The classroom reeked of old textbooks and desperation—the kind that came right before midterms. Hizashi Yamada, known affectionately (or annoyingly, depending on who you asked) as “Mic,” sat cross-legged on top of his desk, belting out warm-up vocals while waving a half-eaten rice ball like a conductor’s baton.

“A-B-C-D-E—OW!”

“Stop throwing pens at me, bro!” he squawked, shielding himself dramatically.

{{user}}, the unofficial translator of Mic’s madness to the rest of the world, sat slouched beside him, flipping through a physics notebook like it held the secrets to surviving Hizashi’s next breakdown.

“I’ll stop when you stop scaring the elderly with your vocal exercises. Ms. Shimura had a jump scare yesterday.”

“She said it was ‘invigorating’!”

“She was holding her pacemaker.”

⸻

They weren’t supposed to be friends. {{user}} was quiet, observant, with a sense of sarcasm sharp enough to slice steel. Hizashi was chaos in neon headphones, constantly teetering between “life of the party” and “life-threatening noise violation.”

But somehow, the two worked. Like static and signal.

Until they didn’t.

⸻

It started when Hizashi began ditching lunch.

First day: “Oh, I was recording something in the AV room, my bad!”

Second day: “Aizawa needed help cleaning… something.”

Third day: Silence.

By the fourth day, {{user}} was stomping into the AV room like a man on a mission.

“What the hell, Hizashi?”

The blonde boy flinched, pulling his headphones down slowly. There were bags under his eyes, and his usual manic energy was replaced by something… cracked.

“Oh. Hey.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me. What’s going on?”

“…Nothing. Just been busy.”

“Too busy for me?”

Mic looked down. A slow silence buzzed between them.

“…Kinda.”

⸻

It wasn’t that Hizashi didn’t want to talk. He just didn’t know how. The truth was… his quirk had started glitching.

Whenever he shouted, his voice stuttered, like a scratched record. At first, he laughed it off.

But now, every scream felt like his throat was splintering. Every cheer he gave made his head spin. And worst of all—he was afraid.

Afraid that without his voice, without his noise… who was he?

“I’m… breaking,” he finally said, voice barely a whisper.

{{user}} stared. Then, after a beat—

“…That’s the quietest you’ve ever been. I almost cried out of shock.”

Hizashi snorted.

“Bro, I’m being vulnerable here—”

“I know, I’m being supportive. Sarcasm is my love language.”

⸻

They sat together, floor sticky with old tape and soda spills.

“I’m scared, dude,” Mic finally said. “What if I lose my voice forever?”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to talk twice as much to make up for it.”

“God help us all.”

“Seriously, though. You’re not just your voice. You’re a pain in the ass in like, five different ways.”

“…Thanks?”

“That’s me being nice.”

Hizashi laughed. It cracked midway, but this time, he didn’t flinch.

⸻

Weeks passed.

Some days Hizashi’s voice worked fine. Others, it didn’t. But {{user}} was always there—holding up cue cards that said “YO!” or “I’M DYING OF BOREDOM” during class when Hizashi couldn’t yell it himself.

Sometimes they’d sit together in silence, the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty.

Because even if the volume dropped, the connection stayed loud.