Erasermic but them getting together starts because of a suggestion made on a loose night.
Maybe it comes from a drunken deal where Hizashi proposes that the two of them -- he mumbles this to Shouta, once Nemuri slips on home, who'd flashed them an incorrigible wink before she'd left that even Mic himself didn't have enough patience to decipher -- just pair off in five or so years if they don't happen to score a partner.
Hizashi proposes this under the assumption that Shouta will just laugh it off.
Okay, maybe not laugh it off; that's not really Shouta's style. Perhaps he'd snort, then. Run a hand over his long, black hair to curtain himself in it to hide his wide-toothed grin, suppress a snicker at the proposition and mutter something snarky, make a joke about Hizashi's poor dating life and sorry taste.
Not that he has any leg up in that department either. What with Shouta's skills in said dating scene an inch away from non-existent, if not newborn, it would be rather hypocritical for him, of all people, to raise a brow, look him up and down.
(Aizawa Shouta has never been just 'of all people' to Hizashi, though.)
To his surprise, Shouta doesn't react the way he'd expected him to. Sure, he goes quiet and still, for a moment. But it's only for a moment, when those dim eyes glance away as if considering it. Considering it. He's still quiet, but there's no amount of coercion or cats that could coax Shouta not to be quiet even on his best days, and so it works out.
Hizashi doesn't do much else but slam another beer down his throat as he waits, stubbornly, almost soberly aware of this.
"Five years?" he'd eventually hear rasped out, familiar baritones low and monotonous. "Why not three?"
It's only years of experience chugging alcohol and a dream that enable him to remain numb, at first. His initial reaction speed is most likely a side effect of the alcohol.
Who cares about the semantics? He still sputters off with a harsh cough when the foam in his mouth turns into bile, just as the words register. His eyes lock onto Shouta's once he manages to piece himself together, bit by bit, like some sore mistake for a puzzle piece you'd pick up at a secondhand store, with corners that don't really stick right until you pull them apart first.
Jeez, Aizawa Shouta, he thinks dryly, why not three? Are you trying to kill me, here?
"Why not three?" he repeats. Voice dropping low, he tilts his head, leering suggestively into Shouta's space. He's well aware he's taking a hell of a chance here. Pushing his luck. "Why, Aizawa Shouta, Eraserhead--"
"I thought we agreed on no hero names in public."
Shouta does not lay a finger on him.
Encouraged, Hizashi barrels on. "Ya think I'll woo someone my way that early? In just three years? How," he hics, "-sweet!"
The other shrugs a shoulder. Hizashi's hard loss against sobriety is enough to tide him oblivious to the red flush forming from Shouta's neck to his cheeks, crisscrossing against his eyes like strawberries. He's normally a heavyweight -- unlike Shouta, the lightweight of their trio --but they'd already stumbled past a bar or two, and this was surely, definitely, not their first venture in the night.
"You always have people hanging off your-- shoulders. S'not like I'm commenting on anything new," Shouta says, turning away. "This deal of yours won't really happen anyway, so I figured I'd entertain your 'bit of the day'."
Heroes have an obligation to hold onto chances. From the moment he was born, voice whining and bleeding out the ears of everyone he was supposed to love first, Hizashi Yamada has always been voracious for an opening, eyes forever keen on running after prospects he'd only dreamed of.
Knowing Aizawa Shouta? Dating Aizawa Shouta? To know what he was like stumbling out of bed on a Sunday morning without the pretense of camaraderie, companionship? There's no just-- friendship is just as good as any avenue, sometimes better-- but Hizashi knows, too, that what he feels for Shouta doesn't veer in any other direction except down, a grey boulder sinking downward and downward to crush on his heart and stomp it in two.
His heart wouldn't split open to reveal Present Mic and Hizashi Yamada, make them come undone to reveal the real suitor, because in the end, the both of them love Shouta just the way he is, seeing no need to compete with the way Shouta can break through them both and see the in-between anyway.
And, maaaaaybe he's too drunk for this, from the way Shouta is staring at him expectantly, brows furrowed as if it'd been pressed into that crease for a long while.
He'll take a wild guess and assume he's been holding his tongue for too long.
"Hey," Hizashi drawls, swaying an accusing finger. Shouta blinks up at him in relief. "I don't have people hangin' off of my shoulders all the time! Don't ya think there's a reason I, ah, suggested this thing in the first place?"
He can't even remember the last time he's seriously chased after someone. Had his world rocked just enough to make him consider taking his sunglasses off and running blind in the light their shadow provided.
Not since high school, and that was when the whole thing... you know. Spiraled.
"I mean, we already know we work together pretty swell, yanno," he rambles. His other hand cups the beer mug tight, pulling it forward closer to his orbit. "Like a tight-knit knot! Dynamic duo! Thick as thieves and all that! Sho-chan and Zashi-chan, Mic and Eraser!"
He digs in a gulp of air, if only to stall.
"If," he coughs. "Nothing else works out, that is."
Shouta breathes in a slow huff that sounds vaguely strained. Then there's a faint chuckle.
Hizashi doesn't take much notice to the first bit, mind already memorizing the shape of his laughter.
"If nothing else works out," his friend repeats. "Sure."
"Hey," Hizashi says, protestingly. He waves a hand. "You're the one who sprung three years on that mark, pal, not me. That's all on ya."
"Alright," the other muses. Lifting an arm in the air languidly, Shouta continues, quiet. "If that's all on me, then this next one's all on you."
"Cough up the bill," and Hizashi really should've known what was coming when the grin (lazier, this time, the drinks taking its toll on the curve of Shouta's lips) quirked up, "I know you've got pockets for days in those stupid leather pants of yours. Don't let 'em go to waste."
He gawks, eyes wide. A hand instinctively reaches to paw at the creases on his lap. "Hey! Don't insult my babies like that!"
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