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He doesn't mean to do it. Yamada Hizashi isn't actually all that impulsive, nor is he an idiot even if his enthusiastic demeanor apparently encourages people to think so. It serves him well; both as an upcoming hero and radio host.
But there comes a point when rules don't matter. When all the carefully crafted patterns stop being important. When the world narrows down to the silvery glow of a blade in the light of a back-alley lantern and the soft splatter of blood hitting the ground.
The scream tears itself from his throat before his friend’s body hits the ground.
“Shouta!!!”
The call had come about ten minutes earlier. Hizashi, on patrol, had been one of the first to pick up the scrambled signal.
“… need reinforcements…” the voice of Skipper had come through the tiny microphone, breathless and distorted. An explosion in the background. “… trap. Eraserhead and … down. But … medic.”
Hizashi’s blood had run cold.
He’s only superficial familiar with Skipper, as the man, like Shouta, prefers to operate in the shadows. Underground heroes dislike calling for reinforcements, too.
This is bad news.
“Skipper, this is police chief Uemura. We have your location, support and medical are on their way. Eta 20 minutes.”
That’s too long. Far too long.
With shaking hands Hizashi fumbles with his phone, unlocking the app. The location pin glows red, not far from his current spot. He presses the button before he’s quite rationalized it.
“Skipper, this is Present Mic. On the way, Eta 3 minutes."
He doesn’t wait for a reply, but starts running.
Sound blasts the villains back like a shockwave; glass rains down from broken windows above, the lantern bursts, and Hizashi barely noticed the warm liquid trickling down his cheek from a cut. He's running into the dark alley; not even hearing what his fellow heroes yell over the headset. Skipper pointed him into the direction; the man down with a broken leg and concussion just a few paces away. Shouta must have goaded the villains away, Hizashi realizes and the frantic beating of his own heart fills his ears, louder than even the numb ringing that follows his scream.
Not Shouta, not his best friend. Not the one person he cannot stand to lose.
It's but twenty paces from the entrance to the alley to where Hizashi’s scream has violently thrown villains and their victim against a wall; long enough for his mind to conjure nightmares.
The glint of sharp claws in the dim light; Shouta’s body sagging against the grip of a four-armed villain, one shoulder visibly dislocated. One hand in that black hair; holding Shouta’s head in place - the clawed villain had stuck and Hizashi had screamed and he doesn't know if he was in time.
Hizashi ignores the motionless villains; falls to his knees next to his friend’s unmoving body, breath caught in his throat. Shadows and dark hair hide Shouta’s face, but there's blood on the ground and Hizashi’s hands shake violently when he reaches out.
Not his eyes. Not his eyes. Anything but his eyes.
Dampness soaks into the fabric of his pants as he brushes dark hair aside, revealing one sluggishly bleeding cut running from Shouta’s cheek to his forehead - it spared his right eye, and Hizashi’s heart shudders. His fingers wander further left, and there’s warm liquid there.
His breath hitches, he gently tilts Shouta’s face up, and his stomach twists. Blood, so much blood.
Two more lines run down Shouta’s face, parallel to the first and across Shouta’s left eye. Nonononono, Hizashi thinks, heart racing, anything but that. He scrabbles to wipe away the blood, get a clearer look, deny his suspicion.
The cut goes straight through Shouta’s eyelid.
“Mic, what is going on there?” Midnight’s voice comes cracklings over the tiny device in his ear. “Do you need backup?”
Hizashi’s breath speeds up. Red stains his fingers; Shouta’s blood. Panic swirls in his chest, tightens around his throat, and his voice shakes badly when he finally manages to respond. “Get me med support asap. Eraser’s down, eye injury.”
A sharp intake of breath from the other end. “Understood.”
The connection cuts off, and Hizashi’s thankful. He needs to focus, damnit. Shouta needs him now, needs him to keep himself together. He bites down on his lower lip until he tastes blood; forces himself to draw a shuddering breath.
Shouta’s eyebrows twitch, indicating he’s about to wake up, and Hizashi hurriedly rests his own hand atop the damaged eyes, forcing them to remain closed.
“Don't open your eyes, Eraser,” he orders as firmly as he can, and Shouta tenses. Hizashi can feel it against his hand, sees the one hand Shouta was raising freeze. The other arm remains on the ground; motionless and twisted.
“Everything’s fine; I took care of the villains,” Hizashi promises. “Support’s on the way, but you must keep your eyes closed for now.”
The raised hand slumps back down to the ground.
“Mic?” Shouta murmurs, voice sluggish, though there is a hint of insecurity in it. “Wha-“
“Yeah, it's me,” Hizashi confirms, trying desperately to inject calm into his words. But there’s no sign of the other heroes, and he has no idea how long the villains will stay down. “Stay still, I'll need to cover your eyes until med gets here.”
Due to his hand on Shouta’s face he feels the tiny nod more than he sees it, while his other hand fumbles for Shouta’s capture weapon. While not made for medical purposes, the fabric can double as temporary bandages.
“Keep your eyes closed, I’m bandaging them now,” he informs his friend as he retracts his hand, trying not mind the blood sticking to his fingers. For all that he doesn't like insects and creepy-crawlies, he's not actually squeamish. But the eye injury makes his stomach turn.
With fingers he barely holds steady he wraps the cloth across his friend’s eyes, layer after layer, until the red no longer seeps through. Shouta’s breathing has grown awfully controlled; Hizashi knows this isn't comfortable for him either.
“Alright, this should hold,” Hizashi announces with faked confidence, tying the bandage off. Hopefully med support will be here soon; and he prays they will have a quirk healer able to undo whatever damage was dealt to Shouta’s eye.
“Thanks,” Shouta murmurs. A shiver runs through his body and Hizashi recalls the humid ground. His pants are cold and wet; and support should have been there long ago.
Except Hizashi isn’t entirely certain how much time has passed.
“Can you sit up?” he asks Shouta, thinking they might leave. The cold humidity can’t be good; and if the villains wake up he’ll be in trouble. Shouta isn’t up, and Mic isn’t specialized in close-range fighting.
Shouta grimaces, but before he can put any weight on his left shoulder, Hizashi’s reached out to stop him. “Wait, let me help. Your left arm’s in bad shape, better don't strain it.”
Shouta bites down on his lip hard; brow creased in pain. And all Hizashi can do is watch helplessly.
“Don't worry,” he attempts to reassure his friend, “it'll be fine.”
Shouta attempts to sit up again, but this time Hizashi spots it first. He's too frazzled to protest, instead reaches over and with a careful arm behind Shouta’s back helps him sit up and lean against his own chest. Ragged breathing fills his ears; he can't be certain the wetness on Shouta’s clothes is humidity or blood.
“It'll be fine,” he says again and catches a movement from the corner of his eye. One of the villains he took down stirs; Hizashi’s blood runs cold.
Shouta makes a pained sound as Hizashi’s grip on him tightens. But the four-armed villain is sitting up, yellow eyes bright in the dim light. The hiss it lets out is far from friendly.
“I’ll make sure of it,” Hizashi adds, grim determination sinking into his bones while he plucks his trusty headphones off his head. Oh, this is going to hurt him, too, but that's nothing he hasn't experienced before. Recovery Girl can always patch his ear drums back together; it's not as if they suffered much damaged in the last years.
With that he shoves the headphones over Shouta’s ears, tugs his friend’s body protectively against his chest. Takes a deep breath, fills his lungs to their capacity.
And releases an ear-shattering scream.
The noise slams into the monster, catching it in midair and slams it against the wall across from them. Glass shards rain down from above; a dull ring paired with a sharp pain exudes from Hizashi’s ear. A familiar warm liquid begins to trickle from it.
“You want more?” he asks the still form, blood boiling. His lips move, and he can feel his vocal cords produce the sounds, though he can’t hear them. Only a dull, confusing ringing. “Haven't had enough yet?”
The villain doesn't move from where he's fallen.
“Why don't you come here again? Try and finish what you started! Just get up and I'll show you! You haven't seen anything yet, you -”
A soft touch to his arm makes him falter. Cold sweat covers his back, makes his hero costume stick uncomfortably. He abruptly realizes he’s shaking; and his throat aches the way it last did when his control of pitch failed back during his time at UA.
Calm down, he tells himself. Calm down. The villains are down; that he can't hear anything but ringing is testament to that.
A second tug on his sleeve, this one more insistent and Hizashi glances down. Bloodstained fingers have a near white-knuckled grip on the fabric of his jacket, belying the urgency of the movement. Shouta’s face is tilted toward him, a frown half hidden by the blood-soaked, makeshift bandage covering his eyes, lips moving soundlessly.
White-hot realization flashes through Hizashi’s mind. He's rendered his friend blind and deaf; with the heavy injuries also severely restricting his movement. He must have no idea of what's happening; except for Hizashi’s death grip on him.
Not that Hizashi can hear what Shouta’s saying either. And his mind’s too frazzled to focus on the movements of Shouta’s lips; he recognizes his name, but the rest is unfamiliar; Shouta might be speaking a completely different language.
His hands shake when he reaches up to tug the headphones from Shouta’s ears. “It's alright,” he says, forcing his vocal chords through the familiar motions and hopes that the sound comes out none too garbled. “They’re all down. The villains. Med should be here soon.”
His lips quirk into a smile despite himself; despite Shouta’s inability to see. “Sorry, I can't hear what you are saying right now. Yell at me later?”
His voice probably trembles, because his entire body is trembling. He'd known, they’d all known. Being a hero is dangerous; hell, they’d all gotten hurt during their internships before. But it's different now.
If Shouta loses an eye…
He doesn't want to think about it. He curls around Shouta’s body, grip tightening, bites down on his own lip until the taste of copper fills his mouth. Tears burn behind his eyes, so he squeezes them shut.
“I'm so sorry I was late,” he squeezes out. “I'm so sorry.”
Shouta says something. He's clutching him close enough to feel his chest move, but the words don't reach Hizashi’s ears.
Aizawa Shouta awakens at 5am, disoriented, discombobulated, and distinctly confused. A dull ache echoes through his body; while his mind whirls, trying to puzzle together what happened. He can't remember getting to a hospital, but the smell and the subdued pain through his body give it away. There is a bandage firmly wrapped around his left leg, another around his wrist, and his eyes itch the way freshly healed skin does.
He blinks.
It's dark in the room; the sun outside not close to rising yet. A few machine lights blink green and red nearby, and Shouta exhales in bone-deep relief.
He can see. His eyes are fine.
The abrupt, burning pain still echoes in his mind. That short instant of panic - what if his quirk - then Hizashi’s scream had blasted the world apart. Shouta remembers hitting the ground hard, biting off a curse. Hizashi meant well, but he ought to be more careful, because -
Hands on his shoulders, telling him not to open his eyes; fear underneath the familiar voice.
Looking back on it, Shouta acknowledges Hizashi had been right. He's missing moments; he'd been in no shape to get up. Keeping his eyes closed probably made things easier for the healer who patched him back together, too.
In short: he owes Hizashi big time.
Because if he hadn't turned up, there's a good chance the villains would have dealt more permanent damage. Much as Shouta would like to deny it; he can admit he was out of his depth there (sure, it was a case of bad luck. He's a well-trained fighter; but the combination of various mutation quirk villains plus a lucky hit one had gotten in early on turned things against him).
In any case, Hizashi saved him. Shouta’s going to buy him a drink and maybe dinner as well. And then he will yell at him, seeing as the voice hero had ended up blowing his own eardrums to save Shouta.
Shouta’s memories of that part are unclear. Once Hizashi had shoved his earphones over Shouta’s ears, he'd known Hizashi was doing something foolish. But he'd been disoriented to a point that even the memory makes him shudder. Blind, deaf, and barely able to move he'd felt more like some useless ragdoll than a hero. Hizashi’s arm around him pressing him against his warm body had been his only anchor to reality.
Shouta takes a deep breath, pushes the memory aside and stares at the ceiling. It’s comfortably solid and real.
Definitely yell at Hizashi, though.
They are both released the next day, healed, with instructions to take it easy.
Meeting at the front desk while signing the release papers, Hizashi breaks out into a wide smile at seeing Shouta come his way.
“Shouta!” he exclaims, and Shouta has half a mind to reproach him before recalling that they are both out of costume. Hizashi with his hair down is nearly unrecognizable, and Shouta’s face isn’t well-known. They might draw more attention using their hero names in this setting.
“My man, how are you?” There's a note of true anxiety underlying his voice, and Shouta’s “fine” is a tad gentler than it would ordinarily be. He can sense Hizashi has more questions; but there are other people loitering in the lobby.
“We match,” Hizashi observes instead with a quirk of his lip while Shouta pushes his signed release forms to the nurse behind the counter.
Shouta raises an eyebrow, then realizes that he’s wearing the navy-blue version of Hizashi’s beige cardigan. “It doesn't fit you either,” he returns, studying the way the cardigan’s sleeves hang down to Hizashi's fingertips.
Hizashi laughs. “Well, better than walking home in a torn costume,” he replies, and Shouta nods in agreement. His own costume is likely a write-off between the tears and the blood; Hizashi’s will at least need a thorough cleaning. Thankfully hospitals nowadays provide spare clothing for these cases; though the jeans, shirt and cardigan combo isn't exactly Shouta’s favorite.
It looks good on Hizashi. With his hair in a messy bun and lacking his sunglasses, he looks more like a pop idol than a pro hero. The nurse manning the front desk isn’t immune to that either; though she apparently also likes the like-death-warmed-over type. Or perhaps it’s the fact that hero agencies pay nicely, so they both see their paperwork sorted quickly.
While Shouta’s plan is to go home, lie down, and don't get up before the sun rises tomorrow, Hizashi turns to look at him with pleading eyes.
“You can sleep at my place?” Hizashi suggests. “We can get food, beer, and then put something dumb on and be lazy?” There’s a hoarseness to his voice Shouta only picks up on because he knows it. Apparently, the healers didn't treat that, and knowing Hizashi injured his quirk for him makes something in his chest shift.
“Please, Shouta,” Hizashi duplicates, batting his eyelashes. They are long and pretty, though Shouta isn't entirely sure whether he finds the gesture endearing or hilarious.
“Fine,” he agrees, and Hizashi also knows him well enough to pick up the faint note of entertainment in his voice.
“Great!” he yells, loud even without his quirk. “I've been meaning to make you watch Star Wars. Do something for your general education, y’know?”
Shouta allows the familiar voice to exorcise the lady vestiges of yesterday’s disaster. He's not unused to the lingering thrum of adrenalin in his body, to closing his eyes only for afterimages to dance across the back of his eyelids. But yesterday was more intense, cut deeper.
He signs off the last sheet of paperwork and turns toward the exit. It’s already getting dark again outside, testament to the short autumn days. Hizashi falls into step next to him.
“Let’s take a cab,” Hizashi says, shivering. The borrowed clothes aren’t exactly seasonal; so Shouta can only nod in vehement agreement while he crosses his arms over his chest.
The ride back is quiet. Whatever treatment was used on him, Shouta feels vaguely dizzy and worn out; and Hizashi is happy to leave him be. Contrary to his public persona, Hizashi does extended silences, something Shouta has always appreciated a lot.
They stop at the convenience store and armed with crisps (against Hizashi’s publicist’s order), beer (against doctor’s orders), and one of the neighborhood strays (against the landlord’s orders), stumble their way into the flat. The cat, not a first-time visitor either, makes beeline for the fridge; Shouta for the couch. The soft thud of a body hitting the leather sounds at the same time the calico cat gives a plaintiff meow.
Hizashi looks at the kicked-off shoes in his doorway and decides that order can be restored later. Instead he first gets water and a small dish of cat food for his four-legged guest, then pads toward his other guest.
Shouta is sprawled on the couch, leafing lazily through the cat magazine. Two cans of beer stand on the couch table.
“Move over,” Hizashi demands, prodding Shouta with his knee. The other man folds his knees, making just enough space for Hizashi to sit down. He fumbles for the remote, switches on the tv.
The anchor reports from overseas, some minor incident that has nonetheless drawn interest. Local politics, the weather. Nothing about the incident they got involved in.
“So, what happened?” Hizashi asks, lowering the volume. “It’s unlike you to walk into a trap.”
Shouta frowns. “Skipper had a lead on one of the drug cartels I’ve been trailing, too. We didn’t know it was a setup until we got there.”
Hizashi frowns. “So, they got away?”
“A number did,” Shouta admits, unconcerned. “They knew we were coming, the bosses had been long gone by that time."
“But they know your face now,” Hizashi points out and can’t quite keep the concern from his voice. “They can pick you out.”
It’s one of the reason underground heroics have always daunted him. Little recognition in exchange for a great deal of danger - certainly, the pay is good. Underground heroes have little need to sell merchandise.
But not many of them reach retirement age either, and that scares Hizashi more than he’d like to admit.
Shouta hums, glancing at Hizashi across the top of his magazine. “That’s unlikely,” he replies which is far less assuring and answer than Hizashi had hoped for.
“Unlikely?” he echoes. “Shouta, you know what those cartels do when they want to get revenge.” Especially on heroes. Hizashi, like everyone, has seen the news.
To think his Shouta could suffer a fate like that...
“I am aware of that, Hizashi,” Shouta replies and Hizashi finds his friend’s eyes studying him closely. “I’m careful.”
Hizashi sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know,” he says, suddenly tired. “I just wish I could convince you to pick a safer road.”
Shouta snorts. “Heroics isn’t exactly a safe occupation.”
Hizashi waves that aside. “You know what I mean.” Underground heroes are highly respected among the hero community for the work they do - they handle the gritty crimes, the infiltration missions, the high-risk encounters. And Hizashi knows that Shouta is more than skilled at what he does; there’s a reason even established heroes like Skipper call him into high-profile jobs despite his young age.
Still, as a friend, he’d rather worry less.
“I have no intention of getting myself murdered,” Shouta quips drily. “Really, Hizashi, you ought to know that.” His forehead creases. “Though maybe we should talk about your apparent death wish. What were you thinking, rupturing your own eardrums like that? You made yourself a sitting duck!”
Flat has his tone is, Hizashi catches the worry underneath. He scratches the back of his neck. Shrugs. “I know,” he admits. “That wasn’t good thinking. I just … I kind of lost it?”
“Hizashi, you can’t -” Shouta begins, but Hizashi interrupts him.
“Look, I know you can stay all calm and rational about things like that, but I’m not like you, Shouta. I was scared - you were bleeding and I didn’t know how badly you were injured, and that large villain came at us, so I just reacted.” A shadow of the fear passes through his chest again. He’d not change what he did in retrospect, not at all, no matter how thinly Shouta presses his lips together. “I thought I might lose you.”
Their eyes meet for a long moment. Then Shouta, with a sigh, looks away and shuffles on the couch until his back rests against Hizashi’s side.
“Fine,” he concurs. “If that had been you, maybe I would have panicked, too.” Hizashi smiles a little. He doesn’t think Shouta would have; the man has excellent self-control. But it’s the sentiment that counts. “Still, I’d appreciate it if the next time you panic you do it in a manner that assures your own safety as well. Also maybe try to stick to my codename.”
Hizashi chuckles and scratches his chin. "Yeah, sorry about that." He hadn't meant to slip up there. Heroes use codenames for a reason. And he even created Shouta's codename.
"No harm done," Shouta mutters with a short smile directed at Hizashi over his shoulder. "It's not as if it's an uncommon name." Meaning whoever overheard Hizashi's scream won't be able to trace Eraserhead's civilian identity. Still, Hizashi is well aware of how strictly Shouta holds himself to the rules of their work - he'd never forgive himself for such a slip.
A smile climbs to Hizashi's lips. He slips an arm around Shouta's shoulders, and pulls him into a one-armed hug. "Ach, thank you," he says against Shouta's hair, noticing how even after nearly a decade of hugs and other forms of affection Shouta initially stiffens. But he relaxes near immediately, slumping comfortably against Hizashi's body.
Hizashi let's go after a long, reassuring moment (yes, they're both alive and breathing). “Just don’t give me a reason to panic,” he says lightly and reaches for one of the beers. “I don’t particularly enjoy panicking.”
He cracks the can open, glad that the cool metal under his fingers provides a sharp contrast against the phantom sensations that still linger on his skin, that even the hug couldn't entirely chase away. Shouta falls silent, which is all Hizashi needs: the confirmation his words hit the right note. The tv blares on in the background.
Eventually Shouta leans over and reaches for the other beer. “I will try to do that,” he agrees, opening his own beer. “It wasn’t the most pleasant experience for me either.”
Hizashi snorts. “I can imagine,” he mutters. Then he holds his can out for a toast. “Let’s drink to that. No more panic, whether it’s actual panicking or causing it.”
The other can clinks against his, and Shouta gives him another dry grin over his shoulder. “Agreed.”
Fin