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It’s dark out, the sun long since having set. The stars, usually covered by the lights of the city, are actually twinkling. Hizashi stares up at them. He leans back on his palms, long legs sprawled out on the street in front of him. The street lamps lining the corners of the neighborhood are shining brightly, illuminating the area in a distinct blue.
Shouta sits next to him, much more compact. He’s staring at the ground with his knees spread and his body curled over. He blends in perfectly with the darkness, shadows harshly block out his eyes like the messy bangs he never fixes and his thick hair is freely blowing along with the slight breeze. He doesn’t say anything. Neither of them do.
The scene is a bittersweet reminder of their high school days– of sitting together as the sun mourned behind the clouds and the skies turned from a dusty blue to an ugly grey. It’s warmer out this time around. The summer air is softer on them. Hizashi just turned twenty.
He hasn’t seen Shouta in nearly two years, only recalling the dark look on his face when they graduated and the even darker ghost that followed him into the underground. Shouta was always like that, though. Always a wallflower, always a loner, always one to deal with things by himself.
Hizashi had never realized how bad it was. He never realized how alone he was, until they lost the one thing keeping them all together. That day, Hizashi lost both of his best friends, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Shouta spent their remaining time at school training. He always pushed himself too hard. When he was done– when he was laying on the floor, tangled in the weapon of his own creation and desperate to catch his breath after another day overexerting himself– Hizashi was always there with a water bottle and some snacks. Shouta never thanked him. Hizashi never needed thanks. They just sat there, alone, while the world passed them by.
It was enough to convince him that their friendship wasn’t broken, and that they could get through this together. In hindsight, he should’ve known better. At the time, though, he didn’t see Shouta’s determination to stay up all night working, or his complete rejection of intercom training– of answering any call, really, unless it was face to face– as something to be worried about. Hizashi just continued on, trying to comfort his best friend and trying to make sure he never lost anyone again.
Still, Shouta never looked back. Hizashi never made him.
Just like he never made Shouta talk to him before. The classic case of the introverted transfer meeting the class clown comedian. Shouta wanted nothing to do with him, tolerating his presence but never saying anything of substance.
That was fine by him, though. Hizashi has never needed another person to hold a conversation. He’d been planning out his radio show for years, and dealt with his peers publicly shunning him for even longer. Most people don’t like talking to the kid who could accidentally blow out your ear drums. His foster families liked it even less.
But, at his core, Hizashi is an entertainer. He talks when no one listens and hopes that he can make a difference. The support course transfer student who did his all to get into the hero course, and yet he still looked so sad. He always looked like he knew something no one else did, like he carried a burden that no one else could understand the gravity of.
No one, except for Oboro.
Hizashi talked to nothing for years, and continued doing so after Shouta left.
Every night, he’d lay alone. He’d stare up at the ceiling of his apartment, imagining the cotton candy clouds that bleed red no matter what he does. Hands would clutch his phone like a lifeline, like it was the last thing keeping him afloat.
(And maybe it was. It was hard to tell when nothing but meaningless memories felt real anymore. He would smile, he would laugh, he would climb the ranks. He would be fine because he was fine.
He is fine.)
The screen would be on. His contacts would be open. His thumb would hover over the name ‘Eraser :)’. He would call. The line would ring, and ring, and ring.
“This is Aizawa Shouta,” a bored voice would drone, the same voice who left without a goodbye. “If it’s important, leave a message. If it’s not, deal with it yourself. And if it’s Yamada–” there’s a sigh, but Hizashi can hear the affection in it. “–don’t blow up my phone, I’ll call you back later.”
Just like in high school, Hizashi would talk. He’d tell Shouta about his day, about an interview he has coming up, about a costume upgrade, about a funny reddit post he saw. He’d just talk, hoping that someone was listening on the other side.
God, he hopes someone is listening.
He wished Shouta would call back, just like he always promised he would. Hizashi always kept his ringer on, just in case. He waited, and waited, and waited. But Shouta always did prefer the quiet and, surprisingly, Hizashi didn’t mind that.
For a man whose entire identity is his volume, Hizashi cherishes the silence. Lunches spent together on the roof when Oboro and Midnight were tasked with helping out their teachers, class projects when they’re paired in twos ( and when Oboro isn’t there. Hizashi knows that Shouta would pick him instead, but that’s okay too. Whatever makes his friends happy. ), and all the time they spent training each other’s combat and strategic capabilities. Their homeroom liked to pair them together, seeing as Shouta was the only one who could stop Hizashi’s quirk.
So, he likes the quiet and he likes sitting quietly with Shouta even more.
They just sit there, existing within one another’s world.
But he still begged for a phone call. Just one. He just wanted to hear him one last time, make sure that he wasn’t running himself to the ground with no one to supervise him. Hizashi couldn’t care less about himself, he just wanted– just needed to know that Shouta was okay.
“Mic.” Shouta’s voice is barely there, riddled with the shame that Hizashi has spent months agonizing over. Shouta didn’t do anything wrong, never did, but he always blamed himself. He always put himself on the front lines, a self-proclaimed lamb to the slaughter. He isolated and worked himself into dust, so stubborn and desperate for purpose that no one could get through to him.
Well, maybe there was one person. The boy with his head in the clouds, leading Hizashi and Shouta straight into a lion’s den that even the boy wasn’t prepared for, with his big, toothy smile and eyes brighter than the sun. It was a dream-like performance, full of hope and laughter. It was the first time that Hizashi had ever seen Shouta smile. If only they knew how the show would end.
“Eraser.” Hizashi says easily. Nothing’s really changed, he realizes. Shouta is still Shouta, just with more stubble, exhaustion lining his face, and dark eyes stained with a sinister red that hadn’t been there before. His voice is a little different too; a bit deeper, bit more gruff, and distant in a way that Hizashi will likely never understand. But it’s still him. It still proves that he’s here, that he’s okay and he’s alive . Hizashi can’t help the wetness that gathers at his eyes.
“I’m…” Shouta starts, lifting his head and staring up towards the stars. Hizashi tilts his gaze, peering over his glasses and focusing on the starlight reflecting in Shouta’s eyes. His lips press together, an audible sigh coming from his nose.
There’s a sad smile on Hizashi’s face, no less genuine but it’s meant to soothe and comfort more than anything. “I know. It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” Shouta says.
“It’s not,” Hizashi agrees. “But that’s fine too. I’m not gonna hold it against ya.”
There’s a few more minutes of silence, with only their breathing– mostly Hizashi’s, seeing as he’s feeling a bit dizzy from the whole encounter and his quiet counterpart had mastered pure stealth at a startling young age– and the white noise of a sleeping neighborhood to listen to. He can hear Shouta thinking, the whir of his brain as loud as the electricity in the lamps above them.
After three years of friendship, Hizashi likes to think he’s learned to read the other man pretty well. In times like this, though, he just continues staring at him, watching as his eyes try to work out what he wants to say. It’s like watching someone complete a puzzle that’s missing a dozen pieces and has no true solution to it because philosophy is annoying as shit and that seems like the exact thing they’d come up with to fuck with people.
Shouta needs patience, more than anything, and Hizashi can give that to him. He has always been able to and will continue giving him everything he needs. He just wants Shouta to be happy.
“Zashi.”
“Sho.”
Another pause. Hizashi blinks back the dull ache in his head that only seems to grow every time he moves too fast, or looks too close at a light. He’s fading a bit, in and out of being present with Shouta and being stuck in the very memories that he’s spent many nights running from.
“I was going to call you back,” Shouta finally says. “I just– I just couldn’t figure out the words to say. I didn’t know how…”
Hizashi hums, a neutral sound. Shouta’s never been good with words, not like Hizashi. The past two years have been proof of that. While Shouta stalked through the darkness, unable to speak past the pressure in his chest, Hizashi was dazzling those around him.
He went on dates with those convinced that he held the key to everything they ever wanted. He went to all kinds of clubs with all kinds of specialties, learning from so many different kinds of people. He organized more raves and parties than he probably should’ve and has tried pretty much everything anyone had to offer him. He spent most of his nights sleeping with random people he didn’t know the name of, trying to chase a warmth that didn’t exist so he could stop the chill that never left, before leaving the hotel room vacant.
So, he knows. He understands how hard it must be for his friend. Even he’s struggling to know what to say right now and he’s spent his whole life trying to avoid that. Hizashi has so much to say, but he has no idea how to say them without bringing the mood down even more.
“I figured as much. I always knew my favorite listener was tuning in, though. I knew that you’d call me back eventually, when you were ready.” So he lies.
“I’m not like you,” Shouta says, an alarming amount of defeat and self loathing in his tone. “I’m not good like you are. I didn’t– I couldn’t even reach out when you needed me. I’m just–”
“Hey, it’s no sweat, pal.” Hizashi nudges him playfully with his shoulder. “It was a lot to deal with and we all struggled. I don’t blame you for it, and you shouldn’t blame yourself. Shit happens.”
He means it. He’s not angry about it, and he doesn't resent Shouta for leaving him behind. Hizashi would gladly go through it all over again if it meant that Shouta would be okay. Hell, he’d trade his life for Oboro’s any day if it meant they could be happy– if it meant Shouta could experience the love that he deserves.
“You smell like a shitty bar from the red light district,” Shouta says suddenly. The remark is clearly forced, like he doesn’t want to change the subject but he also doesn’t want to address what’s happening. He’s matching Hizashi’s soft smile with one of his own, though, and, oh how lovely a sight that is.
Hizashi also can’t help but laugh. He knows that the alcohol stuck to his breath isn’t the most appealing, and he probably looks like a mess with his hair full of glitter, sticking out wildly from its normally gelled state, and his black leather jacket half falling off him and revealing a white tank top covered in stains from various kinds of alcohol and sweat.
If he’s honest, Hizashi isn’t the most sober right now anyways. He was coming back from a club when he stumbled across his friend, gloomily sitting on the curb outside of his apartment complex. He’s used to being inebriated in some way, though, usually smoking a little too much weed or taking a couple shots past his limit, so he’s still… aware. He knows the picture he makes and he knows that his words are probably slurring a bit too much and his mind is a lot slower than it normally would be (that’s half the reason he does it).
“Nemuri invited me out,” Hizashi says simply, laughter in his voice. “Forgive me if I’m not my usual sexy self. I wasn’t expecting to see my best friend creepin’ outside my place.”
Hizashi wants to continue, wants to crack a few more jokes and see if he could pull another sweet smile from Shouta, but even he doesn’t have the energy for that right now, and goes back to looking at the sky. “It’s pretty tonight,” he comments, nodding up at the crystal clear moon and stars from where it watches above them. It’s a stark contrast to the last time they sat outside like this, when the sky wept harder than both of them combined and Hizashi thought he might never see the shine of his starlight ever again.
“Shirakuma was your best friend too.” Shouta says quietly, scooting towards him so subtly that he barely notices.
“Yeah,” Hizashi sighs. “Yeah, he was.”
Neither of them say anything more, but after a few more minutes, Hizashi feels Shouta’s body against his side, holding on to his arm loosely; testing the waters. Hizashi adjusts himself so he’s sitting up instead of leaning back so the man can rest his head on his shoulder. It’s a silent message of acceptance. A promise. It’s fine, I’m here now .
Shouta just tightens his hold and clings to his arm securely, like he’s afraid to let go. He pushes his face into the crook of Hizashi’s neck, soaking up the contact like a starving man. It’s not very comfortable for either of them. The position is awkward, Shouta’s hero uniform is in the way, and his goggles press into the exposed skin of Hizashi’s arm a little too hard, but it’s still the warmest that Hizashi has felt in almost two years.
They don’t comment on it, or on how this isn’t something that Shouta would’ve done even at the peak of their friendship (though, he had fallen asleep on Hizashi’s chest once, it was the greatest day of his life). They just sit there together, pressed against each other and reveling in the presence of someone who knew, who understood .
One of Shouta's hands gingerly wrap around his wrist, feeling for his pulse. When he finds it, Hizashi can feel the deep breath of relief that he lets out. It seems like they both ached for the reassurance that the other was alive.
Hizashi uses his free hand to pet his best friend, like he’s a lazy cat napping in his lap. Shouta’s hair is oily and full of tangles but he just keeps running his fingers through it, and when he feels Shouta lean into the touch with a shaky breath? Well, you’d have to kill him before he’d ever consider stopping. It’s probably the most gentle anyone has been with the man in years, probably the only time he’s interacted with someone outside of work too.
While Hizashi can admit that his relationships haven’t been the most fulfilling either, at least he still had Nemuri. He still had people, even if they were randoms from a club or just regulars at his parties.
Shouta just went to hell by himself and stayed there, refusing to let anyone follow him into the shadows. The thought makes his heart clench.
It’s quiet again, and probably will be until Hizashi gets tired enough to drag them both inside, but it’s peaceful and he’s content. It feels like he’s back on that rooftop again, laughing with his friends and dreaming of a better life.
There’s no more apologies, no more attempts at humor, no more unnecessary explanations. They’ll talk later, sure, but neither of them need that here, not right now.
He and Shouta simply exist alongside each other, like Mercury revolving the sun. And despite their differences, it works. This is proof of that. After two years, his best friend came back even though Hizashi was so sure he never would.
So, they’ll just sit; quietly, gently in each other’s space. Each touch an unspoken reassurance that they’ll stay, hiding away in the night, until they can’t anymore.
Because sometimes that’s all that you can do.
When he looks back up at the sky again, Hizashi notices there’s a single white cloud drifting among the stars.