Chapter Text
"Whew! Tougher customers than usual," Hitoshi panted, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
"Or maybe you're just out of practice," Aizawa smirked, tightening the hold of his scarf on a wriggling criminal. "You called for the police right? I'm not in the mood to drag them all to the station."
"Should be here in a few minutes," Hitoshi nodded.
They both stretched, relaxing after the fight. A spreading throb on his forearm told Hitoshi that it was going to bruise magnificently the next day. He gave a mental shrug as he massaged the spot. Could be worse.
"Interested in getting some food?" Aizawa asked. "I've heard good things about that local sushi place."
"If you're buying," Hitoshi bargained.
"You've got your own money now. Start acting like it."
"When you stop asking to do patrols with me, maybe I will. It takes money to get out here you know," he said innocently.
Aizawa grumbled indistinctly, pushing his hair out of his face.
"You're a nasty manipulator, you know that?"
Hitoshi shrugged.
"Sushi's not cheap. But I'd be prepared to split the bill if you handle the police when they come."
"Oh come on! Nothing's worth-"
A resounding crack blasted through the darkness.
Hitoshi leapt to the alley wall, instinct taking over.
Damn it! They must have missed one of the gang!
The urgency and danger of an approaching fight swept everything else from his mind. He flattened himself against the bricks, sheltered in the shadows. The fabric strips around his arms uncoiled sinuously, snaking into his hands.
He glanced around, ready to make or follow a plan with Aizawa.
But Aizawa hadn't taken cover. He was standing in the same place, motionless in the center of the alley.
Hitoshi looked at him, stunned and incredulous. What was he doing? There was no way he hadn't heard that gunshot. His own ears were still ringing from the noise.
A sound of running footsteps scuffed away from them.
Hitoshi threw himself out of his hiding place and took two running steps toward the sound. If Aizawa wasn't going to do anything about it, then he would.
But before he could move beyond his frozen mentor, he heard something else. Something that stole his heartbeat and locked his running legs into taut stasis.
It was the unmistakable wet, heavy breathing of someone who was losing a lot of blood.
Hitoshi pivoted sharply, eyes snapping to Aizawa. And in that moment, he felt his mind disconnect from his body.
He watched with numb horror as Aizawa collapsed to the damp ground.
His legs carried him forward, following instincts and instructions from somewhere other than his shocked brain. The hands of a stranger grabbed Aizawa and turned him over, and the calculating eyes of someone much calmer took in the damage.
It was a gunshot wound. It had punched right through the center of Aizawa's body, grazing his lungs, his liver, his stomach. Dark, hot blood flooded over his hands. It scalded his skin, filling his nose with the heavy, metallic smell of a dying man's limited time.
He didn't think.
He couldn't think.
His hands spun into action without his command. They were grabbing his arm wraps, Aizawa's scarf, any free bit of material of pressing down hard on the gushing wounds. His mouth was moving, saying things he couldn't understand. His vision was blurring. Why was his vision blurring? He couldn't lose his sight!
Not now.
Not now.
Not now.
A hand fell onto his arm.
His eyes burned as he blinked numbly over and over.
The fingers spasmed on his arm, trying to get a grip on his now bare arms. The hand wanted something. It wanted him to look.
Hitoshi felt his eyes begin to move as slowly and unstoppably as an ocean swell. His vision slid over the blood soaked wrappings. It passed over his stained hands. It travelled up the black fabric that was heavy with sweat and blood.
And then he found Aizawa's face.
So familiar, but suddenly so hard to look at. It was horrifically pale, standing out against his dark hair like paper against ink. His face contorted horribly against the surging waves of blood pulsing through Hitoshi's fingers.
But his eyes caught Hitoshi. They burned like simmering coals, dark and fierce and urgent. Even as his body convulsed beneath Hitoshi's hands, Aizawa's eyes grabbed hold of him and dragged his paralyzed mind back to his body.
Hitoshi snapped back to himself and became aware of the endless stream of words coming out of his mouth.
"You're going to be okay, you're going to be okay, this is going to be okay, you're fine, it's fine, this is nothing, you're going to be okay you'regoingtobeokayyou'regoingtobeokay,"
His breath was coming in painful, heaving gasps. The skin on his hands felt like it was going to melt away, drowned in an ocean of burning blood. Tears exploded from his blurry eyes, sinking into Aizawa's clothing. The world pulsed manically with every beat of his heart, bursting into bright light, then fading to darkness.
The hand on his arm tightened abruptly.
And with that movement, it cut off all the chaos swarming inside of him. Hitoshi curled in on himself, still crouched over Aizawa. He felt frozen, trapped by his mentor's burning eyes.
Aizawa blinked at him. His eyes flickered like fading lightbulbs.
"Okay... okay," he gasped softly.
Hitoshi bit his lip hard, feeling a trickle of blood seep into his mouth. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't real. It wasn't real!
But it was. He knew it was. Every nerve, every thought, every particle of his being was telling him that this was incredibly, terribly real.
He pulled one of his hands away from Aizawa's wound and gripped his hand. He gripped it so hard, Aizawa couldn't leave.
"Okay," AIzawa repeated, eyelids drifting lazily.
"No. It's not okay! IT'S NOT OKAY!"
Aizawa just looked at him. His face was relaxing, the pain seeping away. The blood around Hitoshi's hands was slowing as well. That meant things were going to be okay, didn't it? This was a good thing. It had to be.
Aizawa's fingers curled loosely around Hitoshi's.
"Okay," he muttered, eyes drifting shut.
..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................
The police arrived to the scene minutes later. Then shortly after, an ambulance screamed to the mouth of the alley.
It took a team of six and a powerful sedative to separate the two blood-soaked men they found. The younger one, all wet eyes and screaming rage couldn't understand. He held onto the dark-haired hero with a grip of iron, not noticing or caring that he was limp and pale.
He didn't seem to understand what his cooling skin meant.
What the lack of a pulse meant.