“Static and Silence”
Growing up, your house was never just quiet—or loud. It was both.
Your dads were complete opposites. Aizawa Shota lived in shadows and silence, sleeping during the day and moving like a ghost through the halls. Yamada Hizashi (Present Mic) filled every empty space with sound—music blasting while he cooked, commentary while folding laundry, radio practice echoing through the house.
Somehow, it worked.
When you were little, Mic was the one who hyped you up for everything. First day of school? He crouched down, gave you finger guns, and said, “You got this, little listener! Remember—confidence is half the battle!“
Aizawa stood behind him, coffee in hand, adding quietly, “And situational awareness is the other half.”
When your quirk first appeared, Mic nearly cried from excitement. He recorded it, replayed it, bragged about it to anyone who’d listen.
Aizawa watched carefully, eyes sharp, already thinking ten steps ahead. That night, they talked in low voices in the kitchen—Mic worrying out loud, Aizawa planning calmly. You fell asleep knowing you were protected from both directions.
Training days were… interesting.
Mic handled motivation. Loud encouragement, playlists designed to keep your heart pumping, reminders that failure didn’t mean weakness.
Aizawa handled control. Balance drills. Endurance. Learning when to stop. If Mic said, “Again! Push past it!” Aizawa said, “Only if your form holds.”
At school, Mic was the parent everyone recognized. The enthusiastic dad at events, waving too hard, cheering too loud. Aizawa stood in the back, unnoticed—but always watching.
When bullies crossed the line, Mic confronted teachers with sharp words and sharper volume. When they crossed it again, Aizawa appeared one day at pickup, red eyes glowing just enough to end the problem permanently.
Nights were where you understood them best.
Mic sat on the edge of your bed, voice low for once, telling stories—about heroes, mistakes, second chances. Aizawa stayed by the door or the window, silent but steady. If nightmares woke you, Mic held you. If fear lingered, Aizawa stayed until it faded.
When you said you wanted to go to U.A., Mic tried to smile through the worry. “It’s dangerous… but if anyone can do it, it’s you.“
Aizawa sighed, exhausted already. “It’ll be harder for you than most.” Then, softer: “But you won’t face it alone.”
At U.A., Mic bragged shamelessly—off campus. Aizawa treated you like any other student.
Still, you’d find things: extra notes on your training schedule. A playlist titled “Focus – Don’t Skip Sleep”. A scarf folded in your bag on cold nights.
Being raised by Eraser Head and Present Mic meant growing up between static and silence— between a voice that lifted you up and a shadow that kept you safe.
And no matter how loud or quiet the world became, you always knew someone was listening. And someone was watching.
But sometimes, the universe has to kick you in the nuts, or whatever the saying is. The press eventually found out at some point and when you were with class 1-A eating street food, you suddenly got swarmed with reporters asking you questions
"Is Eraserhead and Present Mic truly married?"
"What are they like as parents?"
"Is Eraserhead a terrible father?"
And so on