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It hurts .
It really hurts.
He is so still, so mummified , that it seems he's dead. Your hand shakes, and your fingers scramble to hold on to the cup of fresh coffee in your hand. You don't even know why you went for a quick detour, running around the block to some artisan café that robbed you of seven bucks. Weren't you so desperate? Didn't you have this burning desire to get to him?
But you were scared.
Scared of rejection, which had already evidently made itself known and clear. God. And you were so scared that you took the damn detour, grabbing a cappuccino for someone who couldn't even drink it. The fire of longing was extinguished by your cowardice.
But, your mind taunts, you kissed him. Isn't that brave?
It is , you admit. But it hits you that bravery won't get him out of this hospital bed, and then your short-lived courage doesn't matter anymore.
You clear your throat and step past the doorframe of his hospital room. The monitor beside his bed lets out a steady rhythm, and you sink into the chair by his bedside- setting the coffee cup down with a thunk. Your fingers find your temples, and you breathe in the anesthesia-smelling air with a loud inhale.
No one comes and goes for a while. The nurse stops at the door; tells you to maybe talk to him- to see if that helps- but it doesn't. So you watch him blankly for an hour. You twiddle your thumbs and move from the first chair to the second one and then back again, and finally, when the nurse visits again, you help with his dressings in the little ways you can. It gives your hands something to do, your mind something to think on, and the brief moment of distraction is sweet. However, you're ushered out of the room before the nurse can rebandage the more gruesome, extensive injuries, and you get it.
You don't think you could stomach the blood either.
"He's in good hands, I assure you."
Your feet shift on their own, legs numbly pacing around the demure corridors. The hospital is sterile, and for some contradictory cruelty, it disgusts you. He's not sterile. He's...scruffy. He wears dark colors and is rarely clean-shaven, and he makes snaky jokes in quiet times, and for the love of God, he cannot scoop ice cream. His hands are calloused but he's incredible at gymnastics; you gape whenever he casually vaults himself over the coffee shop counter. So no- he isn't sterile. He doesn't belong here; no matter how many times the staff say they'll take care of him.
You wander through the cafeteria, grabbing a scone while passing through, and walk until you've passed the ICU. The jam from the scone coats your fingertips, and for a moment you let your hand trail along the wall, feeling every ridge of the old wallpaper and particle of dust. Your nails hit a ledge of plastic, and it is only then that you glance at the wall.
RM 219: MORTUARY
You still, and watch as a stretcher is wheeled in. Both wheels make a screeching sound when they turn before the door, and the movement sends the body rolling to the side, and you catch a glimpse of black hair.
Bile.
Bile rises in the back of your throat.
Your vision stops. Life stills. And then the world is moving too fast for you to comprehend like it's frantically trying to gain back the moment it lost.
It can't. You can't rewind time. You know this.
Though you're running- darting around alarmed surgeons and bumping into bulletin boards.
It's not-
It's not- it's not- it's not-
It's not him.
The image of the man on the stretcher comes back to you, and he has short hair, with no stubble and no sign of fatigue.
But it might be. It could be him in a few hours, a minute-
Immediately, your hands feel like acid- cursed, because you touched that damn sign and Shouta could very well end up in that room.
Oh, god.
Oh, god . You don't want him to die alone.
Your pace is slower now, but you're still rushing to his room. Once you arrive, you shut yourself in his bathroom. You scrub your skin raw, the soap seeping into the lines of your palm; cold water running through your fingers. They're red after a while, and logically, you know they're clean, and that he's not going to die. Every doctor who entered his room told you that he was out of the woods. But you keep scrubbing, lest you transfer whatever superstition from the morgue onto him.
Your hands hurt.
The tap continues to blast out water, and the spray is coating the mirror in tiny droplets. Your hands cease their movement, and you simply listen and stare to the noises of the water and the soft tinkle that sounds whenever water hits the glass.
When you first hear a rasp, you cast a look at his reflection. It's the same. Motionless. The lump on the bed is facing you, though he does not move.
You dismiss it. He's asleep, and he can't see you like this- a vacuous, superstitious human being. That's...good.
He doesn't believe in that kind of stuff.
"Dry your hands off before they turn blue." You let out a cynical laugh.
He would say that.
Great. You were hallucinating.
What could make this day better ?
"Just come and sit down." The rasp was back, but... louder - stronger.
You felt a jolt run through your spine. Your eyes flicker to the mirror once more, and you hope you're not dreaming when a sliver of onyx irises meet yours.
You bounce on the balls of your feet- torn between walking or running. You settle for the former.
"Hi", you say, tentatively; as if your voice will shatter him.
"Hi," he echoes, but it sounds so much like a croak that you mistake him for a frog.
"You- uh," you stumble over yourself, "look like a mess."
What. The. Hell.
Aizawa sighs. Or at least, he tries to.
"Yeah."
The following silence has you twiddling your thumbs and tapping your heels together.
He coughs out, " you can sit, you know."
You wave him off with a nervous laugh.
"I'm a barista, I can stand for a while. I uh- I don't fight villains, so I'm...okay."
He releases a hum.
"Fighting villains isn't all it's chalked up to be," he says, clearing his throat weakly, "evidently."
You nod, though you're not sure if he sees it or not. Your mind searches for a conversation starter, and your eyes settle near his bed. Gesturing to the now-cold cup of coffee on the table next to his cot, you step a bit closer.
"I got you coffee."
He makes what you interpret to be a scoff.
"I can't drink it."
Your voice is quieter now, and you mutter under your breath.
"Yeah- I figured."
Apparently sensing your discomfort, Aizawa reassures you with a grunt.
"It was a nice gesture."
You chuckle. "Not really. I actually got the coffee to avoid you...but it didn't work out."
"Considering we met in a coffee shop, I didn't think it would."
Your lips curl slightly.
"No. No, it did not."
Shuffling nearer to his bedside, you run a hand through your hair.
"Why did you do it?"
"Do what?" is his response, but his tone holds no uncertainty.
"You just...threw yourself into battle like that- as cliché as it seems. Why?'
He groans and speaks with a lilt of something akin to fondness.
"Those kids are clueless. They wouldn't make it in the real world on their own. But that doesn't mean they don't deserve a chance to enter it someday."
Huh.
That's sweet. Self-sacrificial, but sweet.
Your lips quirk up fully now, and you huff.
"You worried everyone. A lot. I ran into Present Mic in the lobby -and I don't know how he knew my name- but I've never seen someone so genuinely concerned."
You exhale and continue.
"You freaked everybody out."
And for a moment, the image of the man in the morgue hits you again- the black hair and the features that were almost his. Your heart feels skewered by your ribcage at the thought of it.
But Aizawa notices, as he always does, and snaps you out of your trance.
"You mean I freaked you out."
And with a lighter head, you click your tongue. If his face weren't covered in bandages, he'd be smirking right now- showing off that trademark subtle mischief under an admittedly adorable Totoro-grin.
“Shut up,” you quip, “I would gladly smack you with a pillow if you weren’t so injured.”
”Really?” he snarks back, and you let out a chortle.
“Uh huh. No mercy.”
He chuckles.
“Yeah, right. You can’t kill a spider without screaming.”
”Oh, come on- that was a low blow!”
Your sharp laughter covers up his quiet chuckles, and that’s okay. For a second, the hospital- as sterile and blank as it is- is peaceful.
And perhaps it’s this little scene- where he and you laugh, despite the bandages and the injuries...that make you realize he’s not dead.
Sure- he could be; as all living things eventually end up- but he’s here now. He’s living. And you think that there are more things to be thankful for than to grieve over.
“Hey, Aizawa?”
”Hm?”
It’s odd, yes...but you let your next words have gravity.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
And he’s silent. He’s silent for a little too long, and your breath becomes bated. Was it too sappy? Was it too sudden- you wouldn’t really want to be reminded of your near-death experience either- was it too invasive? You know he likes his privacy- in general it was a weird thing to say- yeah it was weird- odd- confusing-
“Shouta.”
His first name breaks your overthinking.
You cock a brow in confusion.
"Pardon?"
He goes on.
”Call me Shouta.”
You sputter. So it wasn’t a weird thing to say? You think it’s quite sweet but-
“You did kiss me, right? If you can do that, you can call me by my first name.”
You gape at him, but before you can say anything, a pink head of hair pokes through the doorway like lightning.
”She kissed you?!”
For a second that may be an eternity, there is silence.
“Mina- shut up!”
Soon, however, you hear someone tug the girl back and hiss.
”Shhhh! Be quiet!”
You can practically feel the ears being pressed against the door.
Aizawa- Shouta, releases a sigh.
”My students just got here. School should be out by now.”
“Oh”, is all you can muster.
Shouta coughs and clears his throat.
“I’m not...mad about the kiss.”
You barely manage to get out a, “you aren’t?” before the student -Mina- flings the door open again.
”That is an understatement,” she blurts with a wide smile, “he’s not mad at all. In fact, I think that’s why he was smiling so much that one time-“
She’s jerked back into the hallway by a particularly angry blonde, and you stifle a laugh.
"I was uh- hoping to forget the kiss, actually. Avoid it. I just thought it didn't mean anything."
The door slams open again, but this time, it's the angry blonde that shoves his head in through the gap.
"That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard, what the fu-" he shouts, but his teacher cuts him off.
With surprising volume, Aizawa scolds his student.
"Bakugou! Language!"
You grin. He's like a doting parent.
You finally sit down, clasping your hands on your lap tightly.
"So...safe to assume it meant something?"
If he's blushing, you can't tell- but a part of you has a hunch he is.
"...Yeah."
A squeal sounds from somewhere in the hallway, and you hear Shouta release a long breath.
"You realize your students just confessed for you, right," you chide, and he just groans.
Your peal of laughter joins the ones emanating from the corridor, and you gently rest your elbows on his cot.
Your body feels inexplicably lighter.
Fingers seeking out his bandaged hand, you grasp it lightly.
"This okay?" you ask softly, and he replies with a simple sentence.
"I can't feel it right now."
"Ah," you say, beginning to let his hand go, "that makes sense."
But he stops you, parting his lips once more.
"But it will be okay when I'm out of here."
And you smile; grabbing your settling, silting coffee with your free hand, and you sit.