Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His body aches.

It’s hardly a new sensation all things considered, but tonight the weather is cold and dreary, and the icy breeze drifting across the rooftops slices clean through his clothes and skin alike, nestling deep in his abused muscles and bones.  There’s a wet slush settling thick and heavy in the cracks and corners of the streets and alleyways, coating everything in a dark, slippery sheen that only teases warmth in the reflections of the streetlamps and dimly lit shop windows.

Most days it’s tolerable.  He’s had chronic pain since he was sixteen years old—all of which is his own fault, of course, it’s what he gets for repeatedly breaking his bones and overstraining his joints.  On a scale of one to ten, he usually happily claims to sit right around a six, possibly seven, and he can usually bring that number down with a mix of extra stretching, some scented bath salts, and good old fashioned stubborn denial. 

But some days…

Some days he literally has to roll himself out of bed.  Some days his hands shake so terribly that he ends up wearing more of his coffee than drinking.  Some days he’s counting down the seconds until he can go home and flop down face first on his mattress, because the only thing that remotely helps is the way his boyfriend’s fingers dance across his skin, carefully measured hot and cold seeping into his overwrought muscles, lulling him into a deep sleep that brings hope of a slightly less painfilled morning.

And god, today’s been one of those days.

He’d known it was going to be rough when his morning shower had felt like a needling torture against his skin.  As morning shifted to midday, and his patrol dragged on, the weather had only worsened, bringing with it a dull throb that pulsed with each and every heartbeat.   By the time lunch had come around, he found himself completely forgoing his usual friendly waves to fans and passerby’s, opting instead for a strained, forced smile that pulled uncomfortably at the corners of his lips and had Kacchan side eying him in a way that was anything but subtle.

He’d almost given in right then and there.  Almost asked his friend for a raincheck, so that he could cut short the rest of his shift and slink home to curl into a miserable ball on his couch, but his plans had been so rudely interrupted when a couple of heavily drugged-up villains had assaulted another Pro Hero just a couple blocks from their favorite café.   

They arrived on the scene in seconds.  It had been a no holds barred beatdown, thanks to the villains over-amplified quirks, but in the end they’d managed to secure a victory, keep a bridge from collapsing, and stop an elementary school from being blown sky high.  Izuku had needed a few stitches, sported a few fancy new facial scars, and his skin had collected an impressive amount of black and blue bruises, but he’d live to fight another day.  Kacchan hadn’t fared much better himself, and Izuku referred him to a good dentist.

Then came the rush of healing quirks, interviews, and incident reports that dragged on for hours and hours, chewing him up further and spitting him out right around midnight, currently leaving him standing on a restaurant rooftop and staring down wistfully at a large bag of dumplings he was supposed to be sharing with Shouto.

Oh well.

He can’t stop the pathetic groan that slips through his lips as he flares One for All at about twenty percent, ignoring the way his knees protest slightly as he bounds from building to building, letting his brain shut down and shift to autopilot.  He could easily use more power if he really wanted to, but he’s already tired enough as it is, and with his boyfriend running search and rescue for at least the next few hours, there’s no real rush to get home.

His aimlessly wandering thoughts are interrupted about three minutes in when he spies an all too familiar black jumpsuit and white scarf.  The man is crouching low on the edge of a rooftop, lazily gazing into the streets below.  His capture weapon is around his neck, not prepped for a jump, and his frame is loose and slumped, suggesting he isn’t currently tracking or trailing anyone.  He must be taking a break.

Izuku can’t help the small smile he feels pulling at his mouth.

Because here’s the thing:

Before Aizawa, Izuku had never had a teacher that cared.

Hell, he’d never had a teacher that had even pretended to care.

No, that’s not quite fair.  Izuku can admit that they cared—just not about him.  Not about the shy, socially inept quirkless boy that mumbled and questioned and cried openly.  Not about the bruises and burns and full body flinches.  Not about his feelings or hopes or dreams.

And when he’d finally gotten into U.A., Izuku had assumed it would be more or less the same, the only saving grace being that the teachers would be Heroes—capital H--which meant they might be more apt to stop bullies from using him as a punching bag or destroying his things. 

Needless to say, his expectations were low, but hey, so was the bar, so maybe he’d be surprised.

So when Aizawa had singled him out on the first day, claiming ‘With that quirk of yours, you can’t be a Hero.’ Izuku had thought, ‘Whelp, I’m screwed.’

It had seemed like Aizawa was going to be the same as every other teacher he’d ever had.  Every other teacher that looked at him with narrowed, pitying expressions of doubt, the words ‘broken’ and ‘useless’ dripping from their tongues behind closed doors when they thought he couldn’t hear—or didn’t care that he could.

Izuku had learned over the years to never trust his teachers, and that day had only solidified that unfortunate belief further.  He respected Eraserhead, sure, because he was an amazing Underground Hero that did so much good, but he didn’t trust him.

Then the USJ happened, and Aizawa had slotted himself between his students and some of the worst villains the world had ever seen, and he’d been torn apart both physically and mentally for his troubles.  He’d taken what could have been career ending blows, risking his life over and over, almost loosing his quirk in the process. 

And he still got up to stand strong by their sides, only to do it all again as the league gained in power and grew more and more bold.

He was an Underground Hero that depended on and cherished his anonymity, who willingly put his face and civilian name out in the open and let the media tear him apart on live television.  Let them blame him for the actions of monsters.  And he’d bowed his head low and apologized, despite the fact that he had nothing to apologize for. 

He was a constant, stalwart guardian, in whatever capacity his students needed him to be.

Izuku struggled for so long to reconcile the strange juxtaposition in his mind.

Aizawa the teacher, and Eraserhead the Hero.  So very different, but one in the same none the less.  The man who couldn’t be trusted, all logical ruses and angry glares, and the man who dedicated every single part of himself to their safety and success. 

And one day, after quite a bit of time had passed, when the memory of his first day was a distant, deep-seated ache, Izuku had come to a startling realization. 

If Aizawa had truly meant what he’d said that day, he would have never let Izuku try the ball throw in the first place.  He would never have stopped him from breaking his arm, would never have scolded him, never have given him such a long winded explanation and suggestion to find another way.  He would have ‘expelled’ him on the spot, instead of turning the entire exercise into a teaching moment. 

He would have never given Izuku the chance to prove himself right then and there.

That wasn’t to say that Aizawa wasn’t rough around the edges—he absolutely was—the man was ornery and downright waspish at times, and he was definitely a little too strict in both his expectations for his students, and the consequences for not meeting those expectations.

But he was always fair.

Izuku had never had fair before.

And all that unexpected fairness lead to several small conclusions, one right after another-

Aizawa cares about them.

Aizawa cares about him.

Aizawa believes in them. 

Aizawa believes in him. 

Aizawa has cared and believed in him from the very beginning.

‘Got it, problem child?’

It was a revelation that found Izuku in crisis, broken down and curled into a little ball on the floor of his dorm room, sobbing uncontrollably for hours, because it was all such a foreign concept that his brain just couldn’t cope.

His own mother, the saint of a human being that she was, hadn’t believed in him at first.  Even All Might, who had trusted Izuku with one of the greatest legacies of all time, had told him he couldn’t be a hero, flat out claiming his dream was unrealistic. 

Their words were nearly identical to Aizawa’s, but the difference was that they had never given Izuku a chance to prove them wrong, while Aizawa had handed him a ball and encouraged him to.

He loved All Might like a father, but he’d never be able to forget the devastating feeling of absolute despair left in the wake of their first meeting.  That day had been such a train wreck from beginning to end—and in all fairness, All Might had no possible way of knowing about the torment Izuku had already gone through when he was left standing there on a roof top, alone and thinking back on Kacchan’s words with bated breath as he glanced down at the streets below—

They’d all apologized, at some point or another, and Izuku had forgiven them a long time ago, and he certainly didn’t hold their words or actions against them… but he would never be able to forget.  Those memories had helped shape him into the man he currently was, as much a part of him as anything else, ugly as they were.

Though sometimes Izuku wonders, late at night, when Shouto’s out and he’s alone in their apartment, anxious and trapped deep in his own head, just how different things could have been had he met Eraserhead under the bridge that day instead of All Might. 

Not that Izuku would ever trade what he had now for anything in the world, but he can't help but be a bit morbidly curious-

What would Aizawa’s answer have been if he’d been accosted by a tiny, stuttering fourteen-year-old wreck of a child and asked, “Can I be a Hero, even without a quirk?”

Izuku thinks he knows.  It would have still been a no... but it would have been a different kind of no.  The kind of no that meant 'not if you don't get your shit together and figure it out.'  Can he explain what he means by that if someone were to ask?

Not really... but that's ok.  He knows what it means.  

It’s been a very long, cold, and rainy day. 

It’s so freaking late, and Izuku is exhausted and aching and hungry.

And hadn’t Shinsou said earlier that Aizawa wasn’t sleeping or eating well?

Hmm… well, what a coincidence!  Izuku just happens to have this giant bag of dumplings, and it’d be a shame for them to go to waste, so he might as well share, right?

Izuku changes his trajectory in an instant, and lands on the roof a little harder than he normally would, because it’s just plain stupid to sneak up and startle an Underground Hero, especially one as terrifyingly skilled as Eraserhead.

“I wonder what the point of all those hours of stealth training was, if this is the result.”  Aizawa’s voice is dry, deceptively deadpan in a way that would have had Izuku shaking in his boots once upon a time.

But he’s learned to catch his teacher’s small subtle shifts in tone, and there’s an ever so slight lilt that the man has no chance of hiding now that he knows what to listen for.

Izuku can’t help but chuckle, “I wasn’t trying to be stealthy.”

Chapter Text

It’s dark and still in the apartment when he finally gets home, and Shouto can’t help but pause inside the doorway to take a moment and just… breathe.

It hadn’t been the worst ‘natural’ disaster situation he’d ever been a part of, but it certainly hadn’t been the easiest either.  The ground had been incredibly unsteady, and several buildings had been on the threshold of collapse for far too long before he’d even gotten there.  The sinkhole was large and wide, and full of cold, slushy water, sparking wires and rancid, raw sewage due to corroded pipes and the unforgiving week-long stretch of gloomy weather. 

His ice had been invaluable, strong and rigid and in no danger of melting without outside intervention.  Every time another crumbling chunk of cement and earth broke away, he was there, shoring up the supports and carefully pulling frantic people from the rubble. 

When Uraraka had arrived on the scene to help, he’d almost cried aloud in sheer relief. 

Very few people are as reliable as her in search and rescue situations, and the fact that they’re such good friends made everything so much more bearable.  The comfortable banter and complete trust they had with one another helped ease the tension amongst the acting Heroes and civilians alike.

It was long and grueling work, but together they’d persevered, and a few hours later all of the civilians had been evacuated, the buildings cleared, and he’d been relieved of duty.  Uraraka had decided to stay a bit longer of her own volition, but she’d given him an understanding nod and lovingly pat his back when he’d slumped up against her in a sloppy hug and said his goodbyes.    

‘Tell Izu to take it easy and call me tomorrow, kay?  I saw his fight earlier…’

Adrenaline and need had been keeping him moving in the moment, but now that the job is done and he’s standing safe and sound in his apartment, he finds himself noticing each and every throbbing ache, an all-encompassing exhaustion settled deep and stubborn in his bones.  He’s still actively regulating his quirk, left side trying to overcompensate for the one-two punch of wet and cold external temperatures, and the overuse of his ice throughout the night.

He desperately needs to wash his face and crash face first into bed, preferably curled tightly around his reckless boyfriend, so with a long, drawn out sigh, he shrugs off his boots and dumps his bag in the entryway.  His costume is absolutely filthy, but he can’t find it in himself to care as he sheds it piece by piece, dropping them unceremoniously in small piles throughout the apartment to be retrieved and cleaned sometime when the sun is up and he’s had at least an entire pot of coffee.  Izuku certainly won’t care, and definitely can’t judge—Shouto can see both his hood and utility belt draped over the back of the couch from here.

The lights in the bathroom are almost blinding when he flips the switch, and he hisses out a small curse as he catches the miserable image of his own reflection in the mirror.  His hair is grossly clumped with who knows what, and he still has a streak of mud across the bridge of his nose that he’d missed with his initial wipe down at the scene.  The bags under his eyes would have to be checked at the airport, they’re so prominent, and the small cut he’d gotten on his chin from accidently brushing against a jagged piece of rebar has clotted thickly. 

If he’d had any delusion of skipping the shower in leu of slinking off straight into bed, it’s gone now, so he begrudgingly accepts his fate and turns the water on as hot as he can handle—which is far hotter than the average person, thanks to his quirk—and shuffles his way under the spray.

It feels incredibly good against his worn muscles, and if he weren’t already so tired, he’d probably just stand there and soak until the water ran cold.  As it stands, he just wants this night to end, so he quickly snags a washcloth and sets about cleaning every inch of his skin of the disgusting muck that somehow found its way past his costume, and when that’s done he damn near dumps the entire bottle of shampoo in his hair and violently scrubs.

He’s still not used to how little of it he needs now—and his fingers feel strange against the buzzed hair on his left side.  Ashido had suggested the style, and had begged him for months to give it a chance, and the last time she’d come to town to visit Bakugou she had hunted Shouto down while he was on patrol and insisted.

It’s not like he’d been particularly attached to his hair, but he’d never had the urge or need do to anything different, so he’d sported the same style he had in high school for years after graduating.

Apparently, that was just unacceptable.   

‘Todoroki, even Mido has upped his style game!  You’d look so badass, please, please, please just let me do this one thing for you-’

So he did.  He didn’t even know what the hairstyle was called really, still doesn’t to this day…

But Ashido had been right—he likes it. 

And so does Izuku, if the way he runs his fingers through it every chance he gets is any indication.

Body and hair scrubbed clean, he shuts off the water and escapes the shower amongst a dense plume of humid condensation, rapidly pushing his internal temperature to quickly dry his skin—a nifty little perk of his quirk that makes pretty much all of his friends jealous—as he sets about brushing his teeth.  Once he deems himself sufficiently clean and dry, he abandons the bathroom once and for all.

He’s careful to muffle his sound as he moves down the hall and into the bedroom.  Izuku has left the door open for him, and a quick glance toward the dresser reveals a clean tank top and pair of pajama pants his boyfriend must have prepared for him, ever the need to be helpful. 

Shouto can’t help the way his lips tug upwards at the corners.  He doesn’t know how it’s possible for a single human to love someone as much as he loves Izuku, to have the sheer capacity necessary for that much unbridled emotion, but he does, and it only grows more and more as time goes on.

Speaking of, he slowly lets his eyes trail over the form of his sleeping boyfriend as he dresses for bed.  There’s just enough light streaming into the room from both the glass door of their balcony, and the nightlight in the hallway to allow him to see.

Izuku is lying on his side and is facing Shouto—he prefers to sleep closer to the doorway, has ever since Shouto had startled awake one night a couple years ago from a particularly nasty nightmare and tumbled off the side of the bed because they’d hung a suit up on the door and his sleep muddled brain had mistaken it for a particularly large, familiar build—

So the next night, Izuku had stalwartly planted himself between Shouto and the doorway-

‘Honestly Shouto, I’m just more comfortable on this side of the bed.’

-claiming something about the firmness of the mattress and the slight breeze from the window causing a draft, and since Shouto could regulate his temperature it just made more sense for him to sleep on the far side of the bed-

But Shouto knows the truth.  It’s not like Izuku is remotely subtle about it.  It’s his way of saying, ‘If something or someone comes through that door, they’re going to have to come through me first.’ Without actually saying the words.  And as much as it’s entirely unnecessary, because Shouto doesn’t need to be protected, thank you very much, it’s still so incredibly touching, and so very Izuku, that Shouto has never bothered to argue.

Drawing a bit closer to the bed, he can make out the way that Izuku has shoved the comforter down to his waist, revealing a nasty collection of mottled bruises on his face, chest, and abs.  There are bandages wrapped tightly around his left wrist, and even more dumped into the trash can nestled between the bed and nightstand, which has a nearly empty glass of water, and a few bottles of aspirin and painkillers scattered across its surface.

Shouto circles the bed and carefully slips in under the covers to snuggle up against Izuku’s also bruised back.  He gently pulls his boyfriend against his chest, and slides his right arm underneath him so that he can rest his cold hand against the worst of the bruising on Izuku’s stomach.  It’ll probably lead to his arm falling asleep and prickling like pins and needles before too long, but it’s a price well paid to try and ease the pain he knows Izuku will never admit to being in. 

This close Shouto can see the fresh new set of scars that span the side of Izuku’s forehead, enflamed and thickly scabbed over no doubt due to some kind of rapid healing quirk.  They cut across his temple and into his hairline, nicked through his eyebrow and ear.  The longest gash had been frighteningly close to gouging out his eye—had even snagged his eyelid—and seeing it now reminds Shouto of how his heart had seized in his chest when he’d seen Izuku take that blow while watching the newscast earlier. 

He’d almost rushed out of the apartment to try and join the fight right then and there, only stopped by the fact that he never would have made to the scene in time to make any sort of difference.

Izuku is dead to the world in his sleep, and Shouto takes the opportunity to wrap his other arm around him and tighten his hold.  Izuku is still significantly shorter than he is, no matter how often and loudly he insists otherwise, so Shouto gently shimmies down a bit so he can rest his forehead against Izuku’s curls, but not before giving the back of his neck a few featherlight kisses.

Izuku doesn’t wake, but he does seem to melt slightly in Shouto’s hold, the ghost of a sigh escaping between slightly parted lips. 

Shouto hums contentedly, and relaxes against the pillows.  He can feel his own limbs growing even more impossibly heavy, his eyelids drooping with the blessed promise of sleep.

And just as his brain finally starts to shut down completely, just as he feels his breath even out and his muscles loosen and relax against the softness of their bed…

Izuku’s ringtone blares to life. 

***
“Fuck—It’s—Aizawa is—he never showed up for the raid—I found his phone—it’s fucking cracked down the middle, and there’s—Shit, Midoriya, there’s blood in the alleyway.  I can’t fucking find him anywhere, he’s just gone—”

Chapter Text

Momo’s hands are shaking as the call goes dead against her ear, Midoriya’s words still echoing in her mind.  She slowly places the phone face down on the table in front of her, because she can’t bring herself to look at her background wallpaper, not right now. 

She takes a few precious seconds to breathe in, hold the air deep in her lungs, then slowly release everything in one long go.  Squaring her shoulders, she wills her fretful jitters to dissipate with the exhale.    

That familiar primal reaction to stress is something she’s never quite gotten over, despite how her confidence and abilities have grown exponentially over the years—though the uncontrollable tremble in her fingers usually comes from the heated rush of adrenaline rather than anxiety and self-doubt these days.  This particular brand of nervousness is nostalgic, in an entirely uncomfortable way.

She’s gnawing on her bottom lip, she knows, but the slight sting of pain helps keep her level, her thoughts narrowing through the cold, bitter fear that’s snaking it’s way through her veins and threatening to bring tears to her eyes.    

She allows herself just a moment more to wrestle down her feelings, dragging the palms of her hands across the soft, velvety fabric of her nightgown to ground herself even further before snatching up her phone and scrolling through her contacts.

She has a job to do.

***

Tenya startles awake when his personal phone blares, and it takes him a few seconds of blinking and staring up at the ceiling to realize what’s happening, and who’s ringtone it is.  He struggles free of his blankets to snatch the phone from the bedside table, but his coordination is still sleep scrambled, so he misses and knocks over his water instead.

Biting back a curse he drags his hand around until he’s found its proper target, and yanks it forward, only to be forced to squint his eyes against the too bright screen.  He swipes the answer icon, and shoves the device against his ear, “Yao-“  He accidently cuts himself off with a yawn, and he feels a bit bad about that, but it’s not even five in the morning yet, and he typically gets up at seven.  Still, he gets it under control as quickly as possible, because he knows his friend wouldn’t be calling so early if it weren’t important, “Yaoyorozu?”

“Iida, there’s been a situation, and I’m going to need your help.”

***

Kyouka can feel the tension in the air, so thick and heavy it feels like she’s dragging her legs through quicksand as she shuffles through the lobby of the Put Your Hands Up Hero agency.   Various civilian employees, interns, and sidekicks are all rushing about with a heightened sense of urgency that’s far from normal, though she’s hardly surprised considering the circumstances. 

She’s technically off duty, dressed smart and casual to avoid attention on the streets, but she’s been contracted under the famous Voice Hero for several years now, and has grown close enough to the man that the crowds inside the agency recognize her immediately.  They part like the red sea to let her through to the elevators without a word.

She catches the elevator just as an intern exits, dodging around the exhausted teenager with a practiced ease that comes from cohabitating with her insane, overworked and sleep deprived classmates for nearly three years.   She swipes her ID through the scanner, then jams the fourth-floor button—Mic’s recording studio and personal offices—and waits as patiently as her frazzled nerves will allow.

It doesn’t take long, and as soon as the doors slide open, she spots him at the end of the hall, appearing and disappearing as he paces back and forth across the reinforced soundproof glass of his office door.

He looks like a complete mess—rightfully so, because honestly, who isn’t right now?— he’s lacking his hero get up in favor of a pair of light wash skinny jeans and a wrinkled, purple v-neck tee.  Most of his hair is pulled back into a sloppy bun, several loose strands having escaped their shackles to hang wisplike at his ears.  It’s hard to tell from a distance since he’s blond, but it also looks like he’s got a bit of scraggly scruff across his jawline.

She strolls right into the room without any sort of preamble, and it’s a testament to just how distraught he must be that he hasn’t even noticed she’s there. 

“Mic-aack-“

And suddenly she finds her arms are full of one hundred and eighty pounds of disheveled Pro Hero as he practically folds himself around her much smaller frame.

She just lets him cling, forehead pressed tightly against her shoulder as he lets out a broken, worn out sigh.  He’s not crying, he’s a seasoned professional after all, but she can tell it’s a near thing, so she gently pats his back, “You ok, teach?”

“Kiddo, I am the farthest thing from ok at the moment.”  His voice cracks halfway through, and her heart aches for him. 

“Yeah, Ok, that’s valid.”

And to the outside looking in, to someone who doesn’t know just how much utter bullshit they’d all gone through back then, it might seem strange to see a middle aged Pro Hero being comforted so easily and intimately by his once student turned sidekick turned co-worker, but honestly, Kyouka couldn’t care less.  Screw the general public and their sense of entitlement to their personal lives.

These were the men and women who sacrificed so much to keep them all safe, taught them how to be Heroes—taught them how to be adults—

She can still remember the day Midnight had shown the girls (and some of the guys) how to iron their skirts and shirts without ruining the pleats, all the while sharing helpful little tips on how to remove unsightly stains, pointing out which types of chemicals worked on what, and which kinds to avoid altogether. 

Mic taught half the class how to braid hair!  He’d come in late one night after a patrol to check on them before heading to the teacher’s dorms, and caught Midoriya trying—and failing, unfortunately—to braid Eri’s hair per the instructions of a YouTube video.  Instead of leaving them to it and going to bed, he’d gently untangled the mess Midoriya had made and went to work.  Pretty much everyone who’d passed through the common room that night had stopped to watch curiously, asking silly nonsensical questions, and practicing on one another.

 Shit, even All Might had laughed so openly as he clumsily instructed a handful of the guys on how to shave, because they were just fucking teenagers, forced away from their families before any of them had ever had the chance to face the real world- 

and wasn’t that a goddamn trip, the symbol of peace fumbling through teaching a bunch of sixteen-year-old Hero students how to avoid razor burn?   

They were family.

Midnight and All Might and Mic and-

Aizawa.   

Kyouka can feel the way her arms tighten around Mic’s shoulders on reflex, and she promises, “We’re gonna find him, and we’re gonna bring him home.  Midoriya’s already got a twelve-step plan.”

That manages to shake a bit of a laugh out of the man, and he pulls away to glance down at her with a look she can only describe as fond, “Of course he does.  What are we just standing around here for then?”

***

Toshinori can’t help the curse that slips past his lips, his fingers gripping the phone tight enough to be painful as he presses it against his ear, “Don’t you worry about them, my boy.  They wouldn’t dream of refusing the requests of the retired Symbol of Peace, would they?  I feel like I have some public service announcements I need to set up, after all.  I’ve had so many projects on the backburner, and my memory must be going in my old age, because I feel like I’m going to need several, very long, and completely thorough meetings to get them hashed out and off the ground-“

And Toshinori typically hates throwing the weight of his fame around.  He’d much rather quietly step aside and watch from the shadows as the next generation of young Heroes rise to the challenge and make their mark on the world.

But when it comes to the commission getting in the way of his kids and their efforts to find and rescue one of the most important people in their lives—in his life—he’ll dig his heels in and play the game.  And he’ll win.

*** 

“It’s no problem at all bro, you can count on me!  I can stop by and grab the files.  I’m already on my way to Yaomomo’s anyway, and Musutafu’s the next stop.  Kats’ is already planning on meeting me at the station, so I’ll just drag him along too.” 

“Thank you Kirishima,” Iida’s voice sounds calm, but Eijirou knows that’s the farthest thing from the truth there is.  Iida is in his ‘Class Pres’ mode right now, stringing phone call after phone call, issuing instructions and bringing them all to rank and file.

It’s funny how he can still do that so effectively all these years later.

“Principal Nedzu would have sent them with Midnight, but she’s already left, and he didn’t want to transfer them digitally due to their sensitive nature.”

The ‘Just in case UA is compromised,’ Goes unsaid, but they all know it wouldn’t have been the first time.  They’d learnt that painful lesson years ago.

“They’re in code, but considering how important-“ 

The train is coming to a stop now, and Eijirou finds himself absentmindedly tuning Iida out.  He barely has to cast his gaze through the windows to spot the familiar tufts of spiky blond hair stuffed beneath a nondescript black beanie, and dark sunglasses hiding bright red eyes.  Katsuki’s standing slumped against the far side of a pillar, posture curled and fists deep in his pockets to make himself as unrecognizable as possible as he waits.  

“Yeah, I get it.  Tell Midoribro and Shinbro they’ll have the files in like, an hour, tops.  I promise.  I gotta go!”

“Yes, well, thank you again Kirishima.”

Eijirou kills the phone call after spouting a cheery “See you in a bit!” already dashing out the door.  He knows better than to call out Katsuki’s full name—especially here in Musutafu—they’re trying to remain incognito after all, so he worms his way through the crowd as quickly and quietly as possible.

Katsuki notices his approach and waits for him to get close before giving him a single, short nod, “Fucking took you long enough, Shitty Hair.”  He moves to head toward the next platform, and Eijirou grabs his elbow to stop him.

“Got off a call with the Class Pres, we gotta pick up some stuff from the school.”

Katsuki narrows his eyes and whips out his phone, firing off a quick text to someone, then gives Eijirou a grunt, “Fine, let’s fucking go already.”

They maneuver their way out of the station and onto the streets, where they have a bit more breathing room.  Regardless, Eijirou keeps his voice down, “Saw your fight yesterday.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You alright?  You guys took some pretty nasty hits.”

“Fuck you, I’m fine.” 

There’s no actual heat behind Katsuki’s words, and Eijirou can’t help but smile, “Glad to hear it.”

There are a few long moments of silence before Katsuki quietly states, “The shitty ass nerd got it worse than I did.”

Eijirou knows better than to comment on that, no matter how much he wants to tease his friend for the very obvious concern in his tone.  He values his life, thank you very much, and would like to remain unexploded right now.

“Talked to him this morning.  Said he was with the stupid hobo teacher last night before he fucked off and disappeared.”

“Oh-“

Shit. 

That isn’t good.  That has reckless Midoriya feeling guilty about something that isn’t his fault and making terrible, self-sacrificing decisions all over it.  And if the tight, controlled look on Katsuki’s face is anything to go by, he thinks so too.

***

Just shy of two days after Aizawa goes missing, Izuku’s personal phone rings, and he’s painfully jerked from his thoughts in a way that’s far too reminiscent of how he’d been startled awake with that first, dreadful phone call the previous morning.

Jirou’s name is flashing across the screen.  He sucks in a sharp breath, sparing a very quick glance around the room.

Everyone is present except for Jirou, Shinsou, Tokoyami, Kouji, Shouji and Midnight.  Those six have been out in the streets, gathering intel and searching, as is their specialties.  They’re in teams of two, with Jirou and Shinsou paired together and sent to the warehouse district just a few miles away from his old middle school, of all places.  It was just inside the boundaries of their search radius, and one of several areas of interest that he, Shinsou and Nedzu had all agreed on.

The rest of them have been bringing each other up to speed and going over rescue and large-scale battle strategies… just in case.

He answers on the third ring.  There are only two reasons they would be calling.  Either they ran in to trouble, or—

He doesn’t even get to finish the thought before her voice is hissing out a quiet, but frantic, “We found him, and we’re going to need help.  A lot of it. Now.”

Izuku can feel every single pair of eyes in the room on him now, the idle chatter and shuffling gone utterly silent and still. 

 He steels himself, squaring his shoulders, “What’s the situation?”

Chapter Text

There’s a small beep in his ear—his headset informing him that his partner has returned—and he turns to glance behind him.  Earphone Jack slowly slinks across the ledge to join him, crouched and anxious on a window’s decorative overhang, high above the target’s location.  They’re positioned in such a way that they can just about see the entire warehouse below them, but the building at their back casts them in near complete shadow, and both of them are decked out in dark enough colors that they’re practically invisible.

Hitoshi’s got to give credit where it’s due:  despite the fact that she’s an extremely recognizable spotlight Hero, she always handles stealth incredibly well.  Not to mention her search and rescue expertise—it’s a real shame she didn’t go Underground, her skillset and quirk are perfect for it.

There’s also the fact that she’s clearly not as comfortable with heights as he is, but still manages to gracefully waltz her way along the thin little overhang without a second thought.  When he’d originally asked her if she was going to be ok, she’d just shrugged, teased his capture weapon with one of her earlobes, and just said, “I know you’re not going to let me fall.”

And shit, even though he’s been friends with these people for several goddamn years now, it still floors him to this day how easily they trust him.  He’s held more than one of their lives in his hands at this point, and each and every time they’ve trusted him to keep them safe, without reluctance of any sort.  They’ve let him wrap his quirk around their minds, let him steal their free will as if it were something so very small and tangible that could be slipped silently in his pocket without notice, all without losing faith in his abilities or intentions.      

She’s gently placing her hand on his shoulder, “The main group is nine minutes out, though Ingenium, Ground Zero and Deku will be in position in less than three.  Froppy and Invisible Girl are going to slip in through the busted out window on the east side.  You and I are going to take the first floor north, and the four of us are to secure the target.  Midnight is gonna meet us at the door, and slip in right after us so she can start knocking people out.  Team B is gonna tear the place up three minutes after we’re in, so that they can’t use the hostage against us.  Team C is gonna clear the way and run extraction.”

It’s an intricate plan, but it has to be.  Unfortunately, they can’t just send Deku in and let him loose this time, because Earphone Jack has clocked at least a hundred separate cronies in the warehouse, as well as an undetermined amount underground.  Some of them have even been confirmed to be involved with the recent outbreak of new quirk enhancement drugs—the very same drugs that caused the souped-up rampage that Deku and Ground Zero had been caught up in the afternoon before Eraser disappeared.

“Mic is gonna be the first distraction-“ She chuckles darkly, “Gonna play up the overwrought, desperate husband.  Then, when he gets the signal, him and Ground Zero are on runners and demo.”

Hitoshi feels himself smirk, though it’s straining at the edges, “I mean, it’s not too far off the mark, right?  Still, I can’t believe they know about that.  I wonder how?”

Hitoshi hopes beyond hope that it’s stolen data, or hell, even a mind reading quirk of some kind.  Eraserhead is too strong to just… break.  He would never give up something so intimate about himself of his own free will—especially something that could possibly endanger anyone he cares about.

“I don’t know.”  She looks about as uneasy as he feels, and one of her jacks swerve slightly, “But they definitely do.  Two of the guards are gossiping about it right now, actually.  Like a bunch of fucking schoolgirls in a locker room.”

Ah, super hearing. Invaluable, but Hitoshi doesn’t envy her even a little.  He can’t imagine what types of things she’s heard that have probably scarred her for life—after almost three years of living together in one building, she’s gotta know more about their entire group’s idiosyncrasies and… habits… then any one person should.  Her quirk’s capabilities have only grown over the years as well, and he wonders how she hasn’t been driven batshit crazy by all the excessive sensory input.  Midoriya would probably have an extremely interesting, long-winded explanation about that.

He doesn’t want to ask, because he’s terrified of most of the possible answers, but he needs to know, “Eraser?”

Hesitation.  A tightness to her frame and a tremble to her hands that speaks volumes all its own.  Her lips are drawn paper thin, “I haven’t heard him since-”  She grows quiet for a few seconds before shaking her head, and mumbling, “Deku’s on scene.”

Hitoshi nods and brings a single finger to his earbud to activate the correct channel, “Good of you to join us.”

Deku’s voice filters through their coms, “I’ve got Mic with me.  He’s setting up.  The rest are en-route.  Ground Zero and Ingenium are about a minute out.  They dropped speed because we didn’t want their quirks to draw any attention.  Has there been any changes?”

And Hitoshi knows what he’s really asking is: ‘Is the plan still viable? Do I need to just flatten the place?’

Earphone Jack is shaking her head as she speaks, even though there’s no possible way Deku can see her from wherever he is.  As far as Hitoshi’s aware, enhanced night vision isn’t in Deku’s little collection of tricks, “No.  I haven’t been able to make out Aizawa again… there’s just too many bodies.  Too much talking, too many heartbeats, and with him being somewhere underground everything is muffled just enough.  I’m pretty sure one of the new guards has a minor hearing quirk though, so keep yourselves at least a few meters past the gate until Mic starts screeching.”

“Rude.”  Mic’s voice joins in, far quieter than Hitoshi has ever heard the man, at the exact same time that Deku confirms, “Got it.  I’ll let the others know.  You two can get into position now.  Ingenium and Ground Zero are ready, and the rest are right around the corner.”

Earphone Jack is already wrapping her arm around his shoulder as he slips one of his around her waist.  She’s not very heavy, but he takes an extra second to plot his course to account for the imbalance her weight will cause when he leaps off the building.  Just as he’s threading the fingers of his free hand through his capture weapon’s folds, a sudden thought strikes him, and the mental image it draws to the forefront of his mind causes him to snicker quietly into his com, “So, Mic-”

“Yeah?”

Hitoshi flings his scarf, “You hitched a ride with Deku?”

Earphone Jack’s arm tightens slightly as Hitoshi leaps, though he swears he hears her swallow a small laugh of her own.  She must have gotten the same mental image he had, then.

“Hitoshi.”  Oh.  Dropping the codename.  How unprofessional, Hizashi.

That’s not something Hitoshi’s ever been able to do when on a serious mission like this.  Eraserhead had drilled him on the importance of codenames—especially for Underground Heroes—and something about that has just stuck—and sure, he can snark and tease and try to bring a bit of levity to their shitty situations, and he doesn’t judge the others for their familiarity… but the codenames themselves help him focus and remind him that, yes, they’re all Heroes—he’s Mindblank, he fucking made it against all the odds, and right now, they have a job to do. 

And if he keeps referring to the man they’re trying to rescue as Eraser, that helps too.  It creates a slight disconnect, just enough to keep himself from thinking about everything too hard and spiraling.  He refuses to be a hinderance.    

“What did that look like, exactly? Piggy-back, or Bridal style?”  Hitoshi breathes, the fall pulling the air from his lungs.  He doesn’t let it stop him from poking the bear.

Deku huffs, completely unamused, “Mindblank, is this seriously the time?”

Hitoshi lands on another overhang, and carefully draws his scarf close again before sending it towards the next hold point.  He lets his voice carry through his next intake of breath, “I mean… Mic, you’re like over six foot-“

“You are not making fun of my height right now.”  Deku’s grumbling now, “You are not.”

“For fuck’s sake, cut the useless bullshit—or have you assholes forgotten we’re here for a goddamn reason?”  Hearing Ground Zero’s sharp tone almost causes Hitoshi to stumble through his next throw.  He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing, and if the way Earphone Jack tenses at his side is any indication, she’s noticed it too, but is enough of a saint to not call him on it.

“You aren’t even supposed to be on this frequency right now, Kacchan.”  Deku snaps back.  Oh, so even Deku’s slipping on the codenames now.  How cute.

“I’m certain everyone knows why we’re here, Ground Zero.”  Aaaand there’s Ingenium, strolling right into the conversation like he owns it, “But we have a few moments until the rest of the teams reach their positions, and while I normally wouldn’t condone mocking our friends and fellow Heroes-“

“Iida, no.”  Deku begs, barely above a whisper.  Hilarious.

“Bringing a small bit of humor to a difficult situation is how some people cope with the added stress, and good-natured teasing can sometimes even help with morale-”

Deku’s sigh almost sounds relieved, until-

“Plus, Midoriya is rather small, isn’t he?”  And that is just… perfect. Well done class president.

Even Ground Zero snorts.

Hitoshi and Earphone Jack are on the ground now, and she stifles a silent laugh against his shoulder as they steady themselves.  They don’t bother with words, dashing straight toward their designated entry point side by side.  The lighthearted bickering continues quietly over their coms, and somewhere along the way, Midnight emerges from behind a shipping container, easily falling into step beside them with a slight smile on her lips and a quirked brow.

Just as the three of them are reaching their destination, Creati’s voice crackles through his earpiece, “The rest of Team C has arrived, and we are in position.”

“Good.”  Deku’s back to his professional Hero tone at that, and the silly chatter immediately dies, “What about the rest of Team B?”

“We’re here.”  Shouto confirms, stoic as always, “We’re ready.”

“Alright.  Infiltration teams?”

“We’re ready, Ribbit.”  Froppy announces her and Invisible Girl’s arrival a few seconds before Hitoshi says, “In position.”

There’s a long moment of silence over the communications as everyone settles, no doubt steeling themselves for the oncoming pandemonium.  Deku takes a deep breath, and calmly states, “On your cue, Mic.”

***

There are villains and petty crooks everywhere, but thankfully, for once, everything seems to be going according to plan.  Mic’s voice is clearly audible, full of frantic, frenzied words, reverberating sharply off the walls—a perfect distraction for the infiltration teams to sneak in and stick to the shadows as they snake their way down the two staircases and into the basement.  They have no idea which room Eraser is in, and no idea of his condition, so they fan out enough to search behind every closed door as quickly and efficiently as possible, but remain close enough to cover one another if they get spotted and things get dicey.

Two unmapped and unregistered subbasements, and about twenty brainwashed idiots later, Hitoshi finds the hidden door.  It’s disguised to match the metal paneling lining the hallways, but the faint, curved scratches in the floor give it away, and he starts the meticulous search for a button or crevice he can dig his fingers into.

Earphone Jack’s finished her search of the other hallway, and quickly makes her way to his side when she notices that he’s found something, jamming one of her jacks into the ground before she’s even come to a complete stop.  He knows they have precious few seconds before things really start going to hell upstairs, because the assault and extraction teams are officially joining the fray, and they have no idea how much further they still have to go.  They need to find Eraserhead now, before whoever is behind all this realizes it’s time to cut their losses and run.

“Oh my god.”  Earphone Jack’s voice hisses into a stuttered breath, and she roughly and unapologetically shoves him out of the way, “Get back!”

It’s not like he has a choice with the way she’s caught him off guard.  He stumbles several feet, and has just enough of a forewarning to cover his ears and brace himself as he watches her jack slip free from the concrete and snap into place in her boot.

The resulting pulse of sound is so concussive he swears he feels his brain rattle in his skull.  The heavy metal door absolutely implodes to the sound of her heartbeat, and before he can even draw his hands away from his ears and down to his capture weapon, she’s leaping through the dust, frantic and screaming, “Get the fuck away from him you freak!”

Hitoshi follows directly on her heels, unwilling to let the ringing of his ears and shortness of breath caused by her impulsive outburst slow him down—He knows she wouldn’t have acted that way if there wasn’t a very good reason.

The room beyond the debris is chaos.

There’s a handful of armed criminals dashing about, aiming guns and drawing knives and flinging quirks at the woman who’s making a mad dash towards the distant, sunken portion of the room.  The ground is damp and dirty, and the walls are just… dug out of the earth itself.  There’s a faint clicking noise from one of the corners, and everything smells of must and mildew.

Time slows down to an agonizing crawl, each and every breath struggling to escape from his lungs and Hitoshi swears he feels his heart give out and stop, because near the back wall he finally catches sight of the man they’ve been searching for, and oh god, no, no no! Fuck! He thinks he’s vaguely aware of Froppy and Invisible Girl flinging themselves into the room to join the fight as well-

But none of that matters-

Because suddenly, he’s not Mindblank, and they aren’t Earphone Jack, Froppy and Invisible Girl.

He’s just Hitoshi, and they’re Jirou, Tsuyu and Hagakure, and across the room isn’t Eraserhead, it’s Aizawa, their teacher-mentor-protector-savior.  They’re just a bunch of terrified teenagers all over again, helpless as they watch the man who's given every part of himself to keep them safe struggle to cling to life after being mangled by the worst villain the world has ever seen.

And all at once, Hitoshi doesn’t feel very much like a Hero at all.

Chapter Text

It’s four twenty two a.m. when Toshinori’s phone lights up and begins rattling against the table in front of him, and by the second chime of the familiar ringtone he has it pressed up against his ear, “Izuku?”

Izuku just heaves out a single stuttered wheeze on the other end of the line, and Toshinori can feel his heart seize painfully inside his malformed ribcage at the sound of it.  He can’t help but jump to the worst possible conclusions, knowing full well what mission Izuku and his friends had undertaken.  

Aizawa is his friend, colleague, and has become one of the most important people in his, and his students, lives.  After everything they’d collectively been through over the years, it would be an insult to call him anything less.  He silently sends a quick prayer to whatever gods may be listening for at least some good news.

“My boy-”

“ All Might-I-”  Izuku’s breath hitches again,  and his next words are whispered so quietly that Toshinori has to strain to hear them, “ I almost killed a man tonight. ”

It’s not what Toshinori was expecting to hear at all, and he struggles to bite back any sort of surprised noise that tries to weasel it’s way past his teeth.  He knows he can’t hesitate too long because Izuku won’t take the stunted silence well.  He also knows how the kid must be feeling right now; there were many times in Toshinori’s tenure as the number one hero where he’d had to pull back and reign himself in.  WIth the sheer amount of power behind One for All, there were bound to be accidents.

Though... Izuku has been a pro hero for a few years now.  He's been through this before... maybe he just needs a reminder of that.  His nerves must be absolutely shot right now.  Toshinori keeps his voice calm and gentle as he speaks,   “Izuku, you know that sometimes-

But before he can get out any sort of platitude or reassurance, his boy cuts him off with a broken growl, “ No.  I almost killed a man tonight, and I meant to.  And… I… I don’t-I don’t feel bad about it.  I… don’t.”

To say that Toshinori is stunned in an understatement.  His thoughts have come to a screeching halt, and every time he tries to wrap his mind around what Izuku has just said everything just ends up skipping like a record player that’s gone off track.

The world around him has gone almost deathly quiet, the only sound that breaks through the haze being Izuku’s shaky breaths and his own pounding heart. 

“ I should… I should feel bad, but I don’t.   All Might,”  Izuku chokes out.  His voice cracks as he speaks, a lilt that almost makes it seem like he’s pleading with Toshinori, begging for some sort of answer the retired hero doesn’t know how to give, “ I-I feel worse about-about not feeling bad than I do about- I still want to- we… we found Aizawa and he… we had to- he stopped breathing and we-we had to- ”

It’s Toshinori’s turn to interrupt.  He doesn’t want Izuku to spiral any further than he already has, “Where are you, my boy?”

Izuku lets out a sob-like sigh that crackles slightly into the receiver, “ Musutafu General… I- I had to.  All Might I- I felt him stop- he just-”

Toshinori is already halfway out the door of his apartment, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he hastily shuffles into his coat, snatching the emergency duffel bag out of the entryway closet he keeps stocked with soft clean clothes and sugary, high calorie snacks—because he knows exactly what it’s like to be confined to a hospital waiting room after a hard, emotionally charged mision covered in a blood soaked costume, fatigue tugging on every fiber of one’s being.  He won’t let any of his students suffer that, and if he can help them in any small way, he will.  He’s retired, but he’s still useful. 

He doesn’t bother turning to lock up—doesn’t care enough to—and ignores the protests of his old bones as he takes advantage of his gangly limbs to take the stairs two at a time, “Izuku, is anyone there with you?”

Izuku just takes a moment to breathe deeply, no doubt trying to self-soothe, to settle his racing thoughts enough to answer without going off on a tangent.  By the time he speaks, Toshinori is already buckled up in his car and speeding out of the private underground parking structure.

“ I got here before-before anyone else.  I was the fastest- and he wasn’t- I don’t know how long I’ve already been here… I left them to finish up with the villains- ”

Toshinori hums to show that he’s still listening, flicking his blinker and merging onto the main road little quicker and more aggressively than what would probably be considered legal.

Well.  What are the police going to do?  Arrest him ?  He’d like to see how that would play out, honestly.

Just as he’s about to reassure his successor again, he hears something slam in the background of the call, and a familiar, albeit ragged voice rings out, “ There you are.”

Young Todoroki.  Toshinori relaxes his white knuckled grip ever so slightly, because this means his boy isn’t alone anymore and that’s good.  Very good.  

Then there’s a shuffle, followed by a bit of murmuring, and Toshinori hears Todoroki’s gentle instruction for Izuku to hand over his phone and go wash his hands.  And face.  

Well that doesn’t paint a very good picture in Toshinori’s head at all. 

“ All Might ?”  Todoroki’s voice comes out quiet and exhausted, as if it takes every remaining ounce of his energy for him to even speak.  It makes him sound so very young and timid, and strikes a chord deep inside Toshinori’s soul that reminds him that these are his students— his kids.  They may be a few years graduated; legal adults that have already started making their magnificent marks on the world, but there are times— like right at this very moment— when he pictures them in his head and they’re all still the bright eyed, teenaged hero hopeful wannabes they were when he’d first met them.  

So small and brave and eager.

And as Todoroki slowly begins to explain exactly what had happened during their unsanctioned raid, the state of which they found their precious teacher, and the aftermath of everything… Toshinori’s heart aches for them. 

The slow pitchy tone of the machine on the other side of the bed is a soothing balm to Hizashi’s fraying nerves.   It’s a familiar sound, one he’s normally able and eager to tune it out without issue.  But now?  Now he savors every single beep it makes, relishing in its even, tinny chorus.

This isn’t the first time Hizashi has ever been in this situation, wishing to wake up from the cruel nightmare that is being forced to sit by his husband’s bedside while the man in question fights for his life.  And as much as Hizashi hopes, there’s a pretty good possibility it won’t be his last.  Their jobs are dangerous, it’s just part of being a hero. 

Especially the good ones.  The ones who tear and claw on hands and knees through whatever hellfire comes their way, every breath they take in service to protect the meek and vulnerable.  The ones who face the very worst humanity has to offer, day in and day out, and still somehow manage to find the good .  The ones  like Shouta.

Knowing and accepting this doesn’t make any of it any easier.  

The doctors have said that his husband is stable and doing well now, all things considered... but it’s so hard to believe, when every time Hizashi looks up at Shouta’s bruised and pale face, all he can see is the way Midoriya had frantically screamed for Kaminari, a nearly unrecognizable, mess of broken limbs and bloodied skin cradled oh so carefully in his frighteningly strong arms after Hitoshi had passed Shouta off, because Midoriya was faster, stronger, and Shouta wasn’t breathing , pulse still and quiet beneath his skin.  

Shouta’s skin is cleaner now, pale and almost thin looking in harsh fluorescent light.   His eye sockets are darker and deeper than ever,  fine lined contusions nestled at the outside corner of his eyes—the results of one of the villain’s quirks, apparently… one that was used to damage the optical muscles and nerves and make it so that Shouta couldn’t even open his eyes.

How fucking terrifying that must have been.

Hizashi can’t stop himself from standing and leaning forward to carefully brush what’s left of Shouta’s hair away from his forehead—and oh man, he’s not going to be happy once he wakes up and finds out that the doctors had to cut his hair for one of the surgeries.  Fingertips barely touch skin as Hizashi traces the sharp, strong features of his husband’s face so that he can gently drag a thumb across his cheek.   After a few seconds he continues onward and downward, knuckles brushing softly through the scruff on Shouta’s jaw.

He continues his ministrations until he finally finds his fingers hovering over the planes of Shouta’s chest.  He can’t keep himself from leaning forward then—he needs to hear it, and after a second he does.  Shouta’s heart beats, slow and steady beneath battered ribs and torn muscles.

He’s alive, and breathing.  Hitoshi and Midoriya and all of the others brought him back.  He’s not well, not by a long shot, but he’s here.

No matter how hard he tries, Hizashi can’t stop the relieved sob that rips itself free of his throat.

There’s a lot of work to do.  Midoriya’s being publicly reprimanded by the commission—fuck them, by the way, for using him as an example, a punishment for going against their wishes—and Hitoshi is a walking mess on two legs.  All Might has been in and out, bringing whatever students who visit and linger at any given time whatever they might need…

He’s also been watching Eri, feeding their cats, and bringing Hizashi food, ever the overachiever that he is.    

Kaminari had looked particularly freaked out when he’d visited last, and shit, Hizashi really needs to check on him again too.  Honestly, we wishes there were some way he could go back in time and retroactively give the kid an A on every English test he ever took, because without him—hell, without any of them—Hizashi would be standing at Shouta’s grave rather than his bedside right now.  He has no idea how to even begin to repay them.

Not that they’d accept it.  As far as he’s concerned, they’re quite possibly some of the greatest heroes the world has ever known at this point, and he will scream that from every rooftop in Japan if he has to.  He’s so proud, and thankful, and god Shouta’s hell class really is something else.  

So yes, there’s a lot to do.  A lot of planning, and comforting and recovering-

-but for now, in the quiet privacy of Shouta’s hospital room, Hizashi is just going to sit here and cry, and let himself fall apart in peace, listening to the steady thump of his husband’s heart against his ear.  There will be time for everything else later.