Chapter Text
"I see..." Hizashi doesn't register that the words have come from his own mouth. His eyes have glazed over and at some point he must have taken a seat, but he can't recall leaving the kitchen. He's taking in what the person on the other end of the phone is saying, but a part of him is still waiting to wake up, turn over, and see his husband of ten years sleeping peacefully at his side.
His husband.
His husband who -right now- is in critical condition. His husband who has just gone into surgery for multiple life threatening injuries. His odds look good. They say there's a good chance that he will survive this, but as soon as he hangs up, Hizashi grabs his jacket, pulls on his boots, and leaves their apartment. He almost forgets to lock the door behind him, and the seconds he spends correcting that mistake now seem a waste of precious time.
As soon as he reaches the street, he takes off running, frantically trying to hail a taxi as he goes. He is in no fit state to drive, and the last thing Shouta needs right now is for his husband to crash. When a cab finally stops, Hizashi nearly throws himself into the back seat, frantically blurting out the name of the hospital as he buckles his seatbelt. The driver nods back at him in the rear-view mirror and pulls into the road, never starting the meter.
One hand is fisted in his hair, pulling out soft blond strands, but if it stings his scalp, he doesn't feel it. His other holds his phone, dreading the next time it rings. He visibly flinches when the screen flashes moments later with a string of texts from Nemuri, and he knows he should answer them, but his hands are shaking too badly to text and he doesn't trust his voice or his quirk control enough right now to want to try a phone call.
It seems like an eternity later that the car pulls up outside the entrance to the hospital, and after finding the meter at zero, Hizashi offers the man ¥2,000 with shaking hands, hoping it's enough to cover the journey, only to be waved away. He thanks the driver profusely, stumbling out of the car and into the reception, his voice coming out too loud and too frantic as he approaches the reception desk.
"Excuse- Excuse me. My... My husband is in here. His name is Shouta Aizawa, and I need to know that he's alright," he's acutely aware of the eyes on him, of the hushed voices muttering that this is pro hero Present Mic. He knows that tomorrow morning he will wake up to rumours and newspaper articles speculating about his love life but, in the moment, the only thing he cares about is Shouta.
The girl behind the desk is young, and seems taken aback by his forwardness, but gives a welcoming smile and informs him that she will find out and feed back the information to him as soon as she has it. He nods, standing for a few moments longer before taking a seat near a window, his head on his knees, hands finding their way back to his hair.
It's only once the adrenaline that he's been running on for the past forty-five minutes fades that he finally breaks down, staying mindful of his voice quirk as he bites back choked, ugly sobs. They wrack his entire body, shoulders tensing and fists clenched as his lungs fight for air and he edges closer to hyperventilation. His phone stopped vibrating ceaselessly in his pocket a while ago, but he's yet to notice or to check his text messages.
A gentle hand on his shoulder makes Hizashi jump up in his seat, startling the girl from reception, who takes a moment to compose herself as the man himself struggles to stop his sniffling and gasping and get his breathing back under control.
"Your husband is still in surgery," she begins gently, her eyes earnest and her body language soft and open, "His condition is stable though, and everything is going well. I promise, we'll keep you updated as soon as we get news."
Hizashi nods and manages a smile, even if it's strained and wobbly. "Thank you," he whispers, finally sitting up and wiping the tears from his face as more threaten to spill. He finally pulls his phone from his pocket, prepared to answer Nemuri's questions, just as the doors swing open and the woman herself stumbles in, eyes sweeping around the waiting room until they land on the blond man. He freezes, taking in the 41 new messages and 17 missed calls, then the panic on her face as she scoops him into a tight hug.
"Hizashi Yamada, pick up your damn phone! I saw the news report - what happened on Shouta's mission, and I didn't know if you had been with him or-" she breaks off, releasing him from the hug to take in his dishevelled appearance, finally noticing how the younger man is shaking.
"I wanted to, but I couldn't make my fingers work, a-and I didn't think I... I could even speak!" Hizashi's lip quivers and he takes a shaky breath, trying to stop tears that have already gathered in his eyes, blurring his vision and tumbling down his cheeks when he blinks.
Nemuri takes the seat next to him, opening her arms again to let him curl against her side, sniffling loudly and soaking the sleeve of her shirt.
It takes twenty minutes, but Hizashi eventually settles into a numb silence, his voice coming out flat as he asks, "How did you find out where he was?"
"Yagi," She replies softly, "He asked Recovery Girl, and I promised to text him as soon as we know anything. I couldn't leave you waiting here alone."
Hizashi manages a nod in response, the two of them falling into silence shortly after, hands clasped together for support and comfort. They stay like that for two hours, until a nurse advises that they return home to try and get some sleep, and Nemuri offers Hizashi her couch. He only leaves after they assure him three times that they will contact him as soon as Shouta is out of surgery.
---
It's just past 5am - 8 and a half hours after the initial phone call - when Hizashi's phone rings again and he jerks out of his light doze to grab it, falling off of Nemuri's couch in the process. He answers immediately and holds the phone to his ear, trying to keep the desperation out of his tone as he croaks out a quick, "Hello?"
"Hello, is this Mr Yamada? Your husband, Mr Aizawa is out of surgery," the voice on the other end begins, and Hizashi sags in relief, if only for a moment.
"Is he okay?"
"The surgery went well, and he is still in a stable condition as of right now. However, we have decided to keep him in a drug-induced coma for a short while due to his head trauma. The oxygen levels in his blood are lower than we would like due to a collapsed lung, and it should allow his body to heal better as we try to elevate that again. We will check his vitals again in the morning and hopefully try to bring him out of it then."
Hizashi remains quiet as he listens, trying not to focus too much on the word 'coma'; trying not to let his mind wander to the darker questions surrounding its connotations. He takes a deep breath and swallows, "Thank you. For calling me. Can... Can I see him?"
"We open for visitation at 12 noon. With any luck, by that point he'll be awake."
He swallows the lump that has started to form in his throat at the thought of not seeing his Shouta for another seven hours, saying a soft thank you and goodnight before hanging up the phone. The creek of a floorboard behind him alerts him to Nemuri's presence and he fills her in as she brews a pot of camomile tea.
They sit at a small, round breakfast table in the corner of her kitchen, sipping tea in silence, the other pro hero watching her friend closely. His eyes are as bloodshot as Shouta's usually are; swollen from tears and glazed over in a way that lets her know that he is far away. His fingers absently trace over the mug in his hands, gaze fixed on the wall, unblinking. She reaches out to rest her hand over his, frowning at the way he flinches as he's shocked out of thought.
"Hizashi? I'm going to get ready for work. You have the day off," Nemuri says softly, "You have as long as you need off."
"Shouta's class-"
"Yagi and I have got this," she assures, giving his hand a gentle squeeze and standing up. She turns to rifle through one of the kitchen drawers and comes back with a key. "Try to get more sleep, if you can. Lock up on your way out and text me when you know how Shouta is."
Hizashi takes the key with a nod and a forced smile, squeezing it tightly in his fist as he stares into his mug. He doesn't speak again until Nemuri is almost out the door, and his voice comes out uncharacteristically soft, "Thank you, Nem."
She smiles back, hesitating in the door for a few moments before turning away.
---
Long after his tea had turned cold, Hizashi had finally stood from the table, washing out his mug and making the short journey back to the couch. He had stopped short, seeing the old tabby cat curled on his bunched up blankets, and huffed out a laugh, the sight making him irrationally emotional. Sushi had perked up at the sound of the first sob, stretching out and rising to sit up, large green eyes staring into Hizashi’s own, and only protested slightly when the man plucked him up into his arms and nuzzled into his fur.
He sat down, then lay down, taking the cat with him but releasing him once they were lying side by side. Sushi had shifted into a more comfortable position, given Hizashi’s face a sniff, his nose a lick, and closed his eyes to go back to sleep.
That’s how, four hours later, Hizashi still finds himself staring at the sleeping cat, his mind wandering through every moment of his school days, skipping back again and again to the sight of Shouta cradling baby Sushi to feed him and pinpointing it as the exact moment he knew that no other man could hold his heart like this. He remembers the tiny kitten nestled happily in Oboro’s clouds, and tries to block out a nagging thought. That he could soon be the only one of the Rooftop Boys left.
Shaking his head, he finally peels back the blankets. It’s almost 10am, and sleep isn’t going to find him again until he’s seen his best friend and soulmate with his own eyes and knows that he is safe. Bright sunshine creeps in through the slats in the blinds, and when he opens them he has to close his eyes and allow them to adjust.
The streets below are flooded with people. Civilians on their way to work, getting groceries whilst their children are at school. Somewhere in the distance, a siren sounds, a hero battles and wins this time. People laugh, children play, and the world goes on, even if Hizashi’s has stopped. He grabs his glasses from the coffee table, and life comes into focus, but even the light seems dull today. He wonders if his sunlight needs Shouta’s darkness to show through.
Snapping out of his thoughts with a sigh, the blond busies himself by neatly folding the blankets and leaving them on one side of the couch for Sushi to shed on. Then it’s a quarter past 10, and he drags himself to the shower, catching his appearance in the bathroom mirror and cringing. Dark circles ring eyes still red from a combination of ceaseless tears and lack of sleep, his long hair is tangled, matted at the back from how he tossed and turned all night, and his skin looks pale and lifeless, none of the usual colour in his cheeks. Ripping his eyes from the stranger in the mirror, he strips and tosses his clothes into a heap in the corner, grabbing a towel from the hamper.
He probably turns the water on a little bit too hot, and he definitely stands there for far too long, doing nothing but allowing the water to soak his hair and roll down over his back and shoulders. Despite the anguish in his brain and the tightness in his throat, he finds himself unable to cry anymore, and wonders briefly if that makes him heartless before pushing the thought from his head as his finger traces heart shapes into the steam on the shower screen.
By the time he finally steps out, the room is thick with steam, and he has to open a window to let the crisp air purge it. He takes in the crumpled clothes he slept in the previous night with distaste, and ultimately decides to put his underwear and jeans back on and raid Nemuri’s clothing for socks and a shirt.
Finding a shirt proves to be harder than he first thought, with most of his options either having been made to accommodate breasts, being highly inappropriate to wear at his husband’s sick bed, or too constricting in certain areas to wear without the fear of it tearing. Eventually, he comes across a soft turtleneck sweater in a deep burgundy that he’s sure Shouta bought her as a secret Santa present three years ago. He’s also sure he’s never seen Nemuri wear it once – probably due to its oversized and baggy shape. He pulls that over his head and rifles around until he locates a hair drier. There’s a chill in the air today, and he fondly recalls his mother telling him never to go out with wet hair lest he catch a cold.
He’s about to turn it on just as the muffled sound of his phone ringing starts up from the living room and his heart freezes over. Dropping the hairdryer, Hizashi shoves himself to his feet and runs to where he left his phone, almost tripping over Sushi as he did.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mr Yamada. We’ve tried phoning a few times but couldn’t get through. We discovered internal bleeding inside your husband’s skull, and he is currently back in surgery. Before you panic, he is fine. He’s still stable, and he should be back on the ward in time for visitation. However, we do think it will be safer to keep him in that drug-induced coma for a little longer, especially whilst we monitor the pressure in his skull since it seems that the head trauma is more severe than we first thought.”
Hizashi is speechless for a moment, trying to make words come out but only making small noises. He takes a deep breath, gulping though his mouth and throat feel dry, and finally manages to ask, “His eyes…?”
It’s not a well-articulated question, but the nurse on the phone seems to understand well enough what he means by it, “Ah, you mean because of his quirk? We won’t know for certain if there has been any temporary or lasting damage to his eyes until he is awake and we can test him properly. However, I can’t find anything in his notes to suggest that they have sustained any damage.”
“Thank you,” Hizashi whispers, not trusting his voice right now. “For taking care of him. I’ll be there for twelve.”
Once he’s hung up the phone, Hizashi throws it to the couch, grabbing a pillow and letting out a scream at a slightly higher volume than is normal. Then another. It’s not the same as letting loose in a soundproofed, reinforced room, but it’s the best that he can do for the time being, and at least takes the edge off of the myriad of feelings roiling around in his head. When he’s finally finished screaming, he mostly just feels numb, but at least numb is something he can work with, even something he’s been familiar with in times past.
He finally drops the pillow and wipes his eyes against the sleeve of the sweater, retrieving his phone to check the time. He has half an hour left before visiting hours are supposed to start, and he gathers his laundry, shoving it into a bag to take with him and pulling on his jacket. He supposes his hair will just have to stay wet, and hopes that his mother’s warnings are nothing more than myth, but seeing Shouta is his top priority.
Nemuri’s apartment is only a twenty minute walk from the hospital, and as he locks up and starts walking, his stomach lets out an obnoxiously long grumble. He had been waiting to cook up a late dinner when Shouta returned home, and thus hasn’t eaten since lunch the previous day. Despite his stomach’s protests, his brain feels sick, and he settles on some soft, warm bread from a local bakery to eat whilst he walks. The centre is filled with a gooey cheese, and if nothing else, it warms him as he walks.
---
By the time he reaches the hospital’s entrance, he’s bumped shoulders with countless people, muttering half-hearted apologies, and full on crashed into a man facing the opposite direction. If it wasn’t already clear enough that his mind is somewhere else, all he says as he drums his fingers against the reception desk at first is, “Shouta.”
At the receptionist’s puzzled expression, he shakes himself a little more awake and tries again, managing, “I’m here to see my husband, Shouta Aizawa. I’m Hizashi Yamada.”
The receptionist nods and glances back to his screen for a moment, looking back up and giving a small smile, “He’s in the intensive care unit. Down the hall, second on the left. Buzz at the door and they’ll let you in.”
Hizashi thanks him, trying to stop himself from running down the halls, a heavy feeling settling in his gut as he comes to a stop outside the doors to the ward, sanitising his hands and hovering his finger over the buzzer. He takes a moment for himself, calming his rapidly beating heart with some deep breaths, and presses the button.
A few seconds pass, and a grainy voice asks him his name. He hears a continuous beep and pushes the door open to be met by a nurse. When she speaks, he recognises her voice as the one from the phone.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr Yamada. Your husband is just around the corner if you would like to follow me?” she asks, not waiting for a response before she turns around and guides him to the room at the end of the ward, and he stops dead as soon as he sees through the large window. Shouta is propped up in bed in a hospital gown, a ventilator keeping air pumping into his lungs. The top of the gown has been left open, various wires attached to his scarred and deeply bruised chest to monitor his heartbeat, and an IV is attached to his hand. It’s so many wires, so many machines, and Shouta looks so small in there.
He’s chewing so much at his lower lip that he’s broken the skin, and it stings as he wets them. The nurse pauses outside his door, looking back and smiling knowingly, “It’s hard to see loved ones this way, isn’t it? Must be harder still when you’re heroes, and you’re so used to putting on a brave face. We don’t expect that of you here.”
Hizashi nods, stopping again outside the door to Shouta’s room. She nods and opens it for him, gesturing to a seat at the side of his bed, and offering to bring him some water, which he accepts. He steps into the room, and it feels like all of the air in his lungs is sucked out.
Up close, he can see the dark bruising around Shouta’s eyes, and his head is wrapped in so many bandages that it takes him a while to realise that the back has been completely shaved. A choked sob works its way up his throat, and he tries to swallow it, only for it to come out more like a whine instead. He moves to Shouta’s side, gently brushing his cheek with his knuckles, as though the touch will break him. He’s warm, as always, and Hizashi takes a deep breath, wondering when the next time will be that he gets to feel that warmth tucked up safe in his arms.
The nurse returns with a pitcher of water and a cup for him, and something else in her hand. It takes him a moment to recognise the familiar silver ring on its chain. Shouta’s wedding ring. She sets the pitcher and cup down, and extends her hand with the chain in it to him.
“We wanted to keep it safe. You’re probably best keeping it at home for him,” she smiles, letting the chain fall into the palm of the voice hero’s hand and turning to lower the guard rail on one side of his bed.
She turns to leave and Hizashi hesitates for a moment, unsure if he wants to know the answer, before asking, “Can he hear me?” He can’t stand the pity on her face, and turns back to Shouta, to his soft features, just like he’s sleeping.
“We’re never entirely sure. There’s a chance, yes. I still encourage you to talk to him. If he can hear you, it might soothe him to hear your voice, and if not it still feels therapeutic for you.”
Once she leaves, he pulls the chair closer to the edge of Shouta’s bed, sitting down and resting his head on the mattress as he stares up at the love of his life, the image blurring with tears. He blinks, letting them roll onto the sheets, and takes the man’s good hand in his own, squeezing gently before twining their fingers together.
“If you can hear me, Shou, I need you to get better and wake up for me soon. Your friends need you. Your kids need you,” his voice cracks, but he swallows dryly and keeps going. “You’re their hero, sweetheart. You’re mine too, and I’d be lost without you.”
He thinks for a moment that he feels Shouta’s little finger twitch, but decides it must be his imagination. He’s asleep. For a day or so. A day or so, and he’ll have his husband back.