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Aizawa doesn’t intend to overhear it.
He’s dragging himself through UA corridors one afternoon, fully intending on just going back to the staff dorms and crashing on the couch for the rest of the day, when he hears quiet murmurs coming from one of the classrooms. That in itself isn’t particularly noteworthy – some students choose to use the rooms as study areas if their own dormitories get too loud – but he tunes his ears into the conversation anyway, because Midoriya and Kirishima aren’t usually the two he expects to catch hanging out outside classroom hours. Not that they don’t get along, of course – they just get along with others better.
“And sometimes I can’t help but think he was right, you know?” the problem child mutters as Aizawa stops to listen. “I mean – it’s not exactly... a thing.”
“What would he know?” Kirishima exclaims fiercely in response. “I bet he didn’t even go on to get into a hero school! What would he know about being a hero besides what they say on the news?”
It’s rare to hear him so fired up. That is, perhaps, another thing that piques Aizawa’s curiosity.
“I guess,” Midoriya sighs. “But then – some of the pro heroes are our teachers, you know? And still, it’s not like any of them are... I mean, it’s certainly not a common occurrence for a hero to be... out.”
Out? Aizawa thinks. He begins to suspect that he knows what this conversation is about.
“True,” Kirishima mumbles, shifting in his chair, judging by the sound. “I mean, there’s Tiger-san, but that’s different, I suppose. Plus he has a team to stick up for him.”
They sit in silence for a while longer. Aizawa fights the urge to sigh loudly, or, worse, to just intrude on their conversation.
“Still, doesn’t mean we can’t be!” Kirishima continues after the silence gets heavy. “Out, that is. We could totally stick up for each other too!”
“Peak gay-bi solidarity,” Midoriya jokes, and, yup, there it is. Aizawa does sigh loudly. He doesn’t intrude on the conversation though – instead, he shakes his head and continues to walk. The students don’t notice.
He thinks he should really train his class in vigilance.
***
“Hizashi,” he says as soon as he gets back to their dorm.
The dorm is really more of an apartment – a living room, two bedrooms (what a joke) and a small kitchen. Mic looks up at him from where he’s lounging on the sofa, and his face splits into a grin.
“Shouta!” he greets, sitting up a little. “You look unusually awake considering the time of day!”
“I’m not,” Aizawa grumbles, collapsing on the couch next to him. Hizashi takes that as a cue for him to plop his head down into Shouta’s lap, which he promptly does. “Just heard the kids talking about something, is all.”
“Oh yeah?” Hizashi hums curiously. “Must’ve been one hell of a talk, what with how riled up you are!”
Shouta gives him a flat look. Mic doesn’t even bother returning it, because he knows that Shouta knows that he’s right.
Aizawa thinks.
It’s been seven years since they got married. These years have also been some of the best years in his life, and although correlation doesn’t always imply causation, he strongly suspects that these two things have something to do with each other. He would never want any of his students – hell, any aspiring heroes – to think that they can’t have this just because there aren’t examples out in the open. He wonders if that makes him soft.
But still.
He chose this. Hizashi was never the one who insisted on keeping the relationship secret, because Hizashi thrived in the spotlight, and he would, no doubt, be ecstatic to finally get to gush about Aizawa on his radio show. But Shouta is an underground hero – spotlight is hardly where he does his best work. He doesn’t need cameras pointed at him, he doesn’t need obnoxious journalist questions or press conferences. He gets enough of those as a homeroom teacher of a bunch of troublemakers.
And that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? he thinks. He is an underground hero. And he is a teacher.
Which is more–
Which is more–
“Hizashi?” he says, finally. Mic looks up at him, his hair framing his face, his eyes ever hypnotic. Aizawa sighs and thinks, teacher. “You know that talk show appearance you have coming up?”
(He’s way too soft for the aforementioned bunch of troublemakers, and he doesn’t know why he can’t even feel mad about it).
***
Present Mic, what between having his own radio station and maintaining the perfect image of an entertainer, is usually the one interviewing other pro heroes. Perhaps they feel more comfortable around someone who gets the intricacies of the job – no matter how sensationalist, he would never ask a question that could compromise their heroics – or perhaps they just like the publicity they get out of appearing next to a hero as popular. In any case, Present Mic is usually the one on the asking side, so whenever he takes the place of an interviewee, people are bound to be curious.
Class 1-A is no exception to the rule – the evening of his scheduled appearance at one of the popular talk shows at least half of them gravitate towards the common rooms, claiming the spots in front of the television. Satou makes them all popcorn, the girls take the sofa to themselves making the boys migrate towards the carpet, Midoriya brings his notebook just in case, and even Bakugou lingers in the corner of the room, pretending he isn’t here to watch. They chatter amongst themselves, waiting for the advertisements to finally come to an end, and when the talk show logo finally comes on screen, Iida shushes them all into listening.
The beginning isn’t anything of note per say. Mic and the host – her name is Takagi Chiyo and her quirk makes her look vaguely translucent – exchange pleasantries and make witty smalltalk about Mic’s jobs and the suit his wearing. The hero gushes about how he isn’t used to not having to think of questions and suggests he should interview her one of these days, to which Takagi laughs and says she wouldn’t mind. Class 1-A squabbles over the popcorn bowl.
Takagi is an experienced interviewer, so the conversation flows naturally, the two of them discussing Mic’s middle school years and more recent heroic escapades. Midoriya scribbles some things down in his notebook and Bakugou roams closer to the screen while still, somehow, managing to pretend that he isn’t interested. Kirishima tries to rope him into finally sitting down, alternating between pleading gazes and playful taunts.
Then the conversation drifts towards UA, and they even get name-dropped once as the troublemaker class, to which a quiet cheer ripples through the common room. But before the hostess can move on to ask anything more confidential than matters which have already been addressed at public press-conferences, Mic adjusts his tie, and she suddenly goes quiet.
“Yes?” the hero grins charmingly. She blinks.
“Uh,” she says, very eloquent for a TV-personality, “what’s that?”
“My tie?” Mic raises one eyebrow, his lips splitting into a grin which one could call sly if one didn’t know any better. “I thought we already discussed how well it goes with my eyes, Takagi-san.”
The hostess laughs weakly.
“Well, of course it does,” she tells him. “However, I was thinking more about ... the ring.”
Mic’s grin widens.
“Oh the ring,” he says, casually, offering her his hand to inspect it. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I usually wear it on a chain around my neck, but I figured it would be a nice change of pace, to put it where it belongs for once.”
“Very beautiful,” Takagi says, her voice suspiciously faint. “And it belongs there why exactly?”
Mic almost purrs, like a cat who’s got exactly what he was aiming for.
“Oh, why, Takagi-san,” he says. “I’m sure you’ve heard of wedding rings before!”
Ashido drops the popcorn bowl. It spills all over the carpet. No one scolds her.
Class 1-A erupts into yelling all at once, not unlike, no doubt, so many other viewers out there. The audience of the talk show at the very least seems to go wild, screaming and clapping and causing a general ruckus. Takagi tries to get them to settle down, but her heart is not in it – she looks, in fact, just as shellshocked as the rest of them. Mic watches over the crazed crowd with a satisfied smirk, his legs bouncing energetically. Kaminari reaches for the carpet popcorn.
Finally, some vague semblance of order is restored, to the talk show studio and the common room alike. Iida sweeps the remaining popcorn bits into his palms to dispose of, and the hostess takes a long, deep breath.
“Right,” she says slowly. “Right, well. May I offer my congratulations?”
If that were possible, one could think Mic’s smirk widens even further at that.
“I mean, you’re seven years too late,” he says, “but I ain’t opposed.”
Needless to say, that starts another riot.
The producers of the show, or whoever is responsible for those kinds of things, finally decide that this would be an appropriate time for an ad break, so the studio fades to white with a promise to return in ten minutes or so. The students of 1-A, in turn, decide that this is an appropriate time to get the yelling out of their system.
“Seven years!” Ashido shrieks. “He’s literally our teacher, we see him almost every day, how come we didn’t know?!”
“Right, right!” Hagakure chimes in, swinging her arms around wildly and punching Asui in the shoulder as a consequence. “Oh – sorry, Tsu-chan. But still, seven years!”
Yeah, the ad break is definitely a smart idea.
By the time the show is back on air they have managed to somewhat settle down, although Midoriya is still scribbling wildly in the notebook of his, no doubt theorising about the identity of the mysterious spouse. Satou re-enters the room with another bowl of popcorn, to which everyone proceeds to hail him a hero they do not deserve, and the screen flickers with a familiar logo.
“Right,” Takagi says through the speakers with a chuckle. “That’s one way to cause an uproar, Mic.”
“I live to entertain,” Mic responds with a joking bow, his hands clasped on the desk, the ring directly on display. “Now, now, you listeners – viewers? – haven’t seen it–“ he winks at the camera – “but while we were having the ad break, Takagi was handed a whole list of questions to ask me about it all, so if you aren’t interested in my personal life, switch the channels now.”
Which is, naturally, a complete joke, because unless you’re Midoriya, what else is there to be interested about when it comes to public figures?
“Indeed so!” Takagi laughs, looking through the papers in front of her. “Well, lets start with something a little less personal, shall we? Seven years is impressive, Mic!”
“I like to think so,” the hero grins. “Though, here’s to the rest of our lives together, because I absolutely cannot imagine living otherwise.”
The crowd swoons. 1-A is not far behind.
“I’m sure everyone wishes you all the best in that regard,” the hostess smiles. “But, if I may ask, why the sudden reveal? I mean, you’ve kept it under wraps for seven years! What’s so different now?”
Mic leans back against his sofa.
“Well,” he hums, “personally, I’ve never been the one striving for secrecy. I mean, I’m in love – why wouldn’t I want to shout it from the rooftops?” (More swooning). “But being married to someone like me was always going to result in unwanted publicity. In my position, wouldn’t you want to keep your partner out of the media’s attention too? No offence to the media, naturally, but as one of its primary members, I know all of us tend to get a little... overenthusiastic.”
Takagi giggles in agreement. Mic smiles.
“However, that begs he question – what changed?” he says. “And I’ll tell you what changed. Kind of. Basically, you can blame – or thank, rather, because don’t try to pretend you aren’t having a field day – you can thank a bunch of kids for this.”
Takagi blinks.
“You have kids?!” she exclaims, leaning over her desk. Mic bursts out laughing.
“No, no, no. I mean, at least not really – there are, I can assure you, no kids officially under our parental responsibility. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t kids in our general proximity. Hey, I work at UA, remember? And my partner’s a homeroom teacher, no less!”
Thankfully, no one is holding the popcorn bowl this time, but Ojirou definitely lets a remote clatter to the floor from where he was trying to increase the volume. Uraraka almost jumps in her seat, gripping onto Asui’s arm, before clasping her fingers together sheepishly to let the floating Tsu fall back down onto the sofa. Sero and Kaminari exchange a look.
“Homeroom teacher here?” Midoriya mumbles to no one in particular. “Do you think he’s talking about Midnight-san?”
That is a logical conclusion to come to, but somehow the idea of Midnight and Mic together doesn’t sit right in anyone’s mind. On the screen, Takagi tilts her head to the side, eyes narrowed.
“Does she work at UA too?” she asks. Mic snorts quietly.
“What do you think?” he says. “If we didn’t share at least one-and-a-half of our jobs, we probably wouldn’t have had any time for each other!”
“And-a–?”
“Heroism,” Mic shrugs. “We don’t usually team up, of course – or at least try not to publicise it if we do – but at least we understand the perils of the job. Frankly, I don’t think I could ever make it work with a civilian. Not that others cannot – but I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Right, of course,” the hostess nods, narrowing her eyes even further. “Now, my memory might deceive me, but I can’t think of any female homeroom teacher in UA other than Midnight-san. I would have never pegged her for a type to settle down.”
“Nemuri?” Mic scoffs. “Yeah, never. She’s not the domestic type – and I bet she’s glaring at the screen right now, but it’s true and she knows it.” He clasps his hands together excitedly. “Also, no, your memory doesn’t deceive you. It’s really high time for Principal Nezu-san to kick in some diversity schemes, huh?”
For an entire long moment the audience goes silent.
For an entire long moment even 1-A goes silent, everyone staring at the screen, unblinking. Even Midoriya pauses his scribbles, his pen slipping out of his fingers.
Then, Takagi drops her forehead at her desk.
“You’re married to a man, aren’t you,” she mutters. “How fucking heteronormative of me.” And then, smacking a palm over her mouth: “Crap. I’m not supposed to say that on air.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Mic grins. “And oh yeah, very much so. I’m married to a man, and my husband is the most wonderful man to have ever walked the planet.” He blinks a few times, shaking his head wildly. “Gosh, you don’t know how long I wanted to say that.”
One would suspect that whoever is in charge of ad breaks must have come, in this exact moment, to regret putting one in earlier.
Needless to say, the common room explodes with shouting in a way only barely inferior to the audience in the studio.
Tsu actually leaps off the sofa. Kirishima leans across Kaminari to grip Izuku on the shoulder, way too tight. Hagakure and Ashido squeak at a frequency that should not physically be possible. Jirou gasps. Aoyama starts clapping. Todoroki hums in quiet appreciation. Even Bakugou, Bakugou Katsuki out of all people, allows himself a short, almost happy smirk in the screen’s direction. The popcorn bowl gets tipped over again, but this time it’s mostly empty, and besides, not even Iida cares about cleaning it up after such a turn of events. Yaoyorozu, who wanders down the stairs to see what the commotion is about, is yanked towards the pile of girls on the sofa and takes at least another two minutes to understand just what has happened, what with barely anyone being able to form a coherent sentence.
It is, strangely enough, Tokoyami who ends up getting them to quiet down. He hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against his beak, and then says –
“Wait. Which man?”
That grabs everyone attention, alright. No one dares to make guesses anymore – god knows this evening has been one curveball after another.
On screen, Mic waits for the crowd to settle down at least vaguely, a smirk still on his lips, playing with the wedding ring on his finger. When they do settle down – more or less so – and when there seems to be no more danger of the uproar starting again, he allows himself a laugh.
“That went better than I anticipated,” he admits. “Well, marginally. I still expect at least four scandalous articles to have to address tomorrow. But in any case – you asked me a question!”
Even Takagi looks momentarily confused at that.
“You know, the one about why now?” the hero chuckles. “Well, let me finish the story. So my dearest beloved husband – I will not stop referring to him as such for the nearest week, and you better not test me! – was walking through the school corridors a couple of afternoons ago and overheard a few kids talking about the lack of representation among the hero ranks. And, because he is an amazing person and a wonderful teacher, he thought, to hell with it. Gotta give the younger generations someone to look up to, you know?”
He winks at the camera again. Midoriya picks his pen up, very slowly, and turns his head to find Kirishima’s gaze. Both of them are blushing furiously.
“Us?” he mouthes. Eijirou shrugs weakly.
“Probably.”
Not that either of them can stop grinning. Not that either of them want to.
“So as gratitude,” Mic says, “your English homework deadline’s extended until Wednesday. I have ways to convince your homeroom teacher, after all.”
Most of class 1-A doesn’t realise, at first, just why do Kirishima and Midoriya suddenly start screaming.
But then Kirishima mutters –
“Thank god, I haven’t even started on that essay yet–“
and most of class 1-A is smart enough to figure out just what that means.