#it's because of his bad hip!

[thetomorrowshow]

a stuffed deer

empires superpowers au masterlist (currently out of date)

this story takes place about one year after the end of ‘poisoned rats’.

cw: past abuse, religious trauma, referenced past death, deadnaming/misgendering of a character (but the person isn’t really doing it out of mailce, and said character is dead)

~

The closer they get, the more anxious Scott becomes. His hands grip tighter on the steering wheel, he checks his mirrors more often, he glances over at Jimmy every couple of seconds.

This is fine. This is normal, even. He knows what he’s doing. He’s done far more terrifying things than this. He’s nearly died several times, he’s graduated college, he’s been a superhero for years.

He can face his birth parents.

He’s been talking to Nora about it for several months, and he’s come to the conclusion that he needs closure. Not about himself—he fully understands their feelings for him, and made peace with them long ago. No, he’s here for closure on Xornoth.

In the last minutes before their death, Xornoth had declared themself to be Scott’s sibling. As far as he knows, he’d been an only child. If what Xornoth said was true, that puts Scott in charge of any and all of their possessions currently being held by the city. Not that he wants them, but the mayor had asked him to pursue any leads he found on Xornoth’s next of kin and, even though it had taken him an entire year and a half, he finally feels ready to pursue the only one he’s ever had.

Jimmy’s fiddling with the radio next to him, switching between gospel and country. There’s not much else that comes through out here, and they’re going through a dead zone for their data plan, so Jimmy eventually just turns it off and sits back, not-so-subtly watching Scott. Scott resolutely keeps his eyes on the road.

They pass the exit for Milford. If Jimmy’s feeling all right after the visit, maybe they can stop by there, visit the library and community college and homeless shelter.

Half an hour until Briarsville. Scott shifts in his seat, taps the steering wheel lightly.

“What did you think of that motel breakfast?” Jimmy breaks the silence. “I thought it was decent—waffles are always good, at least. But I wouldn’t have touched those sausages with a ten foot pole.”

Scott had only eaten a slice of toast with some watery coffee, too nervous already to have any faith in his stomach. “Not the worst I’ve ever had,” he offers. Jimmy’s just trying to help him relax. He can humor his attempts.

“Well, yeah. I can remember a time when I would’ve killed for a motel breakfast—literally.” Jimmy chuckles nervously, tugs on his seatbelt. “Um—how much longer?”

“Half an hour,” says Scott too quickly. He checks the radio clock, then his rearview mirror. They’re almost there. His heart is really beginning to jump now.

The car is quiet again until they reach exit 42. Briarsville.

Jimmy straightens up, looks between Scott and the town that they’re pulling into. It looks like any run-of-the-mill midwest town, Scott knows. Even the Order of Heaven private school isn’t much of an indicator of anything abnormal.

“We can turn around, you know,” Jimmy says softly. Of course he’d noticed the nerves. Scott’s knuckles have turned white around the wheel, his back is ramrod straight, he’s barely spoken all morning. Jimmy’s not an idiot, and he’s more observant than most people know.

Scott forces himself to relax. “No. I need to do this.”

Jimmy nods and doesn’t argue him any further. That’s something that Scott will always love about Jimmy: he understands. He sees that this is important for Scott and would never try to keep him from it.

And then he’s turning onto Bloomfield Avenue, and he thinks that maybe Jimmy’s right. Maybe he ought to turn back now and cut his losses.

It’s still his last name printed above the door of the house three houses down. The welcome mat is that ugly, waterlogged brown thing that it had been before he’d left. His parents still live here.

Scott pulls into the driveway, then freezes.

“What if we just went home?” he says, voice pitched an octave higher than normal. “We can stop by the country music museum. Or the Appalachian one, I heard it’s—”

“Scott,” interrupts Jimmy. “Normally I would be fine with that, but you just told me you have to do this.” He takes one of Scott’s hands, runs his thumb over his knuckles. “This is important to you. I don’t want you to be kicking yourself for the rest of your life because you got all the way here only to turn back.”

Scott takes in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. Then again. Jimmy’s right. Jimmy’s absolutely right. “Yeah,” he whispers.

“And,” Jimmy continues, “if they try to hurt you in any way, I will kill them.”

“You’ve got to stop saying that about everyone we talk to.”

“Hey, I’m just really good at making things look like an accident. Some might even say it’s a superpower.”

“Jimmy.”

“Just saying.”

Scott laughs, kisses his boyfriend on the cheek. He’s ready now. He can go in.

He pulls the key out of the ignition and hops out, then circles round to offer his hand to Jimmy and help him up. Jimmy stops to grab his cane out of the backseat, then gestures encouragingly for Scott to lead the way.

Right. He has to actually go up to the door.

It’s the longest walk of his life, Scott thinks. Even the walk across the stage at graduation hadn’t been this long. But seconds yet seemingly hours later, he’s in front of the door, hand poised to knock.

He swallows, then bites the bullet.

Rat-tat-tat-tat.

It’s only a couple of moments before the door swings open, and his mother is standing before him.

She looks much the same, but changed. Her hair, once grey at the temples, is nearly completely grey with only a few streaks of its former blond. There are a few new lines in her face, only serving to add to the sallowness, the laugh lines he’d once known long-faded. Her hairstyle is the same as ever, her classic Christian mom fashion sense not any different. He takes in all of this, then properly meets her eyes.

“Hello, Mother,” he says, a shiver running up his spine.

She doesn’t say anything at first, eyes passing over Scott to examine Jimmy briefly, sizing him up like a bird of prey. Then she steps aside, pulling the door open wider.

“You’d better come in, hadn’t you,” she says, and the resignation lacing her tone is somehow so much better than the anger he’d expected yet so much worse.

The living room is different. There’s a new couch, pushed up against the wall opposite where it used to be. The easy chair is the same, but also tilted weird and there’s a coffee table for some reason when all it does is take up space. But Scott keeps his complaints to himself and steadies Jimmy as he lowers himself onto the couch, propping his cane up against the coffee table, then sits beside him.

His mother looks at the two of them with something unreadable in her expression, before leaving the room. She returns moments later with two glasses of water.

It’s a test, and Scott doesn’t know if she’s set it up like this or if he set it up for himself, but he takes the water from her hand and sends a little burst of freezing air to chill it, eyes trained on hers the entire time. She doesn’t react.

Jimmy takes his water with a muttered thank you, then she sits down in the easy chair across from them, crossing one leg over the other as she waits for Scott to break the silence.

He takes a sip of his now-cool water (Jimmy passes his own over and Scott forms some of the water into an ice cube before handing it back), takes a deep breath, and speaks.

“Is Dad home? Because—”

“He’s dead,” his mother interrupts. Scott blinks.

Two for two, his mind unhelpfully supplies. 

Is he supposed to mourn an unloved parent? Is he supposed to mourn someone he used to care very deeply about, but proved that they didn’t care for him?

He’s not sure how to feel.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jimmy says beside him. “That must be terrible.”

“How long?” is all Scott can manage.

“Nearly two years, now,” she replies. “Heart attack while at work.” She clicks her tongue. “I was always telling him to lay off the salt, stop working so hard. Guess he suffered the consequences.”

Scott’s really not sure how to feel. The last memory of his birth father he has is of his face closing off, declaring himself to have no son, and banishing Scott from the house. Would he have liked to reconcile? Is parting easier with his last words being unforgivable?

“I’m so sorry, Mrs—”

“Heidi,” his mother corrects Jimmy, and Jimmy amends his words.

“I’m so sorry, Heidi. I can only imagine the pain.”

That’s the first thing to incite emotion in Scott, because Jimmy can’t only imagine that sort of pain. Jimmy’s lived through the death of loved ones without a house to live in afterwards or a community to support him. Jimmy’s had it worse off. Jimmy shouldn’t have to be placating his terrible excuse for a mother.

He must be getting tense, because Jimmy’s hand runs comfortingly along his knee, and Scott can almost feel the love and support that Jimmy imbues the touch with.

Heidi’s eyes follow the movement, and after a moment, she says gruffly, “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Right. This could go very badly.

“Mother, this is Jimmy, my boyfriend,” Scott says stiffly, before adding, “as in, romantic partner. We kiss. Each other.”

Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “Are you a gay now, then?”

Scott stares her down. “And if I am?” he challenges. “What are you going to do, kick me out again?”

She stares back for a long moment, a moment during which Scott’s certain she is going to kick them out—then she chuckles, shakes her head.

“You always were a bit sassy,” she says. “I ought to have known, really. But that can be said for a lot of things.”

“Speaking of things that ought to have been known. . . .” Jimmy hints, nudging at Scott. Scott nods, takes a deep breath, and forces out the question that’s been on his mind for so long.

“Did I . . . did you have any children before me?”

Heidi looks away suddenly, toward the TV. Her expression gives away absolutely nothing. “I thought that was Noah,” she says eventually. “His voice was already starting to change when he left.”

“Sorry—Noah?”

She looks back at him. “Your brother. He was fourteen when we noticed he was one of them. You were so young, I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

Right, because it’s such a normal thing to destroy every trace of your child’s existence and raise the other to believe he never had a sibling.

But that means—

“I’ve seen the two of you on the news,” his mother continues. “Your father, too. He regretted what he did, Scott, after he saw how good your heart was.”

“So he just wanted to send me to conversion therapy instead, huh,” Scott mutters. “And that’s so much better.”

Heidi sighs. “We did what we thought we had to do, for both of you. We always hoped you would repent and come back.”

Scott wants to scream. He wants to scream and yell and freeze the entire house, because that may be the most insensitive thing he’s ever heard and his own mother is supposed to love him unconditionally, not act like this!

His hands are shaking. He doesn’t even notice until Jimmy eases the glass from his grip and rubs his arm. He needs to calm down.

But he can’t bear to look at the woman’s face for a moment longer.

“I think we’ll be going,” Scott says icily, moving to stand. Heidi stands as well, taking their glasses, then pauses on her way back to the kitchen.

“We donated your things,” she says, “but not all of it. Do you want any of what’s left?”

And as much as Scott wants to get out of here, he knows he needs to see whatever it is his mother decided to keep. So, after an encouraging squeeze from Jimmy, Scott follows her into the attic.

There’s only two things in the attic—two small trash bags, leaning against a wall to the side. With a nod from Heidi, Scott opens one of them up.

His monogrammed bible is on top. He has no interest in that. His Boy Scout pins and kerchief are here as well, more stuff he doesn’t care about. His birth certificate, which he does set aside (he already has a copy of it that he’d requested from the government, but it can never hurt to have the original), and a small photo album, which he sets aside as well. At the very bottom of the bag is his plush turtle, scruffy and old.

That he pulls to his chest, burying his nose into it. It smells pretty musty, which makes sense. It probably hasn’t been out of this attic in a decade.

It brings back feelings, looking at it. Not memories, not exactly, but feelings of a simpler time. Feelings from some vague past, where he had no troubles and his only concern was getting to school on time.

And more feelings. Feelings of deception, of hate, of guilt. The feeling of his world being flipped upside down and this plushie not being near enough to anchor it.

He wants to set it with his birth certificate and the photos, but it holds so much of this place that he’s not so sure.

He sets the turtle to the side and looks in the other bag.

Much the same stuff, and at first he inexplicably thinks this is an exact replica for some odd reason—but the name monogrammed onto this bible is not his.

Scott weighs it in his hands for a moment, then sets that aside.

There’s no photo album, but the same boy scout items and a birth certificate. There’s a plushie here too, though, a floppy deer, one of the antlers torn off and the hole it left carefully sewn shut. The fur is wearing thin in places, the beads for eyes have lost their shine.

It’s well-loved, as loved as Scott’s turtle, and for some reason, that makes him want to cry.

He’s not sure what to do with it. He still hasn’t really processed what his mother confirmed downstairs.

This stuffed deer belonged to the sibling he never met.

This stuffed deer belonged to Xornoth.

Can he take it?

Does he want to take it?

He sets it aside next to his turtle. At the bottom of the bag, there’s one last thing—a photograph, bent at the corner.

It’s older than any in the photo album, and Scott knows instantly that the child in the photo isn’t him. It’s a small child with a mop of dark blond hair, maybe three years old, wearing little red overalls and a white sweater, sitting on a push-bike and smiling up at the camera.

He can’t quite force his brain to make the connection. This child, so happy and young, grew up to be Xornoth. This toddler tried to take over the world.

He can process it later, he supposes, and he upends one of the bags to make sure there’s nothing else (there isn’t, so few of what once were his possessions leftover), then stuffs both his turtle and the deer in it, along with his birth certificate. He hikes the bag over his shoulder and picks up the photo of—of the child—and the photo album, before holding both out to his mother.

“Do you want any of these?” he asks brusquely. She takes the loose photo, then waves off the album.

“I’ve kept some of yours downstairs,” she says dismissively. “This is my only picture of Noah, though.”

Scott leaves the attic without another word, photo album chucked into the bag over his shoulder. He meets back up with Jimmy in the living room, who looks up from his phone with a questioning glance.

Scott sets down the bag, pulls out the turtle plushie. “This was mine growing up,” he says. Jimmy’s face immediately softens and he coos, reaching out for it. Scott hands it over, then removes the second stuffed animal.

This one he holds farther from Jimmy, because he’s still not sure if he wants to take it with him, despite the strange sense that he owes it to his lost sibling. “This,” he says carefully, “belonged to Xornoth.”

Jimmy’s face goes carefully neutral, and his hands still. “Oh,” he manages, and Scott can hear the change in his exhales as he immediately kicks into breathing exercises.

“We don’t have to take it if you aren’t okay with that,” Scott is quick to reassure. “We can leave it here, that’s fine. I’m sure my mother would appreciate it.”

“Why—why do you want it?”

That’s harder to answer, because Scott hasn’t figured out why yet. He’ll know when he comes across the answer, he’s certain, but it hasn’t made itself known to him in the five minutes that he’s known of his sibling’s existence.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually. He stares at the deer, at the faded pattern of its coat. “There’s some reason I want it, but I’m not sure what that is, yet.”

A little color has already returned to Jimmy’s face, and he doesn’t stutter when he speaks. “Is it part of your closure?”

He doesn’t know how, but Jimmy’s right. He nods. This is, in some way and fashion, a very important part of making peace with his sibling’s identity in his head.

“Then take it,” says Jimmy, handing back the turtle. He stands, slowly, supporting himself with his cane.

But it’ll hurt you, Scott wants to say. It’s clear that Jimmy doesn’t like the idea of taking this deer plushie home, doesn’t like the idea of it being in their house.

“Don’t worry about me, yeah?” Jimmy says, as if he can hear Scott’s thoughts. He smiles weakly, squeezes Scott’s arm. “I’ll be fine. This is about you.”

They leave with a quick goodbye, no attempts on either side to set up further contact. Scott just throws his things into the backseat with Jimmy’s cane, then drives away.

-

It’s just a week later when Scott drives out of the city to a park.

It’s a quiet park, just some trails and benches through the trees, and Scott stops at one of these trees and digs with the shovel he’d brought from home.

He digs alone, in the quiet shade of the trees, a light breeze rustling through them. And when he’s finished the job, a small pile of dirt beside him, he lays a shoebox containing a small stuffed deer in the little hole he’s dug.

He scrapes the dirt back over it with his shovel, pats it down a bit, and stands there. Just . . . stares.

Then, silently, Scott turns away and heads home.

[somegrumpynerd]

Actually it turns out I had more thoughts about that post that I forgot about lol

Would Nightmare actually give up his boys? Yes and no

If it was just a black and white situation of they're miserable, they don't wanna be here, they have somewhere better to be, then yes. He would leave them out to wherever they needed to be despite his own feelings and very quickly realise afterwards just how much he'd gotten used to the noise and company. I think he would get a little clingy with Dream about it, which I'm sure Dream would find very weird after everything but not unwelcome, he did miss his brother after all.

(If he couldn't attach himself to Dream's side for whatever reason, I think he might just sit in his castle and go insane. Or maybe he'd just spend all day at Ccino's trying really hard to project that he just likes the atmosphere and isn't lonely as hell)

But the thing is, most of them don't have somewhere better to be. Horror has his au, and Nightmare would keep up the supply of food even if Horror said he wanted to quit at this point, so he would understandably let him return home. Killer, Dust and Cross effectively don't have aus anymore though, and they tend to get into self-destructive habits when they're left to their own devices. (Obviously bringing Color and Epic into the mix to make sure Killer and Cross are taken care of eases matters, but Dust doesn't really have any friends outside their group he could go stay with - that Nightmare knows about at least).

The flipside of this is that his boys may not necessarily want to be given up. I think if Nightmare got really in his head about this he could easily end up convinced this is the right thing to do without ever asking them if it's what they want, with potentially terrible results. He's established such a pattern of always returning to find Killer when they get seperated, that if he never showed up Killer might just keep sitting there and waiting for him greyfriar's bobby style, refusing to leave because he's certain his boss is coming back.

[kacievvbbbb]

I’m just very obsessed with the idea that mihawk is useless in a weapon less fight like he cannot throw a punch or get out of a pin to save his life like one he can’t kick he’s done out for the count, and this is why Shanks ends most of their duels this way. Because he’s a filthy cheater and Mihawk is even worse off because it’s Shanks pining him and he has eaten a lot of dirt.

Shanks decides to teach him the art of fighting dirty cause he’s nice that way but also let’s just say that Shanks likes being in a pin a little too much

[spotforme]

how we feeling about Sam's 17year old blue eyed bartender flirting with the customers to get more sails, but no actually everything that customer drinks is on the house so what's the point?? no wait it's actually his stepdad this is getting worse, no wait it's actually his dad why are they keeping this a secret???

[copia]

i've done some horrible things to copia in the notes app but i draw the line at giving him a hip replacement. so my personal hc for his cane situation — disregarding the alternative of him taking one onstage just for the vibes — is that he developed early onset osteoarthritis from ballet and began to manage it. the rats mv was the last time he danced properly, then after the threat of replacement, it was strict physiotherapy and steroid injections until the cane wasn't as necessary as it once was. you can get footwear designed to help with oa, so i'm sliding the shoe moment from rhrn into this self-indulgent ramble ('i'll get injured' = 'things will be worse for me later'). he'll jump around the stage as often as he dares to the frustration of doctors and his mother — and his ghouls, who will help him limp offstage at every show towards the end of the tour and take care of him after treatments. limited movement frustrates him to no end but he'll put on a mask of cheery positivity until he's too tired to maintain it any longer. he'll manage it to the point where it's easier to live with than it was when he danced for the last time, but it'll never be like it was when he was young. he struggles with this more than he does the physical pain. who'd want a reminder of their imminent demise burning at their side with every step? still, he pretends, even if it's obvious to everyone close to him that it's a problem — no need to give them any more reason to end his reign earlier than he'd like

[evergreen-endo]

thinking about praising men into submission.

[tohruies]

miss cocobei… your karaageposting and that jellycat haul you posted in your old blog remind me of this idea i thought would suit you (his good girl ;3): of how karasu would react to you growing a little shy in the bedroom and perhaps… using a plushie to hide yourself from him 🤔 ahh it just paints such a cute image in my mind mewheheheh 🤭💓 him tilting his head when you snatched a plushie, a little confused by the sudden move before mirth begins to swirl in his eyes and his cock twitches in his pants at the innocence of it all.

“you know you don’t have to cover yourself” he shifted slightly to try and make the boner less obvious. despite his teasing, karasu is gentle when he holds your chocolate locks to kiss, then tuck behind your ear—they smell sweet, enough to fuel his desires to devour you.

oh and i’m thinking of how he would use your good girl card against you in this situation… “will you let me see your face now? you are my good girl, aren’t you?” and when you complied, placing the stuffed animal aside, he would reward this pliable attitude with a tender kiss to your forehead (and a complimentary roll of his hips against yours :3)

[inhurtandincomfort]

I think Jowan nags at Eldwin about drinking too much and smoking is bad for you, you know. And Eldwin's just like dude it's either this or hard drugs. Take your pick.

Of course, they could stop him. They would have to confine him to the house as his work requires him to hang out in the city a lot and they couldn't keep an eye on him 24/7. They could do that. His work as an enforcer is valuable, it's so easy to get him to do something and you know he'll do it well, but it's nothing a non-mage couldn't do.

But it would be a hassle. Frankly, it's not worth it. Because what they're working on, soon it won't matter. There are two outcomes.

Either it works, and anything regarding his health and wellbeing won't matter. Or... it doesn't work and anything regarding his health and wellbeing won't matter.

As long as he does his job, they really don't care what he does. Besides, it's not like he'll be able to forever, and he's served them so well over the past decade. Consider this current freedom a final act of mercy.

(and frankly he's a more likable person when he's on something. You know those people who drink to combat social anxiety? And like, it's a problem you shouldn't do that? yeah. Clyde encourages it at their social events because he's actually less embarrassing.)

Also like right now it's easy to not recognise it as a problem. It's only sometimes, on the these days rare occasion he's out of the house. It's not that bad. I feel like he actually gets worse when he's away from the syndicate, because when he's not living in constant fear and every moment is a fight to survive, not remembering how it feels to not be in fight or flight (or freeze and fawn in his case) when he's forced to confront his thoughts. Survival is a distraction. He doesn't know how to handle being safe.

And that's when it becomes a problem. No longer is it "just" an occasional sip or smoke to steel himself for a social event he's forced to attend or to distract himself from the acrid scent of burning flesh. No, it is when he's supposed to be free that he finds himself relying on these crutches more and more and he won't notice until it's too hard to go back.

He thought his indenture was terrible. He didn't imagine freedom could be worse.

[i-may-be-an-emu]

guess who just bought some chilli and jalapeño chips to eat while watching hot from the hip in solidarity :]

[jonahs-arks]

I love my stupid, dumb Brandon. No idea how he even managed to beat any bosses, let alone get ROCKWELL of all people

[glassdecanters]

dick grayson aka “my playlist consists of mitski and 80′s rock and i will be performing this medley for you at any times i have my headphones in and you will gradually begin to worry for my mental state”

[b1mbodoll]

jake 😭😭😭😭 im going to lick him 😭😭😭😭

[lovedeluxelove]

modern viktor having like,, pots/hEDS and wearing a body braid. that’s it. that’s the post

[depressedhatakekakashi]

What is your favorite rare pair and why?

[marc--chilton]

hello yes i have more data for your polling of lesbians about wilson

as a lesbian myself i do not think that i would do him if he were a man. because yknow. lesbian. but if wilson was genderbent? sure. is he as attractive to me as other women on the show? no. cuddy, thirteen, and amber are all much more my type. do i think he'd be a very beautiful woman who i would want to be in a relationship with? yes. now, genderbent house... that'd be popular among the girlgays.

i love the wilson stretchmark idea. make that man a tiger. you've established that his forearms get big af but do other areas also get swol? because i've never seen forearm stretch marks (i mean i'm not the arbiter of stretch marks but i've got a good deal of anecdotal experience being a certified tiger-woman myself) which i assume means that bodies require a lot more for marks there (i have stretch marks on pretty much everywhere except my arms and i've seen upper arm marks but again not forearm) so surely if he's got stretch marks on the rut-swollen forearms he's also got stretch marks elsewhere? idk. maybe this is Not How Stretch Marks work. but wilson with purple (eventually fading to not-purple but IME they start purple) striae all across his back and hips and ass and thighs and knees and pecs is something i think would be nice. i also think that House would enjoy the bumps. nice added texture and that man is fidgety af.

is wilson insecure about them. do those creams even work (never tried i embrace the tiger). or is wilson like "hell yeah i'm a masculine manly alpha man with bigass muscles every few months and that makes me look like i've been mauled hell yeah"

-🎸

wilson's arm marks aren't on his forearms, they're.... actually i'll make a diagram

(tbh he probably has them on the back of his thighs and his ass too)

i'm full of stretch marks as someone who loathes lotion texture and only got fatter after puberty so trust me

he's super insecure about them even if in reality it's a sign he's in good health. to him they're just unsightly. imagine his surprise when what got him feeling better was a talk (lecture?) with house when house explained in that smartassy way of his that no one outside of wilson even cares, but if they do, it's not because they think he's ugly, but because they wonder what he must look like in rut to get those marks. not that they're gonna see them at their most visible. house has a monopoly on wilson and he's bad at sharing.

house is weirdly comforting sometimes if one knows how to read between the lines

[teatitty]

Re-read Oboro's backstory in Vigilantes tonight [Lyre will see it when they wake up later] and I am once again so pissed off at how fucking stupid the fanon is about Aizawa. Genuinely have no idea how so many of you could read through that and come to the assumption that he's a terrible horrible friend to Hizashi when there's a whole year of time that we never get to see between the death and their graduation

If Aizawa had really pushed Hizashi away, then Hizashi wouldn't have been with him when he was training. If he'd actually pushed his friends away, he wouldn't have been playfully smirking at their graduation when he erased Hizashi's quirk because guess what? He wasn't being a dick there, he was just doing what friends do. If he didn't want to be seen at all, he would've left before Hizashi started calling out for him, but it's very obvious he was standing there waiting for him. He erases Hizashi's voice because he doesn't like large groups and photos but he still smirks and holds up his graduation scroll to have a private, personal moment with his best mate

It's nothing more than a "Hey. Look at us. We did it" gesture. Some of you really do read way too far into things. And as for Hizashi's reaction to his voice going, this is just a general "wait what happened to my voice? Shit did I overstrain it - oh it's just Aizawa nvm" moment