Chapter Text
As soon as they went back to the dorm, Shoji turned on the TV and changed the channel to the news. Shinsou curled up on the other end of the couch to watch with him. When all this had started, Shoji had worried about the other boy; he’d seemed to be falling apart before their very eyes. Kouda had stepped up, though, and become a steady and silent presence for Shinsou. After the first week, something had changed in the purple-haired teen; Kouda had no explanation for it, but Shoji suspected that the occasional conversations he had with Mic-sensei in sign language and the scarf tucked away in his backpack had something to do with his improved mood.
Ever the multitasker, Shoji watched the news, one eye looking around the room checking on the others while other tentacles worked on math and English homework. Nearby, Bakugou ranted about being in the dorm when his time could be better spent working out, to which Iida replied that Mic-sensei had told them to come here and that they had a responsibility to do what he said. To which Bakugou replied that Mic-sensei probably just didn’t want them hanging out in the classroom. To which Shoji promptly tuned them out.
It was growing late into the afternoon when the news report caught his attention. His eyes widened, and he snatched up the remote and raised the volume. “Guys, get over here!”
“Buzz off, Arms!” Bakugou snarled from the table, where he was tutoring a few of the others.
“Shut it, Blasty, and get over here NOW!”
The explosive teen’s mouth dropped, as if shocked that someone had the audacity to snap back. He started to respond, but the sight of the TV silenced him. He stood and moved to stand behind the couch as the others collected around them. Iida sent a text on the group chat to call the others down. As they congregated, Shoji rewound so they could all see.
“…in the downtown residential area, where pro heroes staged a raid earlier this afternoon. Sources on the ground say that another pro was being held hostage in the house. No public statement has been given as of yet, and the name of the hostage hasn’t been released. But, given that all the heroes involved in the raid are current U.A. teachers, rumors are already spreading that the hostage was another teacher.”
The newscaster continued, but her words went unheeded amidst the ruckus of the class. Shoji grimaced and switched his eared tentacles to hands. Shinsou paled, but hope glimmered in his eyes for the first time in weeks. He glanced over at Shoji, as if seeking assurance that his cautious optimism wasn’t misplaced.
“About time!” Bakugou yelled with a feral grin, explosions sparking at the tips of his fingers. “It’s gotta be him!”
Hagakure bounced excitedly on the couch. “So that’s why Mic-sensei cancelled class! They went to get him!”
“It might not be him,” Jirou warned softly, twirling one of her jacks around her finger. “What if it’s a coincidence?”
Yaoyorozu put a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. “We won’t know until we ask, right? When the teachers get back, we’ll see. They’ll tell us!”
“It has to be.” Midoriya tapped his chin. “Mic-sensei and a bunch of the others leave class suddenly, send us all back to the dorms, and stage a raid with almost no time to plan; Recovery girl went with them; the newslady said all the heroes were U.A. staff, which means no one else went with them, so they’re keeping this specifically among the school like they did when Kacchan got kidnapped—”
“SHUT IT, NERD!”
“Sorry!”
The door swung open, and twenty heads—twenty-one, including Dark Shadow—whipped around to see King-sensei. The blood hero was immediately bombarded with questions and shouts. He held up his hands. “Settle down! I can’t hear a word you’re saying!”
Shinsou pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “It’s him, isn’t it? You found Aizawa-sensei!”
King-sensei nodded. “We found him.”
The brainwasher let out a shaky huff, his shoulders slumping. Shoji put a hand on his back; and to his surprise, the taciturn boy leaned into the contact.
“Sir,” Shoji spoke up. “How is he? There was an ambulance on the news. How… how bad was it?”
The hero sighed, and Class 1-A held their breaths. “It’s… I won’t lie, it’s pretty bad.”
“How bad?” Tokoyami demanded.
“He’s in the hospital now. Present Mic is with him. He’ll need probably a couple intense surgeries. I’d be surprised if they let him out before at least two weeks.” He ran a hand over his face and shuddered. “Eraserhead’s tough, but this… this was something else.”
The students fell silent as the teacher’s words sank in. Shoji clenched his fists. They had almost lost Aizawa-sensei during the USJ attack, when that giant beast had crushed him almost effortlessly; but the stubborn man had been in the classroom and teaching wrapped up like a mummy not long after that. How bad was it this time if he was facing possible weeks in the hospital? What had those monsters done to him? The thought made him want to vomit.
Next to him, Shinsou reached out and took one of his wrists, clutching it tightly. He had the feeling it was as much for his comfort as it was for the other boy’s. Behind his mask, a small, grateful smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.
“He’ll be okay, though… right?” Ashido clung to Kirishima’s arm. “He’s gonna be fine! Right, King-sensei?”
The hero straightened up. “’Course he is! He’s Aizawa! Nothing keeps that grumpy little jerk down. He’ll be back here and making you train twice as hard before you know it.”
The class broke into shouts of “When can we see him?” “Will they let us bring him snacks?” “We should make cards!” “He’d better get better or I’ll kill him myself!” “Kacchan, please!”
Iida waved his arms. “Silence, please! Aizawa-sensei won’t be allowed to have visitors until after his surgery. We’ll set up a schedule to see who goes when so we don’t overwhelm him.”
The conversation continued, and after an hour (it might have been quicker, except everyone argued over who got to be the first to visit) they had a tentative list.
~~~
Recovery Girl drove Hizashi to the hospital. Neither spoke a word, and Hizashi devoted all of his energy to stilling the shaking in his hands. By the time they arrived, he had composed himself enough to where he could pass as okay. Recovery Girl left him in the lobby while she went to speak with someone or something like that. Frankly, Hizashi wasn’t paying attention and didn’t hear what she said. He was too busy looking over the paperwork.
As Shouta’s power of attorney (a role they’d each asked the other to take for security reasons), it was his responsibility to take care of that. And that was where the illusion fell apart. He reached for the pen on the desk, only to freeze at the sight of his bloodstained hand.
He couldn’t move. His hand was covered in blood, Shouta’s blood, he was covered in Shouta’s blood and his friend was dying he’d already almost died—
The floor swayed under his feet. Black spots danced across his vision. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, his lungs had seized up and all he could do was stare at his hand and all that blood…
He blinked as a hand waved in front of his face. The poor girl behind the desk sighed in relief as he looked up at her. “The restroom’s over there. You can sign this after you wash your hands.”
“Thanks,” he rasped.
He slammed the door open much too hard and slumped over the sink. His gloves had half-dried onto his skin, making a sickening squelching and cracking noise as he peeled them off and shoved them in his pocket. He plunged his hands under the water and started rubbing. As the water washed over his hands, it turned an ugly shade of red, fading to a just as ugly shade of pink. He lathered a ridiculous amount of soap onto his hands and started scrubbing. He scrubbed until they stung, scraping underneath his fingernails and shoving his sleeves up to wash his arms. As the water finally ran clear, he stood numbly and stared at it.
A painful pressure built at the back of his throat. He groaned and spun towards one of the stalls, holding his stomach with one hand and yanking his glasses off with the other as he vomited. His body convulsed, and he hugged himself tightly as stabbing pains shot up and down his abdomen. He wheezed for breath, gagging as his effort was unsuccessful. He couldn’t breathe, crap, he couldn’t breathe…
Shouta wasn’t breathing, he had stopped breathing, his heart stopped breathing he was dying he was DEAD.
Hizashi slumped against the wall, shaking now from the broken sobs that tore from his throat as his wall of composure shattered. A chill seeped into his sweat-soaked body. He groaned and dragged his hands down his face.
Sho’ wasn’t dead. They’d rescued him. The medics had gotten his heart started. He was in surgery now, and he’d be just fine.
So why was he still freaking out?
He laughed bitterly between his cries. He hadn’t vomited after a mission in years. He’d become accustomed to the vile sights and smells that came from this line of work. But this was different. This was Shouta.
He cleaned up and made his way back to the lobby, signing the paper wordlessly and nodding absentmindedly as the lady told him how to get to the waiting room. The mirrors on the walls of the elevator—why the crap did they put mirrors in there? Worried friends and family didn’t want to see their own tearstained faces—reflected his haggard appearance, and he winced.
The waiting room was blessedly empty, and he sank down in a chair in the corner. Slight tremors still shook his body. He curled up, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his head on them. Then he jerked back up; his clothes were stained as well from where he’d knelt by Shouta’s side. He growled and rubbed his forehead, fighting back another humiliating wave of tears.
This was pathetic. They had been right to leave him out of the investigation. If he’d had a breakdown like this while looking for Sho’…
His hands curled into fists. What he wouldn’t give to have that gang leader here, to bust his face open! Why hadn’t he done so when he had the freak right in front of him? He snarled, jumping up and pacing. His hands tore through his hair. He wanted to kill the man, to tear his filthy head off his shoulders!
He spun and slammed his fist through the wall.
It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t good enough, it wasn’t enough and he wanted to make that man bleed the way he’d made Shouta bleed.
With a heavy sigh, he flopped back into his chair. How did Shouta do it? How did he seem so calm and unconcerned all the time? Even when everything came crashing down around him, he rarely ever lost that mask of composure. He never reacted like Hizashi. He never punched walls. He’d always been stoic, but after Oboro, Shouta had closed himself off almost completely. Hizashi and Nemuri were two of the only people allowed to see him at his most vulnerable.
Nemuri showed up a few minutes later, still in uniform. She gasped when she saw him. He stood to meet her, collapsing in her arms when she held them open. They sank to the floor, and he started crying again.
“Shh,” she murmured. “It’s okay, ‘Zashi. He’s gonna be okay.”
“He flatlined!” Hizashi choked out. “He flatlined, Nem, he was gone! They got him back, but he was—”
She stiffened. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s going to be fine. That’s it, just let it out.”
“He was—he was gone… there was so much blood!”
“I know, ‘Zashi, I know. Just breathe.” She leaned back slightly. “I saw the room. That’s… a lot to process. Do you need to go back to the school?”
“N-no, I gotta stay. I gotta be here when he gets out.”
“Hizashi.” She took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “It’ll probably be hours before he gets out of surgery, and who knows how long before he wakes up. If you need to go get some sleep or something to eat, no one would mind. I can give you some mist—”
“No.” He shuddered. Would he be able to sleep without nightmares after all this? “I know—I know he won’t be awake, I just… I can’t leave yet. I need to be here.”
“Okay.” She stood and led him back to the chairs. “Okay, I’m going to stay with you. We’ll text Nezu and Vlad and let them know.”
He sat next to her and leaned his head on her shoulder, watching as she texted with one hand. Her other arm curled behind him, her hand coming up to trace soothing lines at the base of his skull. Despite his earlier statement, his eyelids started to droop. Nemuri finished sending the messages and handed him her phone to mess with.
And then they waited.
~~~
Iida hated hospitals.
He appreciated their function and the hard work of the staff. He appreciated the fact that lives were saved. He just wished they weren’t necessary. He wished no one had to get hurt or sick. He wished the people he cared about would stop ending up in them.
He bit back a wave of nervousness and stepped into the waiting room. Mic-sensei and Midnight-sensei looked up as he approached. He couldn’t help but shudder at the sight of his English teacher. It seems he’d made the right choice after all…
“Iida,” Midnight said kindly. “What brings you here?”
“King-sensei told us that Aizawa-sensei had been found and brough here. We made a schedule to see who would visit when. I figured he wouldn’t be out of surgery for a while, so I volunteered to come first and see how you were doing.”
“You came to check on us?” Mic-sensei rasped, blinking in surprise. Or maybe exhaustion.
“You would do the same for us,” he acknowledged softly. Then he held up a bag. “I didn’t know what you’d need, so I brought some extra clothes and some food. Some personal care items as well, and a few blankets, in case you were planning on spending the night. King-sensei helped me get some of your clothes. Midnight-sensei, Recovery Girl got your things, as I felt it imprudent and inappropriate to enter your room.”
“Thank you, Iida.”
Mic-sensei stood and took the bag. “Iida, you’re a lifesaver.” He left to go change.
Iida sat next to Midnight-sensei. “Any news?”
“Nothing yet. I’m sorry. He should be out of surgery soon, unless something—” She didn’t finish the thought.
“Goes wrong?” Iida offered, an invisible fist clenching around his heart and beginning to tighten.
Midnight-sensei nodded. Then she smiled. “Which it shouldn’t. This hospital is known for its treatment of heroes. They’re some of the best.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak lest the breaking of his voice betray him. He never had gone to therapy, but he’d thought about it. He was Class 1-A’s president. How could he let them see him as anything but strong and composed, the way Aizawa-sensei was? But the guilt was steadily getting heavier and heavier, threatening to crush him under it and shatter his spirit. How could he claim to be a hero after he abandoned his sensei? How could he claim to be a leader when all his orders had led to Aizawa-sensei getting hurt so badly that he needed surgery? It wouldn’t surprise him one bit if the man expelled him for this failure once he recovered enough to get back to teaching. It was his fault he was here.
Mic-sensei returned, and if Iida hadn’t known who he was, he might not have recognized him. In jeans, a “Put Your Hands Up” t-shirt, and black-rimmed glasses, and with his hair pulled back into a ponytail, he looked nothing like the vivacious Present Mic. His hollow expression and slouched posture were even more off-putting, though. The voice hero sat next to Iida and fished a book out of the bag.
“If the two of you are alright, I’ll go back to the school now.” Iida started to stand.
Mic-sensei waved him back down. “Aizawa should be out of surgery in a while. You should stay and see him.”
“I—” Iida hesitated. He wanted to see him. He wanted to know he would be okay, to be able to look at him for the first time in two weeks. But did he deserve that? Did he have the right to be the first of his classmates to see their teacher when it was his fault he was here?
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Midnight-sensei assured him. “I can take you back to the school.”
He started to answer, to tell her he would be fine going back by himself, but a doctor entered and smiled when he saw them. “You’re here with Eraserhead?”
Mic-sensei sprang to his feet. “Give it to us straight, yo! How’s the patient?”
“Out of surgery and moved to a room. He’s still in critical condition, but we expect him to pull through. You can see him now, if you’d like.”
The teachers looked to Iida. “Up to you,” Mic-sensei said.
He nodded before he lost his nerve. “I’ll… I’ll come with you.”
They followed the doctor to Aizawa-sensei’s room, but Iida hesitated at the door. Images of Tensei flashed unbidden through his mind.
Would Aizawa-sensei still be able to do hero work?
Would this force him to retire early?
Had Iida destroyed a hero?
He looked over at Mic-sensei, who nodded to him. With a deep breath, he stepped inside.
Aizawa-sensei looked so small, so broken, swathed in bandages and half-drowning in the hospital bed. Machines around the bed ran tubes and wires that connected to him, beeping gently and flashing red, blue, and green lights. The small patches of his skin that weren’t covered were blue and purple with deep bruises. His long hair had been carefully braided out of his face. A ventilator covered his mouth, lightly fogged from his shallow breaths.
Iida shuffled closer, wincing as bile rose in the back of his throat. “What did those monsters do to him?” he whispered, his voice cracking. He clenched his fists to still their shaking.
Mic-sensei stepped up to the bed, gently laying a hand on Aizawa-sensei’s arm. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “How bad’s the damage?”
The doctor shrugged. “Like I said, he’s still in critical condition, but he should pull through alright. He’s got—” he cut himself off. “We can discuss his injuries at another time. We’re keeping him asleep for now, but we’ll take him off the sedatives in about a week and try to wake him up. He’ll need a few more surgeries. We had to do a blood transfusion as well.”
Iida was no idiot. He knew exactly why the doctor was refusing to say. And that just meant that Mic-sensei and Midnight-sensei would have to deal with this later. He’d inconvenienced them by being here.
Aizawa-sensei wasn’t as mummified as he had been after the USJ attack, but he’d walked back into class with his casts and bandages and kept teaching. He couldn’t do that this time. They didn’t even know yet if he’d live. It wasn’t fair, that he could be so strong and so skilled, capable of holding his own against the biggest threat their class had ever known, but a gang of unknown thugs could come out of nowhere and come close to taking him away from them for good. He didn’t deserve that.
(Tensei hadn’t deserved to be so injured by Stain.)
Midnight-sensei placed her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take you back to the school if you’re ready,” she whispered.
He nodded.
“We’re leaving,” she said to Mic-sensei. “I’ll be back in the morning to come pick you up. Nezu says you don’t have to teach tomorrow.”
“I’ll teach,” he rasped, not taking his eyes away from the injured hero. “I think a little normalcy will help.”
“Okay.” The two of them turned to go.
As they walked back down the hall, Midnight-sensei asked, “How are you feeling? That was probably a lot to handle.”
“I’m fine,” he answered, mentally cursing his voice for not being strong enough to carry his lie.
“You know, it’s okay to not be okay. I don’t mean to open up old wounds, but…” Her voice caught. “Tensei’s my friend. I hate that that happened to him. I’m terrified Sho—Aizawa’s going to end up the same way.” She took a deep breath. “But I’m an adult, and Tensei’s not my brother. It’s understandable if you’re not handling this well. Just don’t shut out the people who want to help you.”
He brushed tears out of his eyes. “I… I can’t… What if he doesn’t make it? If he dies, it’ll be my fault! I couldn’t help him; I didn’t let the others go after him.”
She took his shoulders and spun him to face her. “You listen to me, Iida Tenya. Your responsibility was to your classmates, not your teacher. You did everything right. Aizawa would say the same thing. And he will once he wakes up. And don’t you think for a minute he won’t; that man is more stubborn than anyone I’ve ever met. He’ll stay alive out of pure spite.”
Iida nodded numbly.
“Come on,” she sighed. “We’ll get some tea before going back.”
He followed her wordlessly. He had no doubt she believed what she said; that didn’t mean he did.
~~~
Shinsou Hitoshi was the next to visit. He ran up to Hizashi after school and quicky signed that it was his turn to visit Aizawa. Hizashi nodded and motioned for him to follow.
The boy was fidgety the entire trip to the hospital. Once they got to Shouta’s room, Shinsou froze, a broken cry slipping from his mouth. He ran to the bedside, hovering anxiously by his mentor’s side.
A knock sounded on the door. Hizashi turned to see Tsukauchi there. The man waved for him to join him. Hizashi whistled to catch Shinsou’s attention. “I’m going to talk to the detective. Stay here.”
Shinsou nodded, and as the voice hero turned to follow Tsukauchi out into the hall, he heard the boy start to shyly talk, telling Shouta all about a cat he’d seen a few days earlier. He hoped that somehow, the unconscious hero could hear him. Listening to his students might be the very thing to pull him back from the edge and give him something to fight for.
“I was hoping to catch you here,” the detective began.
“If this is about my report, I’ve got it typed up. My assistant should be sending it to you this afternoon.”
“It’s not that. There’s news. Figured I should be the one to tell you before you heard through the grapevine.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Remember how Eraserhead flatlined when you found him?”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t forget. That awful moment played in his head on a loop every time he closed his eyes.
“You remember what the gang leader’s quirk was?”
“Something like preservation or stasis or something. Not an attack-type quirk or anything, so I figured he’d rely more on weapons or hide behind his flunkies. Probably should have paid more attention. Why?”
“He was using it to keep Eraserhead alive for the past two weeks. To put it bluntly, there’s no way he should have made it out of that place alive. Reasonably speaking, he should have been dead a week ago, if not sooner. And once he saw you’d pulled him out of there, he shut it off. That’s why he almost died. It wasn’t just bad timing.”
Hizashi’s eyes widened. The villain’s words echoed in his ears.
“You’re too late!”
“On top of everything else, he’s now getting tried for attempted murder,” Tsukauchi continued. Then he lowered his voice. “Not to be pessimistic, but if Eraserhead doesn’t make it, he’ll be tried for first degree murder.”
Hizashi groaned and ran his hands down his face. I should have killed that man when I had the chance. I should have shattered his eardrums. “He’ll make it,” he stated bluntly, mostly to convince himself.
“I have no doubt. He’s a fighter. Plus he’s got something to live for.” The detective smiled as he glanced back towards the room, where Shinsou was still describing the cat encounter. “He really cares about those kids, huh?”
“Oh yeah. More than they know.”
Tsukauchi turned to go. “I’ll leave you to it. I gotta get back to the station.”
Hizashi waited in the hall for a while. He didn’t want to interrupt Shinsou. When the boy finally trailed off and fell silent, he rejoined him. The purple-haired teen frowned when he saw his weary expression. “Are you okay? Was it bad news?”
“Not really. Just news. How are you holding up?”
Shinsou shrugged. “Better than before. He’s here now. He’ll get better. Right?”
“You bet! He’s gonna be topping the charts before we know it! Or he would if he cared about charts…”
That actually got a smile out of the kid.
They stayed by Shouta’s bed a while longer, occasionally signing back and forth but mostly sitting in silence. Shinsou eventually stood to leave, promising to try to sneak back when he could, since he didn’t have the patience to wait twenty more days to see his teacher again.
~~~
Hagakure hummed as she skipped into the lobby, the basket of baked goods Sato had insisted she bring for Mic-sensei and Midnight-sensei swinging beside her. Aizawa-sensei had been in the hospital for almost a week now, and the others had reported that he was improving steadily. They had supposedly taken him off the sedatives recently, and he’d even woken up yesterday, but they’d had to put him back to sleep. Would he wake up while she was here? Would she be the first to get to talk to him? She suspected Shinsou was visiting behind their backs (not that anyone blamed him), so he might beat them all to that!
A blond blur sped out of the elevator, followed by a second.
“…all the security footage around the hospital for the last hour or so!” Mic-sensei half-yelled into his phone. “Send it directly to me. Yagi—” he pointed to the man behind him, whom Hagakure now recognized as All Might-sensei. “Get on the phone with the police. Then call Nezu.”
All Might-sensei nodded. “He couldn’t have gotten far, right?”
Mic-sensei froze and stared at All Might-sensei as if he’d said he didn’t believe in quirks. “This is Shouta we’re talking about!”
He winced. “Right.”
Mic-sensei started walking again. “He’s scared right now, so he’ll probably avoid the school. Nezu can try to—” He froze as he almost ran over Hagakure, who jumped out of his path. “Sorry, little listener!”
“What’s going on?” Fear gripped her heart. “Is Aizawa-sensei okay? Where is he?”
“Don’t know yet. He ran away.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Buck up, kiddo, we’ll find him in no time! For now, get back to the school and let the others know. Tell them not to panic. We’ll have this all taken care of before you can say ‘put your hands up’!”
With nothing else she could do, Hagakure returned to the school and told the others. They reacted about like she’d expected them to—all except for Iida, who, when questioned on what they should do, muttered “Do what you want” and left to go shut himself in his room.
Mic-sensei came back to the dorm around ten that night, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it wearily. The class jumped up to surround him, bombarding him with questions while Yaoyorozu tried to calm everyone down.
The teacher held up his hands. “Dial it back, listeners. We haven’t found him yet, but we’re still looking. He’s in pretty rough shape, I’ll admit, so it’s hard to say what he’s going to do now.”
“Why did he leave?” Jirou demanded.
“I think something might’ve scared him. They had to tie him down yesterday when he freaked out, so that may have been it.”
“What can we do to help?” Midoriya asked.
“Stay here; keep doing what you’re supposed to.”
Kirishima pounded his fists in frustration. “He’s hurt bad! What happens if you can’t find him? He could die!”
“Dude!” Ashido whacked him in the head and motioned to Shinsou, who sat silently on the back of the couch watching the chaos unfold with a look of misery across his face.
Mic-sensei shook his head. “This is Eraserhead, listeners! He’ll be just fine. He knows how to take care of himself.”
The words were spoken with his usual confidence, but Hagakure noted the strained edges of his smile. He was trying to keep them calm, obviously, but he was worried.
No, panicking.
“How do we know this wasn’t villains?” She demanded. “What if someone kidnapped him again?”
He shook his head. “We have video footage of him outside the hospital. He left on his own. If I had to guess, he’ll probably take a few hours to calm down and then either go back to the hospital or come here. If any of you listeners spot him, tell one of us teachers immediately, ya got that?”
They nodded. None of them were satisfied, but it was all they could do at the moment.
~~~
The blades slashed downward, ripping into his side and scraping against his ribs. Hot blood gushed from the wound, puddling on the floor underneath him. The woman laughed, the sound grating and harsh against his ears. Her nails clicked together as she dragged the spiked edges tauntingly across his arm, not digging them into his skin… yet.
She grinned crookedly, her green eyes flashing with barely restrained insanity. Next to her stood their leader, the same green eyes and crooked smile… they all shared that look, that face, all of them—
“Shouta, dear, wake up!” A hand touched his arm, and he screamed, wrenching away. His eyes snapped open, meeting the anxious gaze of Shuuzenji Chiyo. He panted heavily, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead. He groaned and let his head flop back down onto the couch.
“Sorry,” he rasped.
“Not at all,” she assured him. “You poor thing. I’d ask if you slept well, but I suppose that answers my question.”
He started to sit up, only then noting a particular absence. His chest constricted. “’Zashi!” He tried to stand, but a wave of nausea struck him and sent him collapsing back onto the couch. Where was Hizashi? Why had he left? He said he wouldn’t leave he promised he wouldn’t go anywhere—he’d lied, hadn’t he? He wanted to be rid of him! Would he turn him back over to them again?
Shuuzenji put a hand on his arm. “Easy, dearie. He’s just in the kitchen cooking.”
He listened, and sure enough, someone was messing around in there. Dishes clattered against one another, and a quieter than normal voice hummed a familiar tune, one that played on “Put Your Hands Up” radio. Shuuzenji waved the other over, and the sound stopped. Footsteps rushed towards them, and a face popped around the edge of the couch.
A face with a crooked grin and bright green eyes.
Shouta’s fist lashed out. The other man yelped, falling backwards and almost hitting the coffee table. He sat up, rubbing his face.
“Hizashi?” Shouta gasped. “Sorry!”
“Nah, it’s good, bro. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He winced. “That’s gonna leave a bruise.”
Shuuzenji pecked him on the forehead. “You two are going to be the death of me.”
“Sorry,” Shouta muttered, sitting upright. He flexed his fist; It was stiff, but the swelling had disappeared, and his thumb was back in place. His other arm was no longer in a cast.
Hizashi sat next to him. “Are you mad? I didn’t go anywhere, honest.”
“I’m not mad,” he growled.
The blond put a hand on his forehead. “You’re still running a fever.”
“I’m fine.”
“Mm-hm. I’m making some food. I’ll bring it over here when it’s done.” He stood and returned to the kitchen.
Shuuzenji put a hand on Shouta’s knee. “He hasn’t left your side. I went out for a bit earlier to get some groceries. Your kitchen’s pitifully understocked.”
His stomach twisted at the thought of food. Hizashi had looked so happy at the thought of taking care of him. He didn’t want to ruin that, but he’d vomited up everything he’d tried to eat lately except for coffee.
He stood and shuffled to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He grimaced at his reflection in the mirror. His face was drawn and pale, more so than normal, and lined with shadows. Fresh scars traced along his left cheek and jaw, faded softly already from the healing. He didn’t suspect they’d stay, courtesy of Recovery Girl doing what she could for his self-esteem. He appreciated it, though he didn’t particularly care. What were a few more scars?
Back in the living room, Hizashi and the healer were having a hushed conversation. They stopped when he rejoined them. Hizashi quickly schooled his features into his ever-present smile, but not quick enough for Shouta to miss the look of sadness and guilt he covered.
He sat next to Hizashi on the couch. “Did I miss something?”
“No.” His friend handed him a bowl. “Eat up.”
Surprised to see it was actually an edible-looking soup, he raised an eyebrow at Shuuzenji. The healer crossed her arms. “I took the liberty of creating a comprehensive recovery plan for you. You will follow it exactly, or so help me, I’ll see to it you’re confined to my infirmary for the next month. Do I make myself clear?”
He groaned. “You can’t just heal me and be done with it?”
“You sow bad seed, you get bad crops. Energy drinks and coffee are no substitute for a good night’s sleep.”
“I just slept.”
She scoffed. “Yes you did, for nearly a full day. Your body is nearly completely drained. Have you rested at all since you came here? Passing out doesn’t count.”
He thought for a moment. Then he slowly shook his head. Next to him, Hizashi exclaimed in frustration.
“You told me you had!”
“I thought passing out counted then!”
Shuuzenji whacked Shouta gently with her cane. “It does not, it never has, and it never will. I’ve added periods of actual rest to your plan. You also are to hydrate. Now hush and eat. I have to make some phone calls.”
He ate in silence, grateful that the food didn’t make him want to be sick. That would be humiliating, especially if he was going to convince them that he was fine.
Something was bothering Hizashi. It was written in the corners of his eyes, in the slight shaking of his smile. As the voice hero scrolled through his phone, answering texts, his hand shook.
It was none of his business, really. If the voice hero wanted to suffer in silence, that was his choice. But the nice thing to do would be to at least offer to listen to him. He wasn’t great at listening, but Hizashi always listened to him, so…
Shouta placed the half-empty bowl on the table and turned to him. “Spill. What’s wrong?”
Hizashi looked up in surprise. “Nothing, why?”
“If something’s bothering you, you can talk to me. Are you still mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you, Sho’. You scared me, but that’s nothing new. I’m just… I dunno, it’s stupid. And Recovery Girl says I should talk about it to someone, but I’ll get over it.”
Shouta crossed his arms. “I’m not going anywhere; might as well talk to me.”
He sighed. “I’m… mad. But not at you. At them. For what they did. Part of me wishes I had killed them, but I can’t do that; that’s not what we do. But I wish I’d’ve at least busted them up a little, you know? I had their leader! I had him, just minutes before we found you, but I passed him off to Snipe so I could go find you. I could’ve beat the crap out of him! Maybe then I wouldn’t feel like I was so… useless, weak.” He shuddered and set his phone down, wrapping his arms around himself. “I haven’t wanted to kill someone this bad in years. Part of me hates that there’s nothing I can do to him now. I lost my chance.”
Shouta winced. The feeling was sadly one he understood. “Hey,” he said softly, waiting until Hizashi turned to look at him. “I know what you mean. But you are not useless or weak. You saved me, ‘Zashi. I’m here right now because of you.”
He scoffed. “Any hero would have done that.”
“You’re here now. You’re still saving me. I wouldn’t have opened that door for just anyone. And I think you did more than you know. You said he didn’t shut his quirk down until you found me. If you’d beat him up, what do you think the chances are he would’ve tried to kill me sooner? The fact that you kept a level head probably saved my life.”
Hizashi looked away. “Maybe.”
Attempting to lighten the mood, Shouta elbowed him teasingly. “You know this means I have to get a new safehouse now, right?” he grumbled.
Hizashi rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. That’s on you, runaway. Don’t go blaming me for this.” For safety’s sake, no hero ever divulged the whereabouts of their safehouse (if they had one; Shouta thought the pros who didn’t were idiots) to anyone, even other heroes. Shouta had three, just in case.
He leaned his head on Hizashi’s shoulder. He never acted like this; he despised any show of vulnerability from himself. And he’d already fallen asleep using his leg as a pillow last night. But he didn’t have the strength to pretend to be okay right now. Nothing was okay at the moment. He didn’t know if it ever would be. So he’d let himself act like this for now, when only Hizashi was around to know. And he knew his friend would never snitch.
Hizashi shifted to put his arm around Shouta’s shoulders. Within minutes, he had drifted off to sleep again.
~~~
The two pros walked up to the steps of Heights Alliance, the soft glow of the outside lights lighting up the walkway. Hizashi sighed in relief to see that the inside was dark. Shouta didn’t need any excitement right now, especially not in the form of twenty screaming children—well, about fifteen screaming children and maybe five who would have the decency to be quietly excited that their sensei was back. Not that he had the right to judge anyone for being loud…
Shouta stared up at the building like a condemned man. He’d insisted that he was okay to come back to the dorm tonight instead of either staying at the safehouse or going to his other room in the teachers’ dorm, but he might be having second thoughts. Hizashi put a hand on his shoulder and nudged him forward.
Inside, low noises came from the TV as an old comedy played. A messy head of hair peeked out from above the couch, turning as the door shut to reveal Shinsou. His eyes widened when he saw Shouta.
“Aizawa-sensei!” he hissed quietly. “You’re here? A-are you okay? No, dumb question, sorry.” He grimaced. “I mean—I’ll make some tea.”
He ran to the kitchen. Hizashi grinned when he saw Shouta’s almost-smile. They moved to sit on the couch, and the voice hero quickly shot off a text to Nezu, Nemuri, and Vlad that they were back on campus.
Shinsou returned a few minutes later with three cups of tea. He set them on the coffee table and bounced anxiously on the balls of his feet, seemingly unsure if his next statement would go over well. “Um, S-sensei, can I… Is it okay if I hug you?”
Shouta nodded and held out one arm. The boy sat next to him, bringing his arms around him gently. “I missed you,” he whispered.
“I missed you too.” He brought his other arm up to wrap around him.
They drank tea and watched TV until Shouta once again fell asleep against Hizashi. The blond laughed softly. “This is gonna be a bad habit, isn’t it?”
“Do we need to move him?” Shinsou whispered.
“Nah. Let him rest. He’s dead tired.” He grimaced. “Bad choice of words. Sorry.”
The purple-haired teen fetched a blanket from off the back of the couch and draped it over his teacher. “Will he be okay? Like, actually okay?”
“I…” He wanted to say yes, that this was Eraserhead and he was always fine eventually. But this was Shinsou. “I don’t know. I hope so. I think he will be, if we try to help him. If he’ll let us help him.”
The boy nodded. “He will. He’s got a class just as stubborn as he is. It’s his own fault. We learned from the best.”
Hizashi grinned. “You’re a good kid, yo. He’s lucky to have you. All of you.”
~~~
“I’m telling you, I saw him!”
Shouta pulled his hair into a loose ponytail as he walked out to the common room. He’d woken up on the couch about an hour earlier and gone to take a shower. The class had apparently dragged themselves out of bed and were now having a serious discussion about Shinsou’s vehement insistence that he’d seen him.
“Shinsou, I am by no means implying that you are not to be trusted.” Iida’s voice was far too loud for this time of morning. “I’m merely stating that you don’t have good sleeping habits, and that might be causing you to either have strange dreams or to possibly see things.”
“I’m not crazy,” he growled back. “He was right here!”
“We could always check his room,” Bakugou huffed. The idea was shot down by screeching from Uraraka and Hagakure, who insisted that that was a serious violation of his privacy and what if he was actually in there and he might get mad at them.
He rolled his eyes and stepped out into the room. “If you’re all so energetic this time of morning, I assume all your homework is done and ready to be turned in. If not, I’d suggest you get busy.”
He almost missed the days when a declaration like that from him would have sent them silent in shock. He’d have to come up with new strategies, it would seem. He winced as the combined sounds of their shrieks and hollers echoed around the room.
“Yo, yo, yo!” Hizashi yelled from behind him. “Easy does it, listeners! You’ll give the invalid a headache!”
“Too late.”
The students crowded around him, making sure to give him space to breathe. Half of them looked on the verge of tears; Midoriya looked teary enough to make up for the other half. He sighed and held out his arms. “You kids are gonna be the death of me.”
The girls were the first to accept the invitation, surprisingly gentle as they only half-tackled him. They reluctantly stepped aside so the boys could follow in their footsteps. Bakugou scoffed as if the whole scene were beneath him, but he didn’t argue when Shouta put an arm around his shoulders. (And Shouta wasn’t a snitch; no one needed to know that the boy leaned into the hug.) Stiff and proper Iida didn’t seem too inclined to hug him, either—less out of a sense of “toughness” and more out of a sense of dignity—but he also relented.
Once they had satisfied themselves that he was not, in fact, an illusion, he shooed them off to get ready for class. They rushed around, grabbing bookbags and breakfast. Shouta turned to go back to his room.
“Where you off to?” Hizashi asked.
“To get my scarf. I’m running behind schedule.”
“Ah, ah, ah. You, my friend, are going to sit right here in this dorm and not go anywhere today.”
Shouta glared. “I have to teach.”
“All Might’s covering your class. You are on Nezu-required house arrest thanks to your little stunt at the hospital. And Recovery Girl’s backing him on this one.” He waved his phone in front of the erasure hero’s face. “I’ve got the day off too, and we are going to sit right here and watch movies until our eyes bleed. Okay, not literally, but you get it.”
“’Zashi…” he growled warningly.
“Oh, you do have an appointment with Recovery Girl later today. So I’d do some actual relaxing before then.”
“I’m more than capable of teaching right now. I’ve done it under worse conditions.”
“Don’t remind me. But our dear, sweet principal has spoken.”
Shouta huffed. “I’ll talk to him later.”
“You do that. Let me know how it goes.”
The students started to file out, giving him bright smiles and thumbs up as they headed off to class. He nodded to them. Then he crossed his arms. “Bakugou. Iida. Stay for a moment.”
They did so, and he motioned them to one of the couches. Bakugou sat cross-legged, but at a raised eyebrow from his sensei, he quickly shifted to sit properly.
“I’ll give you some time,” Hizashi said as he left.
The boys glanced at each other and then at Shouta uncomfortably. He sighed. “Firstly, I wanted to tell you both thank you.”
Their eyes widened in surprise.
“Whether they realize it or not, the others look up to the two of you as leaders. Midoriya, too. Present Mic told me how you’ve tried to tend to the class, Iida. And Bakugou, your classmates take their cues from you. You’re not president, but they go where you lead. Both of you have kept this class going while I was gone. I understand that isn’t an easy task, and both of you probably wanted different things, but you did it.”
Bakugou scoffed. “Blame the prez. He didn’t let us have any fun.”
“I mean it. I don’t know much about what happened over the last few weeks, but I know that your responsibility”—he pointed to Iida—“and your determined attitude”—he pointed at Bakugou—"are two of the cornerstones of this class.”
To his surprise, Iida looked away, guild flashing in his eyes. “You shouldn’t be thanking me, Sensei.”
“Here we go again,” Bakugou growled.
“Why not?”
Iida stood and bowed. “I hold myself to blame for letting you get taken. You’re right; I’m supposed to be responsible. But I couldn’t protect you. I wasn’t fast enough. That’s what I’m responsible for, for your injuries and pain. Furthermore, I instructed my classmates to remain where we were instead of trying to find you. If I had let Bakugou and Midoriya take charge, if we had followed you, then we could have rescued you sooner!”
Yikes, where to even start with that… “Iida, look me in the eye. It’s stupid to try to take the blame for that. As the class president, it’s your responsibility to look after your classmates, not me. Taking care of all of you is my job, not the other way around. You did the right thing. No one is responsible for that except for them. Understand?”
“I should have been better—”
“And I should’ve been stronger and not gotten kidnapped? I should’ve been smarter and escaped? Would you tell me any of those things?”
“Of course not! You were a victim—”
“And so were all of you. They were after you kids, not me. I just happened to get in the way and ended up being a good puzzle piece for their plan.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Listen. I would go through all of that a hundred times if it meant keeping each and every one of you kids safe. That’s my job as your teacher. You’ve all been hurt enough this year already.” He turned to the other student. “And Bakugou, Mic told me you’re blaming yourself, too.”
Bakugou huffed. “I know, I know, ‘stop it, it’s not your fault.’ Fact is, Sensei, you got caught because you had to save my hide. So yeah, I’m a little mad at myself.”
“I’m mad at myself, too.”
“Huh?”
“I messed up, got off-balance. If I’d been more careful, I wouldn’t have slipped. ‘Fact is,’ we all make mistakes. But we’re not the ones who chose to attack and hurt people. They are. And they’re the only ones responsible for what happened. Understand?”
They reluctantly nodded.
“Alright. Get to class. Give me a piece of paper and I’ll write you a pass for being late.”
Hizashi poked his head back in. “Y’all done?”
“Yes.”
“I talked to Recovery Girl. We’re adding a weekly therapy session to your plan.”
He managed to refrain from groaning in front of the kids, the look Iida gave him being the only thing that stopped him. “Okay.”
“You’re getting therapy?” the boy asked as Hizashi disappeared again.
Shouta nodded. “Even leaders need to learn to rely on others. You don’t think any less of me for it, do you?”
“Of course not!”
He nodded. “No one will think less of you. And you don’t have to talk to your classmates about it. I won’t require you to talk to anyone like Bakugou has to, but consider it. Pride’s a stupid reason to not get help.”
“How did you—”
“I know everything.”
Iida nodded as if that checked out completely. “I’ll… consider it. Thank you, Aizawa-sensei.”
He shrugged. “Go on, you’ll miss the lesson.”
“Yes sir!” The boy rushed off to join the others. Shouta sighed. These kids…
~~~
“What’s this one from?”
Shouta froze as tiny fingers traced along the scar under his eye. Eri had been upset about the scars that lined her arms and legs, and that had led to this. He’d offered to tell her about his, and he was trying really hard not to regret that. She needed to see that they weren’t something to be ashamed of.
Phantom pains flitted across his skin. On bad days, he could still feel that thing’s hand twisted into his hair, slamming his face against the ground over and over and over. On less bad days, he could pretend it didn’t bother him. “That one is from when a bunch of monsters tried to attack my class. I got a little beat up trying to protect them.” He grinned. “Deku did a pretty good job that day. He acted like a real pro.”
Eri grinned brightly at the mention of her friend. Then she pointed to one on his throat. “What about that one?”
“Thugs in a back alley. They weren’t happy I stopped them from robbing a store. One of them took a knife to me. Just a scratch,” he assured her when her eyes widened in fear. “I got him back, though. Got him all wrapped up in my scarf like a Christmas present.”
Okay, so he was definitely sugar-coating. Sue him. She was seven and already had more trauma than most pros.
“What’s this one?”
His breath caught as she pointed to one on the back of his hand, starting at his knuckles and disappearing into his sleeve.
It took everything in him not to scream as the blade dug in deeper, dragging slowly up his arm. He was dying, fading, only the sharp pain keeping him from losing consciousness; it dulled for a few seconds but flared up again as the sharp edge hit against a burn—
He couldn’t move, every twitch and flinch sent bones scraping against each other; but still the thug grabbed him and shook him like a rag doll, laughing at the short gasps of pain that elicited. His head slumped weakly to the side. Even if he could move, he still couldn’t get that stupid blindfold off, he couldn’t do anything!
A little hand patted his cheek. “Eraserhead?”
He blinked and looked back down at the little girl on his lap. “Sorry. Just… got lost in the memories. That one’s from a few months ago. I was captured by a gang. Got carved up a bit.”
She touched one of the scars on her arm. “Like me?”
“Yeah.”
She looked up at him, eyes filled with sadness. “What did they want?”
He sighed. The poor girl had been subject to terrible things at the hands of Overhaul, her scars a reminder of his cruelty. He’d used her to further his scheme, to create weapons. His own scars were a different story. “They didn’t want anything. Just to hurt someone."
“Are you okay?”
Okay?
Such a simple question. Was he okay? When anyone asked how he was, he always said he was fine. He always had. He had bigger things to worry about.
But little Eri wanted to know. She didn’t pity him. She understood. And she needed to know that she would be okay one day, too.
So was he?
The nightmares that never went away.
The panic the first time he’d tried to put his goggles on, too similar to the feel of the blindfold, that dread of not being able to see.
Frantically checking on his students randomly, needing to assure himself they were all still there.
The fear every time someone put a hand on him without warning.
Always wondering when the other shoe would drop, when his colleagues would finally say they were faking and they actually didn’t care and that they had been better off without him.
“YOOOOOO, ERASER!”
He winced. “Present Mic.”
The blond leaned against his desk. “We’re going out to eat after school! Bring the little listener!”
Eri grinned. “YOOOOOO!”
“See, Mic, you corrupted her,” Shouta huffed.
“Awesome! I’ve got a mini-me!”
“Spare me,” he muttered under his breath. He kept his face impassive until the other man turned around, then he let himself smile.
“Hi, Aizawa-sensei!” Iida, Sero, and Sato waved as they walked past the teacher’s lounge. He waved back.
Hizashi and Nemuri, waiting with open arms whenever the nightmares got to be too much.
The nightlight Yaoyorozu made during practice one day, saying she wanted to try something new but she didn’t need it and maybe he could find a use for it.
His students, all okay, none the worse for wear and all of them getting better, talking and opening up and leaning on each other.
Their gentle hugs, offered fist-bumps, nights spent on the couch watching movies as they begged him to join them.
Feeling welcomed, accepted, loved, and hesitantly starting to allow himself to believe that it wasn’t a lie.
“I’m okay,” he murmured, ruffling Eri’s hair and grinning as she giggled. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
And if anyone thought it was strange that he wore a short-sleeved shirt the next day, they wisely said nothing.