Chapter Text
The roar of the crowd was deafening.
The stadium vibrated as the crowd stomped their feet in unison, screaming words of encouragement and agreement with Mic as he rattled through his introduction for Shinsou and Midoriya’s fight. Anyone would strain under the sheer volume attacking their ears, but for Aizawa, it was another level of pain entirely.
He had faced off against the League of Villains one week ago. His body was still covered in bandages to hide the disfigurement that the healing quirks couldn't fix during their first appointment.
He felt like shit. His bones ached. Every breath he took in felt like fire in his lungs. His brain pounded inside his skull in time with each stop of the crowd.
He was familiar with pain as a result of his quirk- he dealt with migraines fairly frequently when he pushed his eyes past their limits. But, for some reason, ever since his head was repeatedly slammed into the ground by a Nomu, the pain felt never-ending, a low pulsation inside his skull that would build until the pain was blinding. He hoped it wasn't permanent damage.
He closed his eyes, taking deep, grounding breaths, trying to block out the cheering of the crowd as the fight began. He was certain he could commentate with his eyes closed for this fight anyway. As the cheers quickly morphed into cries of outrage and confusion, he cracked one eye open. Midoriya stopped mid-attack, his raised fist falling limply at his side as he stared straight ahead blankly.
“What is this?! Class 1-A’s Izuku Midoriya has stopped dead in his tracks! And now he's… walking out of bounds?!” Present Mic yeowled down his microphone, not needing the help of his quirk to make Shouta’s brain rattle inside his skull. “Since when did you start raising quitters, Eraser?” The moustachioed man baits, throwing a dramatic wink his husband's way.
Shouta has known Hizashi for almost twenty years now; he knows when his husband is pushing his buttons to get a rise out of him, and he knows he shouldn't even bother responding. But fuck did that man know what buttons to hit.
With a huff Aizawa grabbed the microphone in front of him, pressing the LIVE button and waiting for it to crackle to life “I don't blame the untrained eyes in the crowd for failing to see it. But if you can't recognize the effects of such an obvious quirk you should hand in your licence Mic,” he sassed back, Hizashi could picture the know-it-all grin that was no doubt hidden under the many layers of bandages.
“Midoriya fell to a stop mid-attack, his eyes are glazed over, and his walk is slow and off-kilter. He's been brainwashed. Any idiot could see that,” he droned into the microphone. Despite his monotone, Aizawa pushed his broken body to lean forward for a better view. Shinsou had piqued Aizawa’s interest in the cavalry battle. He's worked hard independently to achieve highly in the sports festival and transfer to the hero course. But these matches would be the real test of skill. He was smart not to show off any additional skills before they were needed; the less information his opponents knew about his fighting style, the better. Aizawa silently praised the kid, excited to see the rest of his fights.
“Well, folks! The most boring match in sports festival history is about to come to a close, as young Midoriya has reached the out-of-bounds line- OH! BUT WHAT’S THIS?! HE’S STOPPED! Is this a quirk malfunction or is Shinsou playing with his food?!” Yamada commentated, excelling at his job of riling up the crowd. But it was clear what was happening from the panicked shouts that Shinsou was throwing Midoriya's way. This was not part of the plan. “OH! WHAT WAS THAT GUST OF WIND?! IT WAS YOUNG MIDORIYA! BREAKING HIS OWN FINGERS TO BREAK FREE OF SHINSOU’S BRAINWASHING! WHAT A FEAT! WE’RE IN FOR QUITE THE MATCH UP NOW, FOLKS-oh, no. Midoriya has thrown Shinsou out of bounds. MIDORIYA WINS!”
Shame. He could have been interesting. Shouta thought to himself, burrowing down into the plush office chair, closing his eyes for a fifteen-minute nap while they reset the arena, but the nap never came. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the presence hovering too close to his face. Cracking one eye open, he saw Mic hovering nose to nose with him.
“What?” He grunted, the fluorescent white lights in the room boring into his eyes and cutting his patience ever shorter.
“What’dya think of the fight?” Mic asked, green eyes sparking with something Shouta couldn't quite place. It made him wary.
Shouta closed his eyes again. Opting to conserve his energy. “There was no fight.”
To his left, Mic groaned, the sound of wheels spinning and a light thud to his right helped him follow his husband's movements. “You know what I meant,”
Aizawa hummed slightly, collecting his thoughts before he spoke, “Give me a Vicodin if you're going to keep me from my nap,” He heard Hizashis spluttering behind him before the rustling of a bag. The package landed in his lap a few seconds later.
“Come on, I know you were watching him during the cavalry battle,” Hizashis goaded as he pressed a water bottle into Shouta’s free hand.
The black haired man swallowed his pills quickly, “I was disappointed. I was looking forward to seeing his fighting style, but clearly he can't fight.”
Relief flooded Aizawa as he spoke, relaxing into the chair as the fast-acting painkiller kicked in.
“You don't know that!” Hizashis exclaimed, “Midoriya caught him off guard!”
“He caught him off guard when he broke out of the brainwashing. Then he ran across the arena- Shinsou didn't even put up his hands. He has no technique. Without that, he’ll never succeed,” The black haired man pointed out.
“I don't know. I seem to remember a Gen Ed kid who fought like shit in my first year sports festival. He succeeded pretty damn well once he got some training,” Hizashi entoned, giving Shouta a knowing look.
Huffing in frustration, he wished his body was back to full strength so he could smack his meathead husband for keeping him from a nap just to make this point.
“I’ll consider it,” He relented, ignoring the rapid, happy taps of feet next to him and the loud, excited clap.
“Yeah, yeah, cool, no pressure!”