Airwaves Unscripted (PapaMic)

Despite going to bed at a stupid hour, my body was still wired to wake up early.

I cracked my eyes open, blinking at the ceiling, and groaned. The house was dead silent—Aizawa, the master of naps, was probably still out cold, and Dad? He wasn't a morning person either, no matter how much energy he pretended to have.

That left me... completely unsupervised in the kitchen.

A slow grin spread across my face.

"Alright. Time to cause some trouble."

Rolling out of bed, I padded my way to the kitchen, already taking mental stock of what ingredients they might have. At home, I'd sometimes wake up early to cook for Mom—it started as a way to surprise her when I was little, but over time, it just became a habit. She was usually too tired or busy to make herself a proper breakfast, so I stepped in when I could.

I wasn't a chef, but I could make some decent food.

Let's see... eggs? Check. Bread? Check. Whatever this was? Probably edible.

I pulled a few things out and got to work.

Five Minutes Later...

"Okay," I muttered, flipping an omelet. "So far, so good—"

BANG.

"WHAT THE FU—"

The pan exploded with a burst of flames as oil splattered too close to the burner. I yanked it off the stove, heart hammering. "Okay. Okay! That was—unexpected! But we're fine! Everything's fine!"

I looked around quickly. No alarms blaring. No smoke. No angry dads storming in to erase me from existence. Good.

I turned back to the pan, glaring at the slightly charred edges of my omelet. "You betrayed me," I muttered.

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed a spatula and carefully scraped the salvageable parts onto a plate. It wasn't pretty, but hey—food was food.

I moved on to the toast, which was much safer. After a few minutes, I actually had something that resembled a real breakfast: omelets (slightly crispy, but edible), toast, and some fruit I found in the fridge.

Mission accomplished.

Now, the question was: who do I wake up first?

I took another bite of my (only slightly crispy) omelet before glancing toward the hallway. "Should I wake the others?"

Aizawa waved a hand lazily. "Hitoshi doesn't eat breakfast. He'll stumble out of his room ten minutes before we leave and call it a success."

"So, he's a morning gremlin," I muttered. "Got it."

Aizawa just nodded, sipping his coffee like the cryptid he was. "Yamada should be up soon, though. He's... a lot, first thing in the morning."

I snorted. "You mean he's the exact opposite of you?"

"Pretty much."

"That must be a joy to wake up to."

"You have no idea," Aizawa muttered, rubbing his temples like he already regretted every life choice that led him here.

I leaned back in my chair, waiting. If I knew Dad, he'd come barreling out of his room in the most extra way possible. There was no such thing as a "quiet" morning for him. The only question was how dramatic he was going to be today.

"Should we take bets on how he enters the room?" I asked, smirking. "I'm guessing at least one unnecessary spin and maybe some jazz hands."

Aizawa sighed. "I live with this."

"And yet you continue to love him. Inspiring, really."

Aizawa shot me a deadpan look, but I swore I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

Aizawa was still sipping his coffee, looking like he was physically holding himself together through sheer willpower and caffeine, while I polished off my toast.

The house was still eerily quiet.

Too quiet.

Which meant one thing.

"He's planning something," I muttered, glancing toward the hallway.

Aizawa gave a slow, knowing nod. "Always."

We sat there, waiting for the inevitable, like two soldiers before battle.

And then—

BANG.

"GOOD MORNING, MY BEAUTIFUL, WONDERFUL FAMILY!"

Dad exploded into the room like a hurricane, hands raised like he was about to drop the sickest beat of his life. He was wearing bright yellow pajamas covered in tiny microphones, his hair still half-tied back, and—because of course—he had sunglasses on. Indoors.

"WHY are you yelling?" Aizawa groaned, rubbing his temples. "It's literally morning. The sun is barely up. I haven't even finished my first cup of coffee."

"It's never too early to BRING THE ENERGY, BABY!" Dad declared, finger-gunning me as he spun into the kitchen.

I turned to Aizawa. "You owe me. I totally called the spin."

Aizawa gave me a tired look before taking another sip of coffee. "I hate that you're right."

"What's that, Eraser? Sounds like a WIN for my boy Izu!" Dad grinned, ruffling my hair as he moved past me. "Ohoho! What's this? A homemade breakfast?! Did my son make this?!"

"Yes, he did," Aizawa said, still sipping. "And he's on breakfast duty now."

"WHOA!" Dad gasped dramatically. "My son! My little problem child! A certified chef in the making!"

"I prefer the term culinary genius," I said, smirking. "But sure, we can go with that."

Dad plopped into a chair and immediately grabbed a piece of toast. "Mmm, yeah, this is it. This is the good stuff. Aizawa, we're keeping him."

"He's already staying here."

"Even better!"

Aizawa exhaled through his nose like he was so done with both of us.

Meanwhile, Dad happily stuffed his face, humming as he ate. Then, suddenly, he paused and looked up. "Wait, where's Shinsou?"

"Sleeping," Aizawa said. "Because normal people don't explode into their mornings."

"Boooo!" Dad made a thumbs-down motion. "Tragic. Unbelievable. He's missing the most important meal of the day!"

"You literally never eat breakfast unless someone forces you," I pointed out.

Dad gasped. "How dare you call me out in my own home?!"

"You set yourself up for that one," Aizawa muttered.

I just grinned. "You walked into this, old man."

Dad dramatically clutched his chest. "Betrayed! My own flesh and blood!"

Aizawa sighed. "Eat your damn breakfast, Zashi."*