The ramen shop was nearly empty by the time Satoru arrived.
He slipped into the booth across from Aizawa, who didn't look up from his bowl. The steam fogged his glasses slightly, but he kept slurping like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Satoru sat there, unsure of what to say. He hadn't even been sure Aizawa would respond to his message.
But when his own bowl arrived, and the first mouthful of miso broth hit his tongue, the silence felt… okay.
Eventually, Aizawa muttered, "Eat faster. It's better when it's hot."
Satoru nodded. "Thanks for coming."
"I was already here."
Liar.
Still, Satoru smiled faintly and kept eating.
---
They moved to the alley behind the shop after that—Aizawa lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. Satoru pulled his coat tighter.
"No alcohol?" he asked.
"You're underage."
Satoru raised a brow. "You drink in front of underage heroes all the time."
"I don't share."
A beat passed. Then Aizawa handed him a canned coffee.
It was still warm.
"Close enough," Satoru murmured, popping the tab.
A long silence.
Then:
"Why'd you call me?" Aizawa asked without looking at him.
Satoru leaned back on the opposite wall. "Because you're the only person I know who doesn't bullshit."
Aizawa smirked, barely. "Still sounds like a mistake."
"Maybe," Satoru said. "But I'm tired of pretending I'm fine."
The cigarette burned. The wind picked up.
Aizawa exhaled smoke into the cold night. "So stop pretending."
"I don't know how."
Aizawa studied him. "Then fake it less. Start there."
---
Satoru slid down the wall, sitting on the pavement, legs stretched out.
"Did you ever feel like this?" he asked quietly.
Aizawa didn't answer right away. He took another drag, watching the city breathe in lights and distant sirens.
"Yeah," he said finally. "And worse."
"What did you do?"
"I kept going."
Satoru frowned. "Even when trying wasn't enough?"
Aizawa flicked ash from the end of his cigarette.
"Especially then."
Another silence. Not cold—just weathered.
---
Satoru drank the rest of the canned coffee in slow sips. "Sometimes I think I'm just pretending to be brave. That if people knew how scared I was—"
"They'd still thank you," Aizawa interrupted.
Satoru looked at him.
"You think people care how scared you are?" Aizawa said, meeting his eyes. "They care that you showed up. That you stood there. That you didn't run."
He tapped his cigarette out against the brick.
"You're not special because you're fearless. You're special because you're scared and still doing it anyway."
Satoru's hands trembled just a little.
Aizawa sighed and pulled out another can—this one grape soda—and tossed it to him.
"You're gonna burn out," he said.
"I know."
"Good. Then maybe you'll slow down before you crash."
Satoru cracked the can open and took a long drink.
Then whispered, "Thanks for showing up."
"Don't get used to it."
But Aizawa didn't leave for a long while.
They just stood there—two tired men, one older, one younger, and the same kind of broken.