#facing another disadvantage of mistaking my own hair brushing against my arm as a Threat and id be scared of it too

[aria0fgold]

The downside of getting vibe checked by reality is now I'm jumpy and think every shadow at the corner of my eye is The Horrors.

[thecitrinefox]

Out of Sight

(for sterek week day 2, scene stealer, from the movie Out of Sight, 3.8k, warning for brief language)

Stiles hates to admit it, but it wasn’t the uniform that distracted him. That’s what he’ll say later, that he’d seen the prison guard uniform and hesitated to shoot because he hadn’t wanted to shoot one of the good guys, no matter what hole under the prison fence they’d just popped out of, but really, it had been Derek Hale’s face, jawline, biceps, general, you know, extreme attractiveness that had distracted him just enough that Vernon Boyd had managed to grab him from behind where he’d snuck up from the guest parking spots. While Stiles was uselessly struggling against Boyd’s iron grip Derek had neatly snagged his shotgun from his hands.

Stiles is not proud of it. But he’s human. He knows a lot of his coworkers have made bigger fuck-ups than this.

Okay, maybe not technically bigger fuck-ups than this. Stiles is in the trunk of his own car driven by a wanted felon, and is basically being spooned by an escaped convict. But things sometimes get crazy in the field. People make mistakes. At least he wasn’t the one who’d let a serial killer go on a paperwork technicality. Things could be worse.

Maybe not by much, but they could be worse. They really could. For example while they had taken away Stiles’s shotgun, they somehow hadn’t thought to check the trunk for possible weapons before Derek had shoved him into it, jumping in behind him. Stiles can feel the box holding the brand new gun his dad had given him for his birthday down by his feet, and if he can get his hands on it, he just might get out of this alive. It’s just out of reach, and not even loaded yet to boot, so at the moment he has to wait. There’s barely enough room to breathe in the trunk, Derek’s big, hot, muscular body draped over him, and there’s no way Stiles could make a sudden movement for the box without Derek noticing and stopping him. Stiles is a good fighter, but in the position he’s been put in, he’s at a distinct disadvantage here.

Stiles takes a moment to miss his jeep. If he’d still had his jeep there would’ve been nowhere for them to hide him and maybe they would have left him behind. Then again maybe they’d have just shoved him into the trunk of whatever car Boyd had shown up in. Probably a stolen one, if the ease with which they’d left it behind indicated. At least being in his own car means they can track it, once they realize Stiles is missing. Although god knows how long that’ll be. Only his dad had known Stiles was heading to the prison that night, trying to see if Deucalion would talk to him if he showed up unannounced, and by the time his dad hears about a prison break and thinks to check in with Stiles they’ll be long gone, and who knows what’ll have happened by then.

Stiles tries to stay calm. Thankfully he’s always been the sort to keep his head in bad situations and freak out about it later, but he has to say it’s easier to do that during an adrenaline rush of a fire fight or foot chase where everything is happening fast. He’s made arrests, gotten in fights, even been shot once, but he’s never been taken hostage before. It’s dark and quiet in the trunk, the hum of the tires on wet asphalt, the distant rumble of the engine and Derek’s quiet breathing in his ear the only sounds. Huffs of warm breath tickle the side of his neck where Derek’s face is pressed against him, his beard surprisingly soft against Stiles’ skin. He has a weird fleeting thought about whether he’ll have beard burn on his neck or check at the end of this. The only light they have is the occasional glimmer of red from the brake light above them, but with Derek behind him and nothing but the dirty trunk floor and the back of the passenger seats in front of him it’s not like there’s anything he needs light to see. But the darkness somehow makes it feel more intimate and a way that Stiles isn’t entirely comfortable with. Derek’s right arm is bent by his head, Stiles’ face cushioned against his bicep, and Derek’s left hand casually resting against Stiles’ thigh, one finger tapping a rhythm against his leg. Stiles resists the urge to squirm into a more comfortable position, or worse, grab onto Derek’s hand to still it.

Derek Hale. Stiles doesn’t think he can be blamed for not immediately recognizing Derek Hale when he’d crawled out of that hole in the ground by the prison wall. First of all Derek had been covered in mud and was wearing a guard’s uniform, and second of all because in person Derek Hale was a lot more attractive than he’d been in the mugshot that Stiles had seen in his file. In the mugshot the lighting had been strange, and Derek had longer shaggier hair and a seventies pornstache. Now his hair is shorter, slicked back a little and he has a full but well kempt beard. Even under the mud he looks like a male model, and Stiles wonders if back when he’d been on the run whether he’d cultivated a less attractive look on purpose because otherwise he attracted too much attention. Hard to remain anonymous when everyone can’t stop staring at your face, Stiles guesses.

Stiles has never worked on of Derek’s cases, even though his robberies have crossed enough state lines that they fall under federal jurisdiction. Stiles is in the violent crimes unit of the Bureau, and so far as anybody knows, Derek’s team of bank robbers hasn’t actually killed anyone. They were a well oiled machine up until one of them had betrayed Derek (and honestly, Stiles thinks, if that hadn’t happened they probably would never have caught him), and they had never seemed to be the types to get violent against anyone in the banks they’d robbed just to make a point. The only reason Stiles even knows about Derek, or has seen his file is because of Derek’s uncle, Peter Hale, who was a psychopathic serial killer. Stiles had briefly consulted for the task force assigned to Peter Hale, and he’d felt that there was a pattern to his killings, despite their seeming randomness, but he hadn’t been able to devote the time to pin down what it was. He’d made suggestions for what to look into, but then he’d been pulled back to his own cases. A brief glance at Derek Hale’s file had told him they probably wouldn’t be able to use Derek in order to find Peter. Although two of the four remaining Hales (that they knew of), had each gone bad in a spectacular way, their M.O.’s were different enough and spread out enough that it didn’t seem like they were working in tandem in any way

That being said, looking at a file and figuring someone probably wasn’t violent felt pretty different from being trapped in a trunk with said person and knowing that their uncle had brutally murdered over half a dozen people that they knew of. Stiles can only hope that Derek doesn’t share his uncle’s predilections.

They’ve been driving for maybe fifteen minutes when the distant siren of a police car starts up, getting closer by the second. Stiles tenses, and Derek’s left hand slides from his thigh to his stomach, pressing into the skin where his shirt rode up and holding Stiles even tighter against him. Derek’s right arm twists as well, his big hand loosely, almost casually resting against the base of Stiles’ throat. Stiles takes it for the threat that it is and forces himself to stay still. The siren gets closer and closer, and he can feel the tension in Derek’s chest against his back, but Boyd keeps the car driving steadily at what Stiles is assuming is the speed limit. The siren passes them, then fades, then disappears completely. After it becomes clear it won’t be turning around to pull them over, Stiles sighs, half in disappointment, half in relief. He thinks they’re probably past where any check-points would be set up, which means his chance at them getting immediately caught is almost nothing, but then again if some green patrolman had pulled them over, it was one jumpy cop with a sidearm against two cornered criminals with a shotgun, and Stiles didn’t like those odds.

After another minute Derek relaxes again, moving his hand back to Stiles’ thigh and beginning his nervous tapping again. Although he doesn’t move his right hand away from Stiles completely, he at least relaxes it a little, spreading out his fingers across Stiles’ sternum.

“You know I kind of figured you’d put up more of a fuss,” Derek says, lowly in Stiles’ ear. Stiles represses a shiver. It’s the first time Derek has spoken since they’d gotten in the trunk.

“I know you guys think all cops are idiots, but I know when I’m outmatched,” Stiles says. “Fighting you would get me literally nowhere right now.”

“Ah but you’re not a cop, right,” Derek says. “You’re FBI, that’s how you identified yourself before, when you were trying to decide whether or not to shoot me.”

“A decision that’ll haunt me to my grave,” Stiles replies. “What difference does it make.”

“Not a lot, I guess,” Derek says. “I’m in trouble either way, but you guys are trained differently, have different objectives. Agents tend to have more of a long view of things. Cops tend to be a little more reactive.”

Stiles doesn’t reply, because there doesn’t seem to be much to say to that. Derek lets the silence linger on for only a minute or two before speaking again.

“What were you doing at the prison?” Derek asks.

“Visiting my boyfriend,” Stiles says dryly. “What makes you think I’m going to tell you anything about myself?”

“So does that mean you won’t give me your name?” Derek asks, his tone teasing.

“My name is Mieczeslaw,” Stiles says.

“Okay don’t tell me,” Derek sighs. He idly runs a finger down the seam of Stiles’ pants. “This is a pretty fancy suit for a prison visit. Much nicer than your average fed’s work suit.”

“Well it won’t be nice for much longer with the amount of mud you’ve gotten on it,” Stiles says. He finally lets himself shift a little, reaching to adjust his shirt where it’s ridden up. Derek automatically reaches out and grabs his hand, stopping him. His knuckles brush against the hair leading down Stiles’ stomach and this time he can’t manage to stop himself from shuddering at the touch. He can feel Derek smirk against his neck.

“Even if I had a weapon on me,” Stiles says. “Which I don’t, I’m not stupid enough to use it on someone I’m trapped in a confined space with especially since the guy driving the car has my shotgun. I’m just pulling my shirt down.”

“I got it,” Derek says, and he proceeds to adjust Stiles’ shirt, smoothing it back in place before moving his hand back to Stiles’ hip. “You always keep a shotgun in the trunk of your car?”

“Well apparently you never know when you’re gonna need one,” Stiles says. “Not that it did me much good.”

“Will you get in trouble for this?” Derek asks. The car swerves slightly sharply, then accelerates. Stiles tries to remember what highways could be a forty minute drive from the prison.

“That depends on whether I survive this,” Stiles replies. “Will I be alive enough at the end of this in order to be able to get in trouble?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing and I think this’ll work out for all of us,” Derek says. “Deucalion.”

“What?” Stiles says, slightly thrown at the topic change. Boyd hits the brakes slightly and Stiles twists slightly so he can tilt his head back and look at Derek. It turns out to be a mistake. Their faces are inches away now, the sharp angles of Derek’s cheekbones highlighted by the red brake light, his eyes lit up with amusement. He’s staring into Stiles’ eyes, then lets his gaze drift down Stiles’ face to his lips. Stiles forces himself to turn back around.

“Deucalion likes pretty men in pretty suits,” Derek says after a moment. “You were hoping that if you showed up looking like that, then maybe he’d let his guard down a little. Give you info on his crew.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, although he’s feeling a little thrown. He’d known Derek wasn’t stupid. You don’t have a criminal track record like Derek’s without being fairly intelligent, but there’s a difference between being able to avoid getting arrested for robbing a bank, and this.

“You must be Agent Stilinski,” Derek says, and his voice is smug enough that Stiles automatically elbows him in the side. Derek just chuckles. “Deucalion has mentioned you. If he ever gets out of there he’s going to kill you.”

“Was he one of the ones you were escaping with?” Stiles asks. “I know there must have been others.”

“I don’t partner with murderers,” Derek huffs.

“Well excuse me,” Stiles says. “I must’ve had you confused with some other criminal whose uncle leaves a trail of bodies wherever he goes.”

“Peter works alone, I haven’t seen him in years,” Derek says, his fingers flexing angrily against Stiles’ side. He wonders if he’ll have bruises. He’d worry about how angry Derek sounds, but then again at least this is one bit of information he can bring back to the Bureau. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. “I don’t approve of his agenda.”

“Agenda,” Stiles probes. “So it’s not just random?”

Derek doesn’t reply, but Stiles takes that as confirmation. Maybe once he gets out of this, if he manages to talk his way out of a suspension or demotion he’ll be able to talk his way onto the Peter Hale task force. He’d almost be tempted to try to join whoever is going to be chasing down Derek, but he knows after what went down today there’s literally no way anyone will let him near Derek’s case, no matter how much information he manages to glean from him.

“So did you really dress up just for Deucalion, or were you looking this good for some other reason?” Derek asks. “Hot date maybe?”

“No nothing like that, I was having dinner with my dad, but it was at a nice restaurant for once,” Stiles says before he thinks better of it. “It’s my birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” Derek purrs in his ear, and Stiles wonders if maybe they’re running low on oxygen in the trunk at this point. It’s starting to feel smaller and warmer, and Derek feels very very hot where he’s pressed up against him. “How old are you now...twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

“Jesus christ, I’m thirty-two,” Stiles says indignantly.

“That’s a good age,” Derek says.

“For what?” Stiles says.

“Old enough to know what you want and how to get it,” Derek says. “Not so old you’ve become jaded about it.”

“Well what about you,” Stiles says.

“What about me?” Derek asks.

“Are you old enough to be jaded about it?” Stiles asks.

“Most of the time,” Derek says slowly. “Maybe less so today.”

“Because you finally broke out of prison?” Stiles asks.

“Among other reasons,” Derek says, and once again Stiles can feel the curve of Derek’s smile against the sensitive skin of his neck, right behind the curve of his ear. He can feel Derek open his mouth as if to speak again, but then the car is coming to a stop, idling for a moment before the engine shuts off. They hear Boyd open the car door, his footsteps heading back toward the trunk.

“Oh thank god,” Derek groans, sitting up and stretching once Boyd opens the trunk, a rush of cold night air flowing around them. As Derek climbs awkwardly out of the trunk Stiles leans forward, grabbing the gun from the box, slamming the magazine in and loading it within seconds. He swings it forward and just has enough time to fire off a shot that hits the dirt, Derek and Boyd’s eyes going wide before Derek manages to slam the trunk shut. It slams against the side of Stiles’ face and he’s knocked back, but fires off a couple more shots into the trunk roof even as he feels slightly stunned.

“He had a gun, are you kidding me?” Stiles hears Boyd’s incredulous drawl as he pauses, before firing one more time.

“Would you stop shooting? You’re just putting holes in your own car,” Derek shouts. Stiles ignores the vague guilty sense of relief that he didn’t hit him. He hears the shotgun being cocked and sighs. “I’m going to open the trunk a crack and you’re going to drop your weapon out or Boyd here is going to shoot you.”

Stiles kind of doubts that’s true, but he blew his one chance at shooting them and getting away, so when the trunk opens he drops the gun out of it with an irritable sigh.

“That was a present from my dad,” Stiles says, once Derek carefully opens up the trunk a little more, gesturing at Stiles with his own gun to get out. Boyd keeps Stiles in the sights of his shotgun as Derek pats him down before glancing into the trunk.

“I have no more weapons,” Stiles says.

“You shouldn’t have had any weapons in the first place,” Boyd says, shooting Derek a really judgmental glare. “We’ve gotta move.”

Stiles looks around and finds they’re pulled over under a highway overpass. Another crappy car is nearby, and after one last glare in Derek’s direction, Boyd walks over to it, pulling out a duffle bag that he tosses to Derek before aiming the shotgun at Stiles again.

“On the plus side, you won’t have to worry about running out of air now,” Derek says, stripping off the muddy prison guard uniform and tossing it aside. Stiles tries not to gawk openly at Derek, but it’s difficult. He’d known Derek was muscular, had been able to feel it pressed up against him, but seeing Derek in nothing but his boxers is a whole other thing. Derek pulls some clean clothes out of the bag, quickly hopping into them and wiping down his face with some napkins and a bottle of water.

“Dude, you are not putting me back in the trunk of that car,” Stiles says.

“You have GPS tracking on that car, right,” Derek says. “They’ll find you, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried, I’m annoyed,” Stiles says. “I’m not going back in there.”

“Would you rather we take you with us?” Derek asks. Stiles almost says yes, but instead just rolls his eyes. “Look either you can get in the trunk, or Boyd can put you in the trunk.”

“Okay, answer a question for me, and maybe I’ll go willingly,” Stiles says. Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “What are you looking for?”

“What do you mean?” Derek asks.

“You rob banks and steal their money, sure, makes sense,” Stiles says. “But you always hit their safe deposit boxes, open seemingly random ones and never end up taking anything from them. You’re looking for something specific. What is it.”

“I really am sorry about this,” Derek says, taking the shotgun from Boyd and nodding at him. “You should’ve just gotten in the trunk.”

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles swears as Boyd easily hefts him up. He struggles, bracing his feet against the edge of the trunk. “Hey you take care of that handgun for me. My dad gave it to me for my birthday.”

“Just stop struggling,” Boyd says, abruptly swinging Stiles back to get a better grip on him.

“You stop…” Stiles begins to snark, but with his legs no longer braced against the car, his front slams forward and he hits his head against the trunk. The last thing he hears is Derek exclaiming something, then darkness.

When Stiles wakes up it’s to the beeping of hospital monitors and that aseptic smell hospital rooms always have. His head is pounding, but he almost wants to cry in relief that he’s not back in that trunk again. When he opens his eyes he finds his dad sitting in the chair next to him, a look on his face that’s half exasperation and half relief.

“I’m sorry I lost your gun,” Stiles says.

“Oh kid,” his dad says, grasping his hand.

Stiles ends up getting in less trouble with his boss than expected, and probably a little less than he deserves. He tells them a version of the story that hews as close to the truth as possible, in as detached a way as possible. It probably helps that he still has a slight concussion and the agents that debrief him seem to be walking on eggshells around him a little. He’s forced to take a couple weeks off, but it’s listed as medical leave and not a suspension so he’ll take it. He thinks he might even get a shot at taking lead on Peter Hale once he’s back.

They make him stay at the hospital overnight for observation, but he gets to leave the following afternoon. His dad drops him off at his apartment, leaving him once Stiles reassures him enough that yes he’s fine, just needs some rest.

There’s a garment bag hanging on his door when gets home, and he idly grabs it as he unlocks his door and walks inside. His dad had said his suit was ruined, and Stiles had had to come home in borrowed scrubs from the hospital, but he thinks maybe one of the other agents had it dry cleaned for him. He’s about to drop it on the couch but it feels heavier than it should. Opening it up he finds not the suit he’d been wearing but a new one. The material is expensive, more expensive than he probably could’ve afforded on his own, but it looks like it was cut to fit him exactly. There’s something hard and heavy in the front pocket of the bag, and he unzips it to find the gun his father had given him. There’s a note attached to it.

Deucalion told us what an expert marksman you are. Thanks for not shooting me, I know you could have if you’d really wanted to. Maybe if our paths ever cross again I can buy you dinner and we can pick up where we left off. I might even give you some of the answers you’re looking for.

D

Stiles runs his fingers over the letters, and in the privacy of his own apartment lets himself smile.

[modernart2012]

Sing Sing (Lovin’ You)

1.  There’s something to be said about waking up on Saturdays. It’s not the sudden blaring of his alarm, and the dusty echo of an otherwise empty apartment. It’s warm, on Saturdays. And not just because Friday night was his standing arcade night appointment with Hizashi, and he inevitably ends up at the Yamada’s home, in Hizashi’s bed - only because he can never get warm enough on the spare futon - for the night. Normally, he’s cocooned in blankets and Hizashi, tangled up so thoroughly that sometimes he finds stray golden hairs on his brush days later. So when he wakes up to slight jostling this Saturday, he’s not surprised to find it’s Hizashi leaning over him as he extracts himself from the Gordian Knot they’ve become. What’s different is he’s humming soft and low.“Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you; caught up in circles confusion is nothing new,” the words flow in steady soothing cadence, not disrupting the haze of sleep Shōta’s surfacing from. Shōta stretches and yawns in response, because if Hizashi is up then Yamada-san has probably made pancakes.

Hizashi keeps humming the tune, skipping lines at will, but his eyes remain sleep soft and quiet, not yet sparking with his normal energy. Shōta sits up to finish stretching, joints popping and crackling across his torso. “Good morning,” he greets and is returned.

It takes until halfway through his pancakes that he pinpoints exactly what was odd about Hizashi’s humming. “That song you were humming this morning - it was in English, wasn’t it?”

Hizashi startles around a mouthful of pancake, then after a moment to finish chewing and swallowing, “Yeah.” He looks awkward, off kilter, as if he wasn’t expecting to be caught.

Shōta takes pity on him, “You sounded good. The English I mean.”

Hizashi brightens, then leers at Shōta playfully, “Yeah? I’ve got a talented tongue, what can I say.”

Shōta huffs, amused despite himself. “You can say you’ll help me with the English assignment due Monday, and I won’t let Tensei know that you can sing.”

Given that Tensei is often dragged to karaoke group dates, this is a good threat. Hizashi pales and quickly agrees to the terms.

2. The next time Hizashi sings for Shōta, it’s after their final Sports Festival at Yuuei. They’re third years, and in a completely unforeseen turn of events, it ends up with the both of them in Recovery Girl’s office with heavy injuries. Shōta himself is in traction, both legs in casts after going up against a Mutation type quirk that produced skin like stone. Hizashi, similarly, is banged up, his neck supported by a brace and his back strapped to a board to ensure that he doesn’t further cause damage to his bruised spine. Shōta is doped up on pain medications, because Recovery Girl can only do so much when her patients are exhausted, and he’s pretty sure he’s hallucinating. There is no other explanation for the flying reptiles. (Unless it’s a Quirk?)

He’s about to cross check with Hizashi on the status of the reptiles when he hears soft raspy humming float across the room. Hizashi’s voice, usually loud and exuberant at all times, and not bad to listen to normally, was downright angelic when he sang - something Shōta knew he could never tell Hizashi for want of never live it down. While Shōta didn’t mind Hizashi’s near constant chatter, it’d be awful if he knew that Shōta couldn’t imagine a world without that voice booming in his ear at some point in the day. “If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world? I don’t quite know how to say how I feel; those three words are said too much  they’re not enough….”

Shōta’s aware enough that this time it’s English, but with the way his head is still aching, he’s having trouble understanding the words. Hizashi was always better at English anyways, so he’s already at a disadvantage. Maybe he should study English more, ask Hizashi for tips? Shōta yawns and decides to do so when he wakes, letting the soothing sound of Hizashi’s voice carry him off to restful sleep.

3. The worst part of being 20 and drunk is realizing Hizashi. There’s more behind that, but Shōta’s having a hard time with words, and what other words can explain … everything. There are no good words for describing how Hizashi’s eyes sparkle (not plain green, something like a gemstone, rare and unique), or the way his hair looks when it’s down (bright and soft like the fuzzy glow of a baby duck, but shiny and vivid like spun gold threads), or the general energy (aura?) of Hizashi. Effervescent doesn’t cut it, but there’s not anything better? Shōta turns to glare at Nemuri, who is also drunk, “Japanese is a pathetic language. There are no good words.”

Nemuri pokes him in the ear from her spot on the floor, missing his cheek by a solid mile, “Don’t you suck at English, though?”

The only appropriate response is to blow a raspberry at her.

He doesn’t get retaliation from Nemuri in response, though, because he ends up with a faceful of cat paw. Kurage was just as much of an jerk as he was, and they got along beautifully except for the occasions wherein Kurage decided that he needed as taste of his own medicine. God, he loved his cat.

Shōta is startled out of his consideration of whether he should risk getting clawed in the face in order to cuddle his cat with the soulful tones of Hizashi, singing along with some song piped in through the speakers. It was still a rare event to hear Hizashi sing, but he was good and Shōta was always captivated. “I’m not looking for somebody with some superhuman gifts, some superhero, some fairytale bliss; just something I can turn to, somebody I can kiss, I want something just like this….”

Another English song, and with only him and Nemuri and Tensei there, it felt like a present. More so than the times he busted into spontaneous song, usually his favorite (read: latest find) song of the week. Hizashi only ever sang when he felt especially at ease, and it always highlighted his soft spots. Shōta turns over onto his stomach to cushion his head on the couch arm so he can watch. He’s rewarded with a playful wink from Hizashi with a warmth that was unusual, and if he weren’t already red from the sake he was sure he’d be blushing.

It’s only later when he’s crawled into bed and let Hizashi arrange them for maximum octopus impression does he have a realization about the songs Hizashi sings, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. He’ll try to recall it in the morning.

4. Shōta hates Fridays now sometimes, because Friday means Hizashi has his radio show to produce, and that means they don’t head for the arcade. Hizashi always has a talk segment, generally about something ostensibly music related but sometimes something he and Shōta discussed during the week. During those times, Shōta’s “his Number 1 Listener” and it satisfies the cat-possessive portion of his soul, outright luxuriates in the attention. But otherwise, Fridays now interrupt their standing arcade date appointment, which used to be the highlight of Shōta’s week because he’d get all of Hizashi’s attention for a bit.

This week is almost worse, because Nemuri and Ectoplasm made a bet (that they’ve kept from even hinting at in front of Shōta, which is suspect) with Hizashi who had lost - somehow, because Hizashi has never in Shōta’s memory lost a bet - and he has been close lipped about his forfeit ever since. He had mumbled something about it all being on his show, so Shōta tuned in a little earlier in order to be sure to catch the whole show and not skip the cold open as he usually did.

Shōta can imagine the way Hizashi’s tipped back in his chair as he enthusiastically greets his listeners, the way he would light up from the inside with the focused energy of “Present Mic” live on air. It was different from fights with villains - there was no urgency or adrenaline, no crash, this was pure buoyancy that set Shōta’s veins to fizzling too. That fizz and the usual Hizashi general fizz usually compounded into something that felt like he’d ingested nitroglycerin - a racing jittery feeling that bounced around his insides while he outwardly remained calm.

Time hasn’t dulled that regular Hizashi feeling, only given him a chance to realize it’s always been there and he’s only just not managed to notice. He doesn’t want to give a name to it, because his grandmother always said names have power, but he knows. What to do about it, that’s an entirely different question though.

The cold open ends, leading into the opening theme of the show. A rock number Hizashi spent an entire weekend mixing, having Shōta listen to different versions until he finally had it prepared. That had been a good weekend, one spent entirely sleeping and with Hizashi (sometimes simultaneously, which… in retrospect should have clued Shōta in because he had been altogether too happy to wake up to Hizashi), eating takeout ramen and gyoza with extra chili oil for both.

A few of the latest top 40 hits played, interspersed with Hizashi giving his thoughts (some highly unflattering) on the song. A few requests are thrown in, with light banter between Hizashi and the fan on the line, then it was time for an advertisement break. One is for an “Eraserhead eraser! Completely erases all mistakes just like Quirks!” Shōta internally snickered, because that was the best piece of misinformation he had ever been induced to produce. Such a great logical ruse!

Then Hizashi was back on, his animated tone greeting his listeners, then growing a little subdued. “Recently, I lost a bet with some colleagues about a certain topic. The penalty was to sing a song for my Special Person. So, um. Here I go? I hope you, and especially you my Most Precious Person, enjoy.”

He strums a guitar, humming the opening along before beginning to sing along fervently.  With his gut sinking through the floor - since when did Hizashi have someone like that? Why had he never said? - Shōta listens carefully, recognizing the song as one Hizashi had wanted to play but ultimately rejected because of its age.

Hizashi carries into the chorus, “If you gave me a chance I would take it, It’s a shot in the dark but I’ll make it, Know with all of your heart, you can’t shame me; When I am with you, there’s no place I’d rather be.” If that wasn’t a full on confession, Shōta didn’t know what it was. He stares at the not insignificant number of papers he had yet to grade, shoves them into a messy pile in a drawer, then grabs his coat and all but flees the office.

If the villains he apprehends that night are a bit rougher for the experience than is norm, then no one comments.

5. “Feelings suck” is the sum total of what Shōta learns in the next few weeks. He did his best to act like everything was normal, that he didn’t know Hizashi had a romantic interest that wasn’t him, but every time he did he’s plagued by thoughts of Hizashi’s “Precious Person”. Who were they? Did they know? Did they suspect? Did they love Hizashi too? Know about his need to cuddle at night? The way he hated shrimp and lobster for looking too much like bugs? His hatred of strawberry milk, but love of raw strawberries? In the end, it was too much, and he inevitably fled with thin excuses. After a few days Hizashi started looking like someone had kicked his puppy and Nemuri was frowning at Shōta like he had done something wrong. Saying he was going out with his friends (who weren’t also Hizashi’ friends or originally Hizashi’s friends) didn’t work that well, because beyond his agency colleagues, he didn’t know very many people, plus Hizashi worked at Yuuei too and if he dragged Thirteen out any more he was sure Thirteen was going to Black Hole him. Which meant the only other option was to take more shifts during the night. Beyond the fact that this netted him a more surefire way to avoid Hizashi, it also netted him extra cash, which had the opposite effect because his first instinct was to buy things for Hizashi. Shōta stares at the pair of brand new, latest version headphones Hizashi had been gushing about, the ones that had the best audio clarity and sound truity as compared to the other headphones of similar style on the market. They had cost quite a bit, but Shōta was flush with cash anyways and the extra padding from his recent shift increase was just begging to be spent. Maybe it would make up for the forlorn look Hizashi had been sporting recently?

That thought was put on hold as a massive shape flew through part of the train carriage. It wasn’t a high traffic time, in fact only a handful of people were riding, which was lucky. What wasn’t lucky was the dark shadow that was also flying towards the carriage. That was definitely Hizashi, dealing with the villain in a rather harsh manner. Which made almost no sense, since Hizashi wasn’t much for shadow heroics (though the harsh treatment… that was usually only for heinous criminals.) What was he doing hero-ing when there was no adoring media, no spotlight, no fame or newspot to be gained? Was he doing night shifts so he could have more time with his Special Person? The thought sours almost as soon as Shōta thought it. He frowns and focuses on the headphones for the rest of the ride home.

Except, he doesn’t make it home. He’s just entering his apartment, Kurage twining about his feet, when he receives the call. The voice on the line is collected and professional, imparting the bare minimum of details before Shōta hangs up and races back the way he came.

He must have looked like a madman running full tilt into the lobby of the Shūzenji Hospital in Kita ward, breathless from having sprinted the whole way. “Pre-Present Mi-c,” his chest rose and fell in a staccato beat, fighting for air against the burn in his muscles. The receptionist looks at him like he’s some sort of monster, her lilac skin fading to lavender as she froze. He bears down on her like she’s a troublesome student, eyes sharp, her skin going grey, “I-I was cal-led. A-About Pre-se-nt Mi-Mic. He-he w-was admitted here.” He inhales sharply, then exhales, “His room number?”

The receptionist sags relief clear from the slack of her spine to be out of his gaze. “I’ll need to see identification before I can tell you that.”   

Good, he wouldn’t have to file a complaint with Recovery Girl that her receptionists were shoddy and letting anyone up into recovering heros’ hospital rooms. He fishes out his ID, and waits impatiently for the receptionist to check the information. When she finally returns it, he is jittering in place, and barely hears the room number before he is flying down the halls and opting to dash up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.  

He slows down on the floor though, because there are obviously other patients in the ward. He slips around the night nurses, nodding to the ones he recognizes. After all, this is the floor for those who are under the effect of a Quirk gone haywire, usually overexertion of their own but sometimes under the effect of a Villain’s Quirk. He doesn’t know which he is in for, and hoped if it was Hizashi’s Quirk run amok that he had already lost his voice from too much screaming. Or that the nurses had managed to get his multi-directional speaker off him. Recovery Girl would not be happy having to heal him from broken eardrums.

Shōta meets a nurse at the door to Hizashi’s room, Satō, who is generally sent to deal with heroes due to his six arms and infinite patience with which to deal with difficult people. He nods politely at Satō, who returns the greeting with a perfunct, “Eraser.” He looks dead inside, which some might say was a step up from his usual vaguely fed up with life countenance, but must also speak to the hassle Hizashi has become. Shōta makes note to sent Satō a fruit basket, one with a melon.

Shōta clears his throat, “How is he?”

Satō stars at him with dead eyes, “Truth Quirk plus Singing Quirk. Now he can’t stop singing - real songs! - about whatever he’s thinking about, and it has to be true.” One set of his arms crosses itself, and Satō looms, “It’d be best if you just took him home.”

That. That was not a suggestion and Shōta makes note to not send a fruit basket. Satō does not deserve a fruit basket. When he enters the patient room, however, he wants to flee and pretend he was never there. He’s caught Hizashi mid-song, “Where did I go wrong? And how can I make it right? Tell me where did I go wrong? You know I want to make it right, and make you come back it me.” Then his eyes land on Shōta and he practically wrenches his jaws shut, face going blank and lovely croon abruptly cutting off.

Shōta tilts his head, a slightly worn smile tipping the corners of his lips as if he hadn’t just caught Hizashi singing, “This is a jailbreak. Let’s head home.”

There is a momentary panic in his eyes, and Hizashi’s mouth opened before he clamped it shut again and nods. They leave the hospital, and Hizashi seems determined to sing some inane anime opening about hamsters. When that was over, he switched to the themes for some anime with ninjas, and then some song about …. samurai hearts? Shōta had stopped keeping track around the time Hizashi partook in a rap battle about… the lights in the night sky?  Something like that. At least they were at Shōta’s apartment, and Hizashi couldn’t bellow anime songs.

Kurage greets them from her perch on the refrigerator, or at least greets Hizashi. She pointedly ignores Shōta, probably for the betrayal of not petting her earlier before he had to run out. Had he ever mentioned his cat was an asshole? She was perfect.

Also, an effective distraction for Hizashi, who was singing a children’s song about an adventurous cat. It was an interesting trick, to consciously think only of a specific song to get around the Quirks. Commendable even. But he missed Hizashi’s voice -screeching, solemn, lilting, and mellifluous, all the different ways he expressed himself so wholeheartedly. Hopefully this would wear off soon.

Shōta was jolted out of his musings by Hizashi grabbing his sleeve as he passed by. His voice is rough with overuse, quiet and shaken, “Sh-ōta, did - did you get - get those?” He sounded like he was actively fighting against the Quirks affecting him, and the way he sagged boneless against Shōta belied how much energy he had spent to achieve it. Shōta turned to follow his line of sight, to the headphone box he had left carelessly in the genkan.

Hot embarrassment floods through him, and he could feel the flush spread across his face and down his chest. “Ah- uh, Yes. I did? They’re for you.” He winced internally at the way that sounded.

“Oh,” Hizashi sighs, and whatever had been sucking him of energy these past few weeks seemed to disappear. He smiled tenderly, then moved so quickly Shōta had no time to react. His face ends up buried in the junction of Hizashi’s neck and shoulder, Hizashi hugging him tightly like he was a ghost liable to drift away at the slightest breeze. He’s singing again, softly as if he’s afraid of being overheard. “We watch the season pull up its own stakes, and catch the last weekend of the last week.  Before the gold and the glimmer have been replaced, another sun soaked season fades away.  You have stolen my heart. You have stolen my heart.”

Shōta fists his hands in Hizashi’s jacket, glad that Hizashi couldn’t see his face as his world imploded. He’d become practiced enough at English at this point to know the words, and their meaning, and what they meant strung together and his heart was exploding like a star into so much dust, uncontrollable and pure. This song was clear, direct and the only thing he could think is, “Oh, he’s in love with me too.”

+1. The next few days were like drifting anchorless and weightless through a bank of clouds. It was surreal, unbelievable even. How? When? Why? Of all the manically unpredictable things - him? Oh, that time on the radio - was for him? He chased himself in circles of thought, ignoring the frowns Nemuri sent his way, the terrified way his students cowered, and instead lost himself in the near permanent giddiness suffusing into his bones and Hizashi’s smiles.

Then it hit him around the time he’s trying to make tonkatsu ramen from scratch - he had never given any indication that he felt the same. “Oh, Endeavor-dammit,” he informs Kurage, who yowls in agreement. Shōta feeds her a piece of cooked chicken and considered the discussion closed.

Which, then begged the question, how to go about confessing. All the guides on the internet were geared towards high school girls, with ideas like letters in shoeboxes and homei choco, and other trite things that are fine for high schoolers but not grown men in their mid-twenties who had know each other for nearly a decade. For kicks, Shōta  tries searching that in google and ends up in a very odd place in the internet. Something about fursuits. He closes the browser quickly, then climbs into his sleeping bag to think. This has to be special.

It comes to him mid-nap interruption by Kurage trying to worm herself into the sleeping bag, when there’s a metallic clatter against his floor. He blindly reaches around Kurage - has he mentioned his cat is an asshole? - and getting a faceful of cat butt while he roots around for whatever fell. His hand lands on a small, thin rectangle, which his eyes tell him is Hizashi’s iPod. An idea comes to him, one that will need some practice to execute well, but … doable. He sets to, because he only has this weekend off.

By Monday, he has the perfect plan. He drops the iPod and a CD - thank God he knows that Hizashi has a CD player - clearly labeled with Hizashi’s name and with directions in Hizashi’s shoebox (somethings are a classic for a reason.) Then he goes about his day trying to teach first years. He’ll know when Hizashi has listened to it - he hopes. Then there’s a massive incident that All Might puts down quickly, but it’s all hands on deck to quell the populus and maintain order. Confessions, such as they are, get put to the wayside.

It’s only the Friday after, during Hizashi’s radio show that Shōta remembers that he gave Hizashi a CD. It’s during his talk segment that Hizashi talks about receiving a CD from his Number 1 Listener, and that he hadn’t listened to it yet. He invites all the listeners to listen with him, and queues up the only track on the CD. Shōta is glad that all the other teachers have left for the weekend, because he would be too mortified to survive otherwise.

Which is not to say he isn’t mortified, just less mortified than what he could be. Shōta decides it doesn’t matter and gives up on lesson plans to head home. That way he can skip most of the embarrassment.

It’s rush hour and it’s raining, so the trains are packed and it takes a while to get home. He greets his cat, and sets about preparing dinner, his phone clearly visible even though he knows Hizashi won’t call unless the show is over. He itches to turn on his radio, but refrains because Hizashi just played his confession on live radio. Shōta can imagine the fallout, and doesn’t wish to die of embarrassment. He settles for finishing the ingredients for katsu curry.

Shōta’s patience is rewarded when there’s a heavy pounding at his front door. The door flies open to a disheveled Hizashi, who is radiant and broken and panting and staring as if Shōta is a miracle Hizashi can’t yet believe in, and then he’s got an armful of wet leather and wet gloves against his face and a chaste wondrous supplication against his lips.

They break away to breathe, foreheads pressed against each other. He’s breathless and soaring and smiling just standing there in the genkan. And this is perfect, in it’s own way, no matter that Shōta’s sure that Kurage has probably eaten herself sick of the tonkatsu, no matter that Hizashi is dripping and probably going to catch cold, no matter that hundreds of thousands of people just heard Shōta confess on live radio. And then he’s laughing, and Hizashi is too and that’s fine, because he’s got Hizashi and the rest is just…. The rest.

Later that night, both of them full of curry and laughter and kisses, tangled up in bed, that Shōta sings for Hizashi, one more time, “Take my hand - Take my whole life too, But I can’t help falling in love with you.”