Chapter Text
Of all the people he’s wound up working shoulder-to shoulder with over the years - literally, on occasion down a couple of tight and dirty alleys - he’s never really planned on building much of a rapport with any of them.
He knows he’s not the most appealing. Not bright and social, like his school friends that have somehow stuck by him. Bad at compliments, and worse at figuring out the nicest thing to say to someone; when to hum understandingly instead of bluntly pointing out solutions or staring blankly, awkward as a cow on ice. But for all of the prickly parts of his personality he’s never exactly tempered, he’s somehow ended up going for a walk with All Might at least once a day.
Which includes a ‘chat’ that’s gotten more and more steadily deep, as they work their way through available topics. The strangest part is how natural it feels. After a couple beginning weeks of vague animosity, months of quiet respect and politeness, and now -
“Ah, I’ve never courted properly. The small things, you know, giving a bracelet or some little trinket I could scrounge up to an Omega I had a childish affection for. But I wasn’t ever much of a looker, nor a well-financed Alpha back then!”
Ouch.
Yagi’s not shy about sharing stories. Sometimes he wonders if Yagi needs a therapist - he’s said it to him, actually, always been met with gentle avoidance - considering how desperately he seems to jump at the idea of a listening, welcome ear.
He considers that last strangely sad anecdote, watching Yagi tilt his face up to the sunlight struggling through the canopy of leaves and twisting branches. It falls green-tinted and golden on his face, washing it into almost sepia tones. Brings out the shadows under his eyes and beneath his cheekbones, too - he frowns, thinking of Yagi’s half-hearted pecking at his food - and the length of his lashes, so pale as to disguise their fullness.
But he doesn’t mind, and that’s almost as weird for him as the comfort in the way they walk together. Hearing Yagi’s stories - even the laughed-off painful and concerning ones that make his mouth twist in sympathy – and sharing one or two of his own, feels as natural as putting one foot in front of the other.
“And during your career? I mean, people always want you. We’ve all seen the photoshoots and the fan clubs.”
It’s become easier to walk together. He needs to add a couple inches to his stride, and Yagi is considerate enough to shorten his own, until they fall into an easy rhythm together along the overshadowed pathway between the main building and the second gym. And Yagi’s not a bad conversationalist, either. Better than the week they spent walking side by side - not like there’s many other routes straight between classes - in complete and breathtakingly awkward silence, concentrating on not looking at each other and refining the art of looking away quickly when caught mid-glance.
But given a branch, Yagi’s the kind to leap and help it flourish as best he can. Hopelessly soft-hearted.
“Well -” Yagi chews on his inner cheek, shadows hollowing further inwards. “My responsibilities never really allowed me much time for pursuing relationships. A busy life, you know! And I’ve - I suppose, I have a little bit of a chip on my shoulder, when it comes to courting. Quite embarrassing, really!”
He should probably give Yagi a break from this conversation, all things considered. Yagi’s always willing to get into the meat of a topic, stuff that he probably wouldn’t even end up discussing with some of his coworkers; all of whom he’s worked with for longer than the gangly Alpha staring up at the trees next to him. But he never seems to know when to stop, when he answers a question that edges into the territory of something nearly too intimate to ask a colleague. When to reel it in, and stop giving, and giving, and giving some more - until he clams up and visibly berates himself for burdening someone else with any of what must bounce around nonstop inside his clever blond head.
“Being high on the rankings never stopped other heroes.” He thinks of Endeavour, that huge and silent house; his cowed, isolated wife and group of vengeful and conflicted children. Not the best example, now that he turns it over and runs his tongue over the points of his canines. Nor has Endeavour ever borne the singular burden of being the Symbol of Peace. “A - chip?”
“I -” Yagi hesitates, at last, looking back at him. Unsure.
He nods. It’s not like he hasn’t heard worse, whatever the older Alpha is going to say. And there’s something of an honour in being Yagi’s strange confidant - something of a trust between them, after everything.
“I...well, I think I’m a little afraid.” Yagi’s fingers twitch. “I didn’t - I tried to court, once or twice in my youth, and it didn’t go well for me. I don’t - sometimes it’s easier to be someone like All Might than to try and put myself back there, in that position. Like my confidence doesn’t extend there. If you know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you ever courted?”
He feels Yagi’s eyes move back to him, maybe hoping for more, and keeps his own firmly on the old fashioned brick-laid pathway. Only a little bit left, now.
He shrugs. “I think it’s turned into a scam.”
“O-oh.” Yagi blinks, obviously taken aback.
But sometimes, he really, really wants to soothe Yagi. To pull him in a little closer by the sleeve - they wouldn’t even need to speak - and give him a drift of pheromones, something to placate, comfort, and stop him from twitching so uncomfortably. But then his common sense snaps right back in like an elastic band pulled just out of his periphery, popping into focus. Yagi’s an Alpha. One he hasn’t known since his teenage years. And he’s not about to play delicate unmated Omega in front of him.
“Not that it’s all bad, just -” he sighs, blinking to hopefully eke out some moisture. “It feels a bit competitive, now, all about more and more money. Not my thing.”
“Ah - and that would be my one merit to offer!”
He really, really doesn’t like when Yagi laughs and says something painfully sad. Like he should be amused by it. Like Yagi’s insecurities are all comedic material, formal tone turned on like a routine.
Before he frowns, he looks away. Up and over the papery trunk of a birch, peeling in silver spots. “You hold good conversations.”
He can feel Yagi look at him - hesitant, missing a step, all folded hands and wild blonde hair and garish yellow in the corner of his eye. How the hell he walks with those pants sagging off him, he’ll probably never find out.
“Well, I don’t know -”
“You do,” he cuts in. “You’re clever. You have interesting opinions. It’s not like I’m walking the same route as you because I’d get lost on the campus.”
A rough little burst of laughter, and Yagi’s straight back to wiping his mouth clean of any stray specks of blood, sharp on his nose. “Ah - thank you for listening to an old man, Aizawa-kun. I don’t mean to overstep, or force my presence - but it is nice, to have someone to talk to.”
Yagi’s voice is so gentle. Always gentle, kept low and scratching in his throat by the end of the day. Probably damage done to his chords over the years, the kind that Hizashi fears more than any insect or crawling thing. And it’s when he says stuff like that, so sincere and gently, he wonders if Yagi really would get any of those knot-headed ideas into him that other Alphas who’ve worked with him have, before (and only ever briefly). Maybe not. It’s a nice thing to think.
“I don’t mind. If you want to talk -”
But they’ve reached the gym, and Yagi’s shoulders are finally set back into the position that speaks of a man finished giving information, keen to move quickly on from the conversation and plough into the present. He wants to prod, dig, pry into the meaning of that little throwaway quip. But it’s not like Yagi hasn’t respected his desire for space and quiet tens of times before - and he owes him that, in return.
All Might’s voice rings back out through Yagi’s mouth. “Ah, here we are!”
Yagi reaches to swing the tall door open and hold it for him, and he ducks under with a mutter of thanks, gets to flicking on the light switches in quick succession. They’re brighter and quieter than in his day; entirely without the flickering and slow grumbling whine of fluorescents he remembers. The mats, too, fully intact and clean when he lugs them out from storage and throws them down in a series of heavy thumps, one by one onto the wooden flooring.
Before he forgets -
“And your looks are just fine,” he grunts, pushing a heavier mat along with the side of his foot. “Don’t put yourself down, All Might.”
Yagi sounds like he’s flushing, and probably tapping his fingers nervously too from his viewing corner. “Oh - ah, thank you. That’s - kind of you.”
“Not kind,” he huffs out. “Just honest.”
Eight mats - that looks good, for the moment. He’ll rotate the kids and take two along with him while he talks through corrections and pointers as the others pair off and spar. They’re probably ready for three-on-ones. Even if Vlad will moan about it.
“I get why you’d have reservations,” he says abruptly, standing up and rolling his shoulders out, testing his elbow more slowly. “About courting. I guess – we’ve all got hard lines.”
“Yes?” Tilting his head like an overgrown puppy. It shouldn’t be endearing.
He considers it for a moment, and drops his shoulders heavily just to raise them in a shrug. “Say, not wanting to end up mated to another hero - I’ve got reservations about that, too, I guess. I know plenty of people do it, when other heroes are the people you’re surrounded by, and the only ones who get what it’s like to...do what we do.”
Yagi shuffles, somehow looking even more awkward than he did when standing aside to let him set up. The wringing of his hands is probably what does it, fumbling and stiff. “I suppose a hero could protect themselves -”
“I don’t want to get into the media circus that hero relationships pull in unless they’re kept undisclosed. And I don’t want to be anyone’s secret partner.”
His elbow twinges, and he lifts a hand to cup it, rubbing the little divot of his reconstructed humerus idly.
“And any hero I could try with - they’d end up in harm’s way eventually, and I’d be compromised in any kind of potential team-up. I’ve seen how few of us make it to old age, and I can’t ask someone to give up their work for the sake of my own neuroses, anyway. I had enough of that when I started out.”
Yagi folds his hands back into stillness, looking up at him meekly from the seat he’s taken along the sidelines. It’s obvious he’s not entirely on board with what he’s just explained, but he nods anyways, bangs swinging. “I - understand. You’ve thought about this a lot?”
Since the end of his second year at this same school he’s sloping around now; a decade and a half down the line, he thinks, and turns his face away.
“Yes.”
Their shared momentary peace is broken in a chorus of teenage voices. Like always.
Mic’s class must have let out early considering how quickly the kids have made it over to barge through the doors, snapping the brittle silence into a cacophony of chatter bouncing off the bare floors and walls. Always so damn loud when they come from English on a Tuesday, like they’ve all had headphones on for the last hour to blast music. He wouldn’t be surprised.
“Quiet,” he grumbles at them, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re sparring today, so pair up. And keep it down in my class, you lot. Scream at Mic, not me.”
*
Aizawa-kun really is unfairly attractive - especially in this setting. Even more so, perhaps. Having the honour of watching an Omega in their prime fight is always magnificent; but seeing this movement of muscle under pale skin, that deadly focus through narrowed eyes, and devoted, unwavering care to the students he’s instructing -
Underground heroes are a rare product of UA. Omega heroes focused on offense rather than rescue are equally uncommon; but then again, Aizawa is one of the most unusual characters he’s ever come across.
He shifts his forearms on the steel railing, leaning forward a little further. Witnessing Aizawa spar truly is an experience of its own. And yes, he should be taking notes - but it’s difficult to focus on the scratch of pen over paper when Aizawa-kun crouches down to watch Kirishima and Sero grapple better, giving dry pointers in a monotone voice that still manages to catch their attention.
“Kirishima. Keep your arms up when you’re defending. You can’t rely on your face to take every hit.”
Aizawa-kun paces, arms crossed over his chest and his eyes keen over their shadowed bags. He’s alert, even if he doesn’t look it - he can tell by the crisp coffee of his scent, the way his eyes flicker between padded sparring mats.
He has such a beautiful scent. Not as sweet as most Omegas tend to be; but something richer, close to savoury. Like dark chocolate and a hint of burnt sugar, complex and lovely. Air after rainfall, sometimes, when he’s a little more emotional. Rare as that is. The kind of scent he’d like to push his nose into and luxuriate in, parsing through layers and little subtle nuances to burn it into his senses.
Enough. He shifts awkwardly against the railings, focusing on the vaguely sneeze-inducing mismatch of adolescent pheromones rising up from the training floor to the viewing benches. He’s got notes to take, and no business daydreaming after his coworker like a teen.
It’s a sharp reprimand that sounds hauntingly like Nana’s voice inside his head. Apt, he supposes ruefully, when these thoughts drag him right back to his hormone-soaked adolescence. Seven years where he was constantly popping knots, sweating through sheets and clothing and rubbing his scent over every possession like a constant low-level rut.
“Agh!”
Yaoyorozu’s down, wincing from a solid, booted kick to the abdomen. But Shouta’s immediately helping her back up. Sniffing at her carefully, focused on checking her over for any serious injury or upset. If he concentrates hard enough, he can almost catch the soothing, rich Omega pheromones Shouta must be putting out to set her - and Kyoka too boot - back at ease, smoothing over guiltily ruffled feathers and aches. That scent can turn sharp, all the same; and he’s watched plenty of students wilt and cower under the slam of disapproval pushed out from his glands.
Anyone would be lucky to court Aizawa-kun.
But not - never a hero, it would seem. And there’s a part of him that says, small and slipping easy as a knife - well, I’m not a hero. That knife is the serrated kind, one that twists right in his back from where he stuck it with his own hand. How foolish and piteously hopeful, on both counts - to imagine that he could still be a hero in the first place, or to imagine being a mate to a powerful, intelligent and fierce Omega in his prime.
“Are you in pain?”
“N-no, sensei! I can continue!”
“Take a breather. Make sure there’s no sharp pain or nausea, and tell me if it’s not easing up.”
He looks back up to see Yaoyorozu walking it off, a small smile back on her face while Kyoka jogs to catch up with her Alpha friend. It’s nice, the camaraderie Aizawa-kun has managed to encourage in them. He’s fairly sure that his UA experience was never one that lent itself to friends, or anything more than competition between every member of the class - and Gran certainly wasn’t the type to teach them how to get along, outside of vaguely civil team-up exercises. He wonders if Aizawa-kun’s experience was more akin to his, or to the students he now teaches.
“Did you spot the common thread in their mistakes?”
He’s startled right back out of his own thoughts by Aizawa sitting down next to him, an eye cast impassively over to the near-blank page of the notebook in his hand. He closes it quickly, swallowing, and lifts his head before he can embarrass himself.
“I noticed that they tend to leave big openings, while they grapple. Faces, stomach, legs -”
“Yeah.” Aizawa nods, and he tries to ignore the utterly ridiculous part of him that squirms happily at the idea of having the right answer for his coworker. “Why?”
“Um -” he looks back over the groups; at Bakugou lunging at Todoroki’s gut with his shoulder ready to drive into him, sending them into a sprawling heap of growling and attempts at punching with claws out. Oh, dear. “They’ve all grown reliant on their quirks already. They haven’t focused on hand-to-hand fighting, and most of them don’t have practice or ability in spotting weaknesses or vulnerable points in the human body. And we have a large number of long distance fighters in the group - or at least, most benefit from having at least a mid-range distance to work with.”
Aizawa crosses one leg up over the other into a stretch that he does not look at, the inside of one thigh open and tilted up for the black fabric to stretch over in furrows. “Yeah. You’re good at this, you know. Better than you think.”
“Oh - thank you,” he tells him, and wills himself not to blush again. It’s proximity and a stupid delight in finding one more person to talk to him like a real person. That’s all. And it would be a gross case of misconduct to keep trailing after his coworker like a lost puppy with starry eyes. Very unprofessional.
“Bakugou! That’s your classmate, don’t claw at him. Save that for a serious fight.”
He’s dragged back into watching easily, starting to walk around with Aizawa-kun after hesitating for twenty minutes or so. The students still want to impress him, and he’s never quite sure how to feel about it.
Proud? Maybe.
But even in his prime, he was never one to delight in the gaze of the world on him; elevating him, imagining him as something so much greater than he could ever be. That image of something pure and good and all-powerful was an important thing for the people he protected, though. A symbol. So for every time the fear struck in, the idea of not being this perfect hero slipping in through an old fracture; he had no choice but to push it down. To play a role, and become something much greater than himself.
But now, having these children look at him like that in his frail and failing body - he’s just waiting for them to look away, one day, in disappointment. To turn and expect All Might, and find an old man missing half his guts and all of his old slapdash pride smoothed carefully over ruined brickwork. It’s just Yagi left now. No role to play, and he’s somehow adrift without it.
It doesn’t seem that today will be that day. Midoriya gets knocked on his backside while distracted; namely, beaming up at him and waiting for his thumbs-up of approval. It comes easily, and he feels Aizawa-kun’s eyes flicker over to him in a quiet reminder not to play favourites.
He nods, and tries for a smile. Probably a sheepish, awkward one.
At this rate, he’s going to have to tell Aizawa about their connection, about the legacy of his quirk - Midoriya’s quirk, now. Some day. Talking to him is something - easy. Like his tongue loosens as soon as Aizawa peers up at him with dark eyes, looking as if he’d quite like to take a nap if it weren’t for the constant burning vigilance behind that half-lidded gaze. Loosens, and lets out the kind of confessions he hasn’t told anyone else in years.
It’d be easy. It’s also just as terrible an idea as the urge to lean into Aizawa’s space, rest his cheek against that pale nape and inhale his fill, soaking in one of the most beautiful scents he’s ever known.
A terrible, awful, and wholly stupid idea.
*
The prescribed protein-vitamin-sugar-fat powder clumps up in the second mouthful he takes, and he tries his best to disguise a wince as a chunk of soggy grit hits his tongue. Thank fuck for the monitor he has to hide behind. For the sake of the rest of the staff in the lounge at least; hidden where they don’t have to watch him try to scrape the shake off his tongue with his front teeth. Artificial-tasting, and horrifyingly saccharine on top of it.
“Any progress on that manual?”
He swallows thickly, torn between taking another gulp of the watery mixture to clear the sludge under his front teeth, and not doing that for fear of the exact same clagging experience. Better not to risk it, he decides, and sits up straight.
“Yes! The recommended reading on designing exams was very interesting. I think - maybe if we had some past transcripts and recordings, I’d quite like to look over them and look for the theory applications.”
Snipe nods, pleased. “Shouldn’t be a problem. If you want any of the referenced stuff, I’ve got most of it in boxes in the dorms. Sendin’ it over’s no problem if you prefer a computer document, either.”
“Ah, I quite like print,” he confesses. “A little easier on the eyes, I find!”
They’re going to consider him nothing more than an old, worn-out man at this rate. And he’s doing nothing to detract from that fairly reasonable assessment.
“So do I.”
Aizawa-kun’s already gathering up his things for the next class, a cup of coffee steaming in his spot at the sofa by the tall windows. Yamada-kun looks up from his own monitor to grin, citrus hitting the air with the spike of his interest. The younger man never seems to rein his own scent in a great deal - but there’s something nice, all the same, about the openness of his personality.
“That’s right! Eraser here could probably loan you a couple of his tomes, if you wanna swap for something else. ”
“No need,” Aizawa grumbles, before he can wrack his brain for a potential - swap? What would he have that Aizawa would like to read? Aizawa-kun’s probably thinking the same, if the look he shoots Yamada is anything to go by. “Tell me when you’re done with the manual, and I’ll root out some of the stuff I thought was useful too. Between me and Snipe, you’ll have good reading material.”
“Thank you,” he says earnestly, looking between both of them earnestly. “It’s very kind of you to help like this!”
Snipe nearly frowns, right before his brow clears and he crosses his legs back over, leaning back in his chair. “‘Course we’d help if we can. We owe you all more than books and some tea is going to repay, All Might.”
His chest aches, just for a moment.
“Ah-”
“And you’re a helluva quick learner. Must have been top of the class in UA, hm?”
He laughs, a little embarrassed. “No, not really - I’ve always liked to read, I suppose.”
“Read?” Snipe grins at him, and it’s friendly enough that he instinctively smiles back. It’s nice. “You memorise, All Might. It’s a talent.”
“It’s impressive,” Aizawa tells him - when, he wonders, did he wander so close - and glances over at the almost full bottle of ‘nutrients’ sitting ominously on his desk, a tissue underneath the plastic to sop up the condensation that rings the base.
He tries not to think about his chest heats at that single snippet of praise, warmth seeping up to his neck. “Thank you -”
“Is that one of the Complete Meal packs? The high-calorie type?”
He stutters, caught off guard. His coworker has the stunning talent of sneaking up on him, even with his hearing. Befitting an underground hero, of course - but it still catches him off guard, now and then. “Oh - yes, it is! Why -”
“Those are disgusting,” Aizawa tells him, matter of fact. “Can you eat peanut butter?”
“Um - only the sugar-free type, just the plain peanut.”
Aizawa nods, and grabs the bottle from his table, reaching over his shoulder and brushing past in a quick drift of cocoa. He smells a little of sweat, a sheen of it from training, and he freezes in place as the younger man’s sleeve brushes past his face, chest close enough to the back of his head for him to feel the warmth of it and hear the rustle of fabric from his scarf as if he had laid his head down on the folds of alloy material.
He’s too startled by the switch in conversation and Aizawa-kun’s quick movement past him to say anything but the exact answer to the question put to him. And he watches, as Aizawa takes his bottle to the kitchen cabinets and starts rooting around through the condiments.
Kayama buries what looked like rather a grin into her mug of coffee - sweetened, chocolate added in generous spoonfuls - as he looks askance around the room for someone who can explain Aizawa-kun’s reasons for snatching his food. He’s met with the vague scent of amusement rising, and Snipe smiles at him with a friendly - and utterly incomprehensible - wink.
“Ah, Aizawa-kun?”
Even as he raises his voice in question, the younger man is walking back towards him and shaking the container with the kind of vigour that he’s only seen from teenagers shaking soda cans before flinging them - he caught a few in his younger years, threw them back before Nana scolded him and taught him how to laugh and defuse. Building on an instinct that was already there, something she could nurture.
“Here. Tastes better like this.”
It looks more - homogenous, he supposes, and lifts it to his mouth meekly. He’s not really sure what to say, and busying himself with taking another tentative mouthful seems like the best option, lest he embarrass himself with some silly remark that Aizawa-kun will respond to with his signature non-reaction.
It takes a moment for him to realise that, perhaps, staring up at a standing coworker while he hollows his cheeks to suck up a protein shake through a straw, is just a little bit...suggestive.
Very suggestive. Mortifyingly so, and he’s left stuck between the idea of pretending he hasn’t even thought of such a wild thing, sitting and continuing while trying not to flush; or letting on exactly what just crossed his mind and spitting the straw back out and swivelling in a not-at-all-furtive one-eighty turn.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, and then clears his throat. “Ah - thank you! That’s much better, actually.”
“No problem,” Aizawa-kun mutters, looking at a fold of his own scarf that must have some small flaw or defect, based on the way he worries his lower lip between his teeth before turning on his heel and sitting right back down.
Aizawa probably didn’t even notice his strange little moment of wild imagination, he assures himself. And the drink - this is a massive improvement, one that he can’t help but smile up at his coworker for after he takes another gulp. He really is such a kind person, for all of his gruff exterior.
The staff lounge quietens again as classes resume; until he, Kayama, Ectoplasm and Aizawa-kun are the only ones lingering and typing quietly before the bell signals the fifth class of the day. It’s - nice. Peaceful, to have coworkers around him in the staff lounge that just about rivals his old Might Tower office in size. This one, for all of its tall windows, ceilings, and doors, has never felt lonely. Nedzu’s clever like that, in terms of human social interaction, and how best to engineer it for a happy workforce. Some hero agencies could learn from him.
The only regret, in this space, is that he usually catches conversations not meant for his ears between teachers far closer to each other than he is to any of them. Embarrassing? Yes. Difficult to tear his attention away from, after years of using his hearing specifically to focus in on conversation, even to his detriment? Again, yes.
“Knock it off, Nem.”
He really needs a pair of headphones for the staff lounge. His hearing has always been a touch better than the average Alpha - and for whatever reason, even as his eyes dry out and fail to focus, and his sense of smell falters behind his own chemical substitute of a scent, his ears haven’t failed him.
He rubs at one of his ears, and tries his best to ignore the conversation occurring over at the sofa.
“-cute together, Shou’.” Nemuri slicks a careful layer of paint over her claws as she speaks, eyes flickering up to Aizawa briefly. A glossy purple today, incredibly neat once she uses the tip of a tissue to perfect an edge before leaning over, frowning at her laptop screen, and tapping at a few keys with the end of a pencil. “He’s so happy around you. And you don’t fool me, hon.”
There’s silence for a moment, and he resists the urge to peek over at them, two dark heads leaning in close.
Sometimes, seeing them sandwiched together makes a quiet, infuriatingly stupid little rumble swell up from his throat. A typical - and ridiculous - Alpha response to seeing another Alpha cosy up to an Omega who isn’t either of theirs in the first place, and a misguided instinct he’s stomped out with every new flicker of irritating life.
“I -”
Aizawa-kun’s voice falters, and he seriously considers standing up and walking right out. Would either of them realise the reason, or just how much he’s eavesdropped? Kayama might, with her Alpha hearing, and Aizawa with his perceptive nature.
“I don’t like him sitting or eating alone. He looks - he should have friends. More than what he’s got.”
It hurts, a little. And it’s not even that Aizawa-kun is being unkind, or deliberately cruel. But he deserves that for listening in, as Gran would tell him. With a hand on the back of his neck, a pointed ‘ listeners never hear good of themselves’ growled into his ear.
The idea of Aizawa-kun feeling sorry for him - it aches, a little. Makes him feel just a bit more washed up, a little less confident in the bright exterior he’s been striving for. Exposed and left out bare with the idea that his coworkers can all see straight through him; each of his pitiful attempts at breaking the ice formed of misplaced respect and an unspoken, horrible hierarchy - one that just leaves him lonely and lacking companionship, but for the few evenings when he can call Naomasa and catch up. Or Dave, when he has phone hours.
Wonderful. Even by his own admission, his closest friend is a busy detective in his mid-thirties, seconded by an old friend currently serving time. Gran would probably have something to grumble about that; along the lines of what it says about a man who can’t make friends his own age. Not that there are many of his generation left knocking around.
“- want to be his friend, huh?” Kayama teases in a lilt, followed by a hiss of surprise immediately after. “Hey! I just painted those!”
This seems like as good a time to leave as ever. To gather up his notebooks and textbooks awkwardly, stuffing them into the bag that Naomasa had bought him in recognition of his career-change, of sorts. He can kill a little time between classes with the confusing exam script he’s meant to be working on, anyways, and he won’t have to hang around and hear Aizawa-kun murmur about how pathetic he looks.
No, he reminds himself vehemently, ducking out past the lounge doorway with a wave and striding down the hallway with an unsettled feeling in his gut. Aizawa doesn’t think that – hopefully, possibly - and it’s not fair to put words into his mouth. Even if it’s a fair assessment.
The sun’s bright over the hallways, strong enough that he has to squint as a ray hits him right across the face. Warm through the glass, angular and bright on the floor as he takes the steps down to the next floor, holding the last of his improved protein shake in his hand.
Maybe the reason why his sore secrets and old stories slip loose so easily to be told - aching out of him, sour in his mouth - is because Aizawa-kun’s shoulders have always looked strong enough to hold up the weight of the world. Caring, and kind, and – familiar. An Omega with dark hair, darker eyes, and fire behind them.
And maybe, possibly, probably; he’s a terrible person for seeing that, and loading his shit onto him all the same.