” Shouta’s response comes sharp and quick, cutting through the air. He catches his bottom lip in between his teeth and bites hard when he realizes how truly desperate he must’ve come off, if it meant interrupting Hizashi like that. “No, I-I’m interested, too. I, uh…”
He feels like jelly again.
“I like it. I like this.”
Something of a warm smile encompasses Hizashi’s lips.
“Me too.”