Chapter Text
Shota Aizawa’s luck had always been awful. Usually, this wasn’t a problem—he made up for it by imposing rationality on the world and beating luck out of his life with a stick. But sometimes it caught up with him.
His bandaged arms were painfully sandwiched between his torso and the toilet as blood dribbled from between his lips. Another cough wracked his battered body with fiery pain and two more petals forced their way up his throat and slipped from his teeth. He was shaking, exhausted, sweating, cold, with no energy to keep his ribcage from rattling like an old house.
“Hey, hey, you’re doing great, just get it all out,” murmured the cherry on top of this misfortune cake. The cause of the problem, Hizashi Yamada, rubbed Shota’s back in barely-there circles. His other hand was holding back Shota’s hair, his fingertips against Shota’s scalp in a way that made him light-headed.
Love was proving to be an incredible inconvenience.
With one last cough, a few tiny petals spewed from his lungs. He took a breath that actually felt clean, unobstructed by organic material. For now. He tried to stand up and walk with dignity back to the guest room, but instead just ended up slumped against Hizashi’s legs. His body had been acting like an uncooperative hostage ever since the USJ.
“You okay?”
Shota nodded weakly. Okay was relative. He’d stopped coughing, at least. His vision swam and his whole body felt like an abused piñata, but that was just how things were for the time being.
“Okay, let’s get you back to bed.” Hizashi hauled him to his feet. “You’re seeing Recovery Girl about this in the morning.”
Shota could barely see. Hizashi took a step, and Shota’s feet betrayed him. He didn’t even have the chance to fall before he was scooped up into arms far too strong for a DJ. It was a practiced motion—he’d lost count of how many times they’d carried each other out of fights.
“I don’t need to see her.”
Shota didn’t even need to look at Hizashi to know he was sporting his signature raised eyebrow. Damn hypocrite. He never went to Recovery Girl for anything less than a bone shooting through his skin. At least Shota got his flu shots on time.
“Hanahaki’s not a big deal,” Shota continued. He had no choice but to play it off—he never even had a chance to try to hide it from Hizashi. Not that he would have been able to hide it anyway. Hizashi was the one person he couldn’t deceive.
“It is for people with broken ribs. Keep hacking up a lung and you’ll rebreak it.”
Shota just grunted in response. He could taste blood still clinging to his lip.
Unfortunately, Hizashi was probably right. He couldn’t have picked a worse time to come down with Hanahaki. And if he kept staying with Hizashi, he’d probably mess up his healing with his coughing. The prospect of letting anyone else take care of him was highly unpleasant. So Recovery Girl it was.
“Okay,” Shota whispered.
He closed his eyes—his eyelids refused to obey his orders—and let his friend carry him back to the guest bedroom.
Did Hizashi know? Shota wouldn’t be surprised. Hizashi read people like they were a code for which only he had the cipher.
When Shota woke up in his hospital bed and saw Hizashi sitting at his side, he coughed before he could even get a word out. He had known then what was happening, and perhaps Hizashi had too.
It’s not like Hizashi would ask. He knew damn well Shota wouldn’t say anything, just as Hizashi wouldn’t have said anything were their positions reversed. Most of the important things lingered unsaid between them.
“I’ll make you some tea in the morning,” Hizashi murmured. “With honey in it.”
He was so quiet at night. Shota felt more than heard his words through the ear pressed against Hizashi’s ribcage.
“Thanks,” Shota muttered.
“Hey, bro, it’s no problem. Friends don’t let friends cough petals into toilets alone.”
Shota didn’t let himself laugh, not even a little. Every time Hizashi made him laugh, he fell in love a little more, and if he fell in love any more right now he’d probably end up breaking a rib.
Hizashi laid him down among the rumpled sheets and tucked him in with just a bit of overdramatic flair. He even tucked in Shota’s feet, knowing that would make Shota roll his eyes and smile just a little beneath his bandages.
“Sleep tight, Shota.” Only Hizashi called him “Shota,” and only when they were alone. It felt like a little secret, an inside joke, an endearment that only felt at home in Hizashi’s mouth. Shota’s throat tickled. “We’ll talk in the morning. Try to get some sleep.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.”
Shota closed his eyes. His pain medicine and bone-deep exhaustion overtook him like a rising tide and he was asleep within moments.
Shota awoke to the smell of mixed rice and miso. His core and side muscles hurt, and his throat was sore as hell. He felt like absolute shit.
His body deigned to cooperate with him long enough to drag him out of bed and into the kitchen, where Hizashi was already setting the table.
“Gooooooood morning sunshine!” Hizashi sang.
“It’s way too early for this,” Shota muttered.
He collapsed into the chair already pulled out for him and coughed a little in the process, because Hizashi had thought to pull out a chair so he wouldn’t have to use his arms. It was such a little thing. If just this was setting Shota’s petals off, Hizashi giving him a hug or something would probably kill him.
“Want some miso?”
Shota nodded, and Hizashi brought the bowl up to his lips. The soup was delicious, as was everything Hizashi cooked, because Hizashi was an adult who was experienced in many useful life skills. This was far better than Shota’s usual diet, even if he did have to be spoon-fed.
“So,” Hizashi said as he fed Shota a spoonful of rice. “You are the last person I’d expect to have Hanahaki, man.”
Shota glared at him.
“Hey, wouldn’t it be the rational thing to confess?” Hizashi teased. “You’re all about logical choices.”
“It’s none of your business,” Shota muttered.
“I’m taking care of you, and it’s obviously hurting you, so yeah, it is my business. Shota, I’m worried about you. We need to come up with a strategy.”
“Why are you being so pushy about it?”
“Because I know that’s the only way to get you to do something about it.”
Hizashi didn’t even need to glance at a cipher to read Shota anymore.
“But right now, you just gotta put a pin in it. Can you at least try to not fall even more in love? Until your casts are off?”
Shota stared across the table. Hizashi’s hair was down, lit like gossamer in the sun. He wore a sleepy pre-coffee smile underneath his glasses, and he looked at Shota like they were the only two people in the world. Shota was blessed to be privy to Hizashi unguarded, to see his expressions without ten layers of an overenthusiastic persona.
He was long past the point of being compared to an angel or a model. He was nothing more or less than Hizashi Yamada, and after barely a moment’s consideration Shota knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d be unable to fulfill that request. He was already more in love than he was when he got out of bed this morning, and he had weeks in Hizashi’s guest bedroom to go.
“That’s not how love works,” Shota told him.
“I know,” Hizashi sighed. “Well, worth a shot, right? I just…you looked bad last night, man. I don’t…I hate seeing you hurting.”
Shota erupted into coughing. He couldn’t even cover his mouth. He felt acutely every little bruise and fracture in his bones. Hizashi immediately hovered his hands over Shota’s back, unsure what to do.
“Sorry,” Shota muttered. “Rice down the wrong pipe.”
He burst into coughing again. His throat felt like sandpaper. His lungs felt like belt sanders. He turned his head away from Hizashi, desperately trying to conceal the bouquet of petals crawling their way up his throat. It was no use. There were too many, and he couldn’t keep them behind his lips, and Hizashi was observant. They littered the floor, spattering drops of blood across the linoleum.
“Rice, huh?”
Shota breathed heavily. His chest rasped with every inhale and ached with every exhale. He was in a cold sweat again. He had nothing left to do but lean his forehead against Hizashi’s shoulder.
“We’re gonna be late,” Shota muttered.
“I can take your class this morning,” Hizashi said. “You’re going to Recovery Girl. You’re not going to confess and you can’t get over it, so we’re going to just have to go with the wonders of modern medicine.”
“Why are you doing this?” Shota whispered.
“Hm?”
“Taking care of me. Making me go to the doctor like you’re my mom. You don’t have to cover for my mistakes.”
“What mistakes? I wouldn’t qualify you saving an entire class as a mistake.”
“It was almost too late. If you guys hadn’t shown up—”
“But we did.” Hizashi put his arm around Shota’s shoulders in a way that was decidedly bad for Shota’s lungs. “What kind of friend would I be if I weren’t always showing up for you, huh? Now let’s go.”
Shota tried to use his top-class stealth abilities to evade Hizashi once they arrived at UA, but it was no use. Hizashi had learned well from all their sparring over the years, and with Shota in such an injured state, he was easily outmaneuvered and dragged to the infirmary.
“Hey, Recovery Girl!” Hizashi yelled as soon as they entered, ruining any possible attempt at stealth. He was in full Present Mic mode now, all bright smiles and black leather. “Eraserhead needs some medicine!”
When they were alone, in quiet moments and memories, they were Shota and Hizashi. Here, they were Present Mic and Eraserhead. There was a reason heroes chose hero names and aesthetics beyond sheer practicality—being a hero meant being two people, two halves of something that never quite added up to a whole.
“What can I get for you? I have some stronger medication, if your current pain meds aren’t working, but you might find yourself tired—”
“It’s not my injuries,” Shota muttered. “I need a cough suppressant.”
“If you have a cough, you need to stay home,” Recovery Girl told him. “Your body is very vulnerable to infection right now, and trying to work through a sickness will only make it worse.”
“It’s not an infection,” Shota told her through gritted teeth. “I have Hanahaki.”
Recovery Girl ushered him over to one of the beds and sat him down. She shooed Present Mic out of the room. Shota nodded for him to leave. He’d need to tell Recovery Girl some things he’d rather his friend not hear.
“Let me know if I need to drive him home!” Present Mic called over his shoulder as he left. “And make him actually go with me!”
“How long have you had it?” Recovery Girl asked.
“Since I woke up in the hospital after the USJ.”
“And you didn’t tell me? Aizawa, sometimes I think you’re trying to die of complications.”
He should have told Recovery Girl the moment he felt the petals in his lungs. Despite what everyone thought, Aizawa knew his limits. But Hizashi was right about him—always had been. He had a hard time doing hard things he wasn’t forced into, especially when they involved his feelings.
“I’m telling you now,” he said. “It’s…it’s not ideal. I could deal with it if I didn’t have these broken bones.”
Recovery Girl pressed a stethoscope to his back and winced as soon as Shota took a breath.
“And you’re sure it only started right after the USJ?”
“Yeah.”
Maybe he’d fall out of love once he was off his pain meds. Once Hizashi wasn’t caring for him.
No, that was a foolish concept. He’d always been falling in love with Hizashi. All he’d needed was a catalyst to push him over the edge.
“Hmm. Must be rapid-onset Hanahaki, then. I’m surprised it got this bad this fast.”
“So. What do I do.”
“Hanahaki’s livable, but can be a major inconvenience for pro heroes, especially ones like you that depend on physical fitness. Coughing in the middle of a fight is a major liability. And in your current state, you can’t go around with a respiratory weakness. If you get pneumonia now before I have a chance to fully heal you, you could die.”
Exactly what Aizawa didn’t want to hear.
“Just prescribe me some Hanaru and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Recovery Girl whacked him with her syringe. “Hanaru in combination with the pain meds you’re on might also kill you. I can give you some basic cough medicine and NyQuil, but it’ll knock you out.”
“I’ve taught through worse. I’ll take the medicine and be back for the Hanaru once I’m off the pain meds.”
“There’s another solution. You could confess and hope your feelings are returned.”
“No thanks.”
Absolutely not an option. The choice between some discomfort and ruining his most important interpersonal relationship was not an option. He and Hizashi had spent years carefully crafting their friendship, building it up from the rubble of mistakes and grief. A confession would be like a wrecking ball taken to that labor of love.
“It’s your choice. I’m surprised, though. I thought you always did the rational thing, Aizawa.”
“I’m a human like everyone else. Can I have that cough syrup now?”
Recovery girl rummaged around in her cabinets a bit, then handed Shota a bottle of extra-strength cough syrup. She absentmindedly tried to hand it to him. He just stared at her.
“Right.”
She helped him take a dose, then set down the bottle on the sink.
“Have Yamada come pick this up when he drives you home today. And have him make you some tea in the staff room. Some nice lemon ginger tea can work wonders on a sore throat. Oh, and you need to tell me who it is so I can factor that into your treatment plan.”
Shota closed his eyes and took a deep, measured breath. Telling her would be more than logical. She was the primary healthcare contact for every UA teacher.
“It’s Yamada, isn’t it?”
“Who else would it be?” Shota muttered. He decided to keep his eyes closed for the time being, because they needed rest. Not because he didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone.
“Then you should stay with someone else until you recover the use of your arms. Being around him will only aggravate your Hanahaki.”
“No thanks.”
“You can’t have it both ways.”
“I’ll be fine. I have cough syrup. Thank you very much for your medical care. I have to go teach a class.”
He had to be there for his students. The sports festival was in one week, and the world’s eyes would be on Class 1-A. He knew they were all going to give their all, and they deserved his guidance. It was the least he could do after his failure at USJ.
Hopefully he wouldn’t give himself away or crack a rib in the process.