Yamada laughs and ruffles Hitoshi’s hair as he walks past him. Hitoshi drops his head on the table in resignation. There’s not a trace of humor in his voice. “He’ll get there early even if I have to drag him the whole way there,” Aizawa says. “I’ll sneak a couple naps in during downtime,” Aizawa says, not turning away from the coffee machine. “You’re the one who chose to do your regular patrol last night even with the festival today! Don’t blame me for your bad decisions and fatigue!” “Aww, Shouta, don’t be like that,” Yamada says, leaning in to poke Aizawa’s nose before pressing a kiss to his hair. “Stop being so unreasonably cheery and get out.” “It’s barely six in the morning,” Aizawa groans, glaring at the coffee machine like it’ll make it brew faster. He’s fully decked out in his hero uniform. He peers into the reflective surface of their fridge and slicks up a stray strand of hair, patting it in place with the rest of his extravagant updo. “I’m heading out early,” Yamada says jauntily, the lone beacon of sunshine in their dreary kitchen.
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