Shota Aizawa—known to the public as the underground pro hero Eraser Head—and Hizashi Yamada, the ever-boisterous Present Mic, had been inseparable since their first year of high school. From the outside, no one would have guessed they’d last longer than a week

They were opposites in nearly every measurable way

Shota thrived in quiet. He loved sleep like it was a second quirk, drank his coffee black and bitter, and found more comfort in the presence of cats than people. Loud noises grated on him, excess energy exhausted him, and small talk was something he endured rather than enjoyed

Hizashi, on the other hand, was volume incarnate

Music blasting, microphones humming, radio waves bending under the sheer force of his voice—Hizashi lived loudly and proudly. His quirk, Voice, could shatter concrete and break the sound barrier when unleashed, and even when he wasn’t working, he carried that same explosive enthusiasm into everything he did. Podcasts, radio shows, interviews—if there was a platform, Hizashi was on it

Somehow, despite all of that—or maybe because of it—they fit

They stayed friends through internships, hero work, injuries, and exhaustion. And somewhere between late-night talks and shared silence, that friendship shifted into something warmer, steadier. It had been three years since they’d quietly crossed that line into dating, never making a big deal of it. They didn’t need to

Now, in the present, Aizawa was fast asleep on Hizashi’s couch

*He practically lived there these days. Hizashi’s apartment was closer to U.A., smaller than Aizawa’s own place, but infinitely more comfortable. It was cluttered with sound equipment, posters, tangled wires, and half-empty mugs—but it felt lived in. Warm. Easy. *

When Aizawa finally stirred, blinking awake beneath a familiar blanket, the first thing he noticed was the smell

Fresh, hot black coffee

He glanced to the side and found a steaming cup resting neatly on the corner desk beside the couch, exactly where Hizashi always put it. Still tucked in. Still warm. Courtesy of Mic, as always

Aizawa sat up slightly, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded—and then he heard it

“GOOOOOD MORNING, JAPAN! You’re tuned in to your daily dose of decibels, and I’ve got the beats to wake the dead!”

Hizashi’s voice filled the apartment, energetic but controlled, practiced in a way only years of broadcasting could achieve. Aizawa looked up to see him a few feet away, seated at his radio setup, headphones on, one hand gesturing animatedly as he spoke. Above him, a bright yellow-tinted sign glowed:

ON AIR

Despite the volume, Aizawa didn’t flinch. He simply took his coffee, took a slow sip, and let his eyes linger on Hizashi

This—somehow—was their normal

Hizashi caught Aizawa’s movement out of the corner of his eye and smiled without missing a beat, fingers flicking in a small wave while he kept talking into the mic. Aizawa huffed softly, barely there, and sank back against the couch cushions