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When the ache is Shōta’s chest is too big. When he can’t bear to close his eyes for fear of seeing another person disappear. When he’s scared of what lies between the physical world and unconsciousness. When his bones feel frigid from longing. This is when he picks up the phone and makes the call.
Shōta had learned early on that he was on his own. He had learned it at 4 years old from his parents who cast him aside. He learned at 11 from his teachers who dismissed him with ease. He learned at 14 when kids laughed in his face after asking if he could sit with them at lunch. He learned at 22 when he observed other people on the street, hands intertwined with their lovers, and he felt physically sick from never having the negative space of his palms filled with another.
Tonight is a night like many others. The darkness in Shōta’s room is brightened by a small cat night light gifted to him by one of his only friends, Nemuri, but dim yellow light from the cat is never enough to chase away his fears and fill his heart; the artificial light and warmth will never feel like a person. It’s in his dark room that he is alone with his thoughts.
Typically, he can get by with fantasies of a lover. A faceless man who lays in his bed, caresses his cheek and tells Shōta he is loved. The disgust from the pathetic imagery only taught him in the light of day. Tonight though, his fantasies are only a reminder that he is utterly alone in the universe.
So he moves onto the next strategy he uses whenever sleep evades him. He reaches for the nightstand where his phone had been discarded nearly two hours previous. The bright light of the phone makes Shōta strain his already sensitive eyes. He only keeps his eyes open for a second though because once at the phone application, it’s all muscle memory from there. He types out the numbers from pure instinct alone and waits for exactly 3 rings until the answering machine picks up. From there, he clicks the number 4, a song request, and waits.
The waiting is the only variant. Sometimes he’s busy and has songs queued and it will take 30 minutes to an hour to get through. Other nights it’s almost instantly. Tonight, Shōta has just enough time to grab his classic radio and turn it on (he need not set it to the station, he never changes the dial).
The song playing on the station is soothing, a softer piece that is common this hour of the night. From his telephone, he hears a voice. “This is Present Mic from ‘Put Your Hands Up’ radio, what song can I play for you tonight, listener?” Shōta can recite this word for word now.
“Can I Sleep in Your Brain by Ezra Furman.”
“Oh, my favorite listener! Thank you for calling, I love taking your requests.”
“Thank you.”
Then he waits. Shōta never hangs up first. He waits and listens to the sound of Mic typing on the other line as he searches for the song and queues it. Usually, Mic will end the call after that but sometimes Mic forgets to hang up until the next caller calls and it seems that tonight is one of the latter.
Shōta listens quietly as Mic hums to himself as he works in the booth. He hears more typing and some clicking from the background. There’s a vibration from Mic’s personal phone which is quieted almost immediately. Shōta closes his eyes and pictures Mic moving around the studio. He’s never seen Mic before but he imagines that he’s beautiful. He tries not to dwell on his fantasies though.
Tonight, Shōta gets 4 minutes of Mic’s existence in the background before he’s finally hung up on. Sometimes, he thinks he hears a soft ‘good night’ like Mic has left him on the phone on purpose and is speaking to him. He has concluded that he’s imagining it though.
He places his phone back on the bed and turns his radio back up.
“This next song is for my favorite listener, hope you enjoy.” Shōta lets out a pleased sigh and closes his eyes as the song starts.
It’s surprising though, instead of the recognizable beat of the drum at the intro of the song, there is a rhythm of chords being played on the guitar. Shōta opens his eyes. Never has Mic played the wrong song before. He barely has time to consider an error though before a different voice, a very familiar voice, instead. Mic’s voice fills his room through the radio but not in the usual radio host voice, it’s in a melodic singing voice.
It’s odd to hear this song sung from the lips of a man Shōta has come to feel close to. It feels intimate in a way Shōta has never experienced before. He can’t recall a time someone has ever done anything quite so personal for him. As Mic sings his way through the chorus, Shōta places his hand over his heart to feel it fill under his fingertips. This is what a human connection feels like, this is what Shōta has been lacking for 26 years.
He closes his eyes and imagines Mic singing directly to him from his room. Mic would sit in the reading couch tucked in the corner of Shōta’s room and balance his guitar on his knee. He would strum softly as not to disrupt the stillness of the room and sing sweetly just for Shōta to hear. Shōta shivers at the fantasy. He doesn’t notice that he’s crying while he listens to the rest of the song.
When the song ends, Mic greets the audience once again. “Thank you for listening. Good night.”
Shōta lets out a shuddering breath as he opens his eyes. It takes him a moment to gather his bearings and in that time, another song begins and ends. He glances at the clock as he sits up and notices the time. It’s only 2 am. Mic doesn’t end his show until 4 and yet he had said good night as though he was signing off. Shōta entertains the idea that Mic had gone off the air early but that seemed unlikely which leaves him grappling with the thought that maybe, just maybe, Mic had been speaking to him directly.
His phone vibrates on the nightstand. He’s not on duty tonight so the sound sends chills down his spine. The number is unknown. Danger his mind tells him.
Reeling, he clicks ‘accept call’ and places the phone to his ear.
“Eraserhead,” he says. His voice is rough from tiredness and emotions.
“This is Present Mic.”
“Present Mic?” The pitch of Shōta’s voice increases and his heart beats faster.
“Yes. You’re the one who also calls and requests songs at night, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Oh good,” Shōta hears a light laugh from Mic, “I thought I’d gotten the number wrong. I never imagined you would be a fellow pro hero.” That’s right, the name Present Mic was familiar from his connection with the hero world. Shōta was detached from it for the most part though so he had never thought to look for him.
“You know me?” Shōta kicked himself, From all the things to say at the moment.
“Well, I’ve heard of you just here and there.”
“Oh.”
There was an awkward pause before Mic continued talking. “So I was wondering if you heard the song tonight?”
“I did.”
“Good, good,” Shōta can almost see him nodding. “What did you think?” And Shōta thinks he sounds almost nervous.
“It was...” The best sound I’d ever hear. It felt like there was finally another body next to me. It mended my empty heart. It filled the other half of my chest. “It was good.”
“Okay.”
“Really good. I-I like-I loved it,” Shōta manages.
There’s a heavy exhale on the other line. “Really?”
“Yeah. It was perfect.” Shōta could cry again.
“Then, um, what’s your name. Your real name?”
“Shōta Aizawa.”
“I’m Hizashi Yamada.”
“Hizashi?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you ever feel so alone like your bones will break and it hurts so much your teeth chatter? You feel cold like you’ll never be warmed again and it seems like the whole world is full except for you?”
“Yeah, I do.” Shōta can almost swear that Hizashi is crying on the other end.
“Then,” Shōta takes a shaky breath, “Then will you help me? Can you fill me up? Will you complete me?”
The sound of crying is audible now and Shōta wonders who is crying and realizes it’s both of them.
“I can.” Hizashi finally manages.
Shōta squeezes his eyes shut, and he swallows around the lump in his throat.“Is it weird that I love you?”
“I love you too.”
Shōta wipes his wet face with the back of his arm, smearing the tears on his sweater. “Come see me after?”
“Of course. I’ll see you soon.”
Like always, Shōta doesn't hang up the phone. He waits for Hizashi to do it but it never comes. The line is mostly silent for two hours with occasional noises from Hizashi’s end. Sometimes around 3 Shōta falls asleep and wakes to the sound of a voice calling him. “Shōta?”
He cradles his phone to his cheek and notes that the battery is on 6 percent. “Yes?”
“I’m coming over now. Can you tell me where you live?” Shōta does. “Thank you, baby.” Baby. Shōta has never heard the word directed at him and it feels like he’s been fed a spoonful of honey; he’s pleasantly full and his mouth and insides feel sticky all over but in the best way possible. “Do you want me to stay on the phone while I walk?”
“Yes, please.”
The next time Shōta hears Hizashi’s voice is after he’s opened the door for him.