Chapter Text
When they eventually do go back there, they’re already a group of broken heroes, trying to process what just happened, how things could take such a turn. But then they get there and immediately they’re all hit with how little anyone was expecting this.
There’s still a mess of dishes on the dining table, everyone had decided to treat themselves the night before the mission. Take away containers and plates, stacked at the end of the table but unwashed because no one could be bothered cleaning up at the time. Bottles and cans of beer, playing cards, scribbled layouts of the mansion and hospital on napkins, a list of student names someone had passed around while going over the plan. And several glasses at one of the places, still sticky with whatever concoction Midnight had taken a liking to that night.
Thirteen volunteers to clear the table, and they make quick work of taking the dishes to the kitchen and dumping them in the sink to wash. But they spot another reminder there. Two half full cups of coffee. Midnight had made some for them that morning, complaining about being up so early to wrangle the students she’d be with on the mission into position. They remember marvelling, not for the first time, at how put together she looked considering how much more she drank compared to everyone else the night before. They remember how the time got away from the pair that morning, having to leave their coffee half finished.
Thirteen looks at the mugs. It’s some bootleg merchandise from All Might’s silver age, showing a horribly deformed cartoon of the former number one in a cheesy pinup pose. Midnight had found them on some stupid website and ordered one for everyone as a gag Christmas gift. Thirteen can’t imagine drinking from theirs without the coffee inside being poured by Midnight. On a whim, they go to the cupboards and grab the other mugs, dumping them in the sink with the other dishes, then activates Black Hole.
Vlad King picks up the napkins and sheet of paper left behind. He studies it for a moment, eyeing the way a few names had been lazily circled or written over a few times. He thinks about Yaoyorozu, who’s name has been underlined, with little dots beside it as Midnight had idly tapped the end of the pen against the paper that night, debating with him about the result of the two first year classes joint training months ago. He remembered her staunch defense of Yaoyorozu’s actions during her match, how she had all the markers of a strong, capable leader already. But now he remembers seeing the girl— because that’s what she is, a girl of sixteen, not a leader or hero yet— with her classmates, propping each other up as they cried. Wailed. It had taken several heroes to pull the group of distraught teens away from the body they had found. He doesn’t know the girl well, but he knows that she certainly didn’t feel like a leader in that moment. Or a hero. Nobody did. He wonders if Yaoyorozu knows how highly she was thought of by the woman.
He folds the paper carefully, pocketing it with a stiff lip, planning on slipping it to someone more suited to recalling Midnight’s praise to the girl, because she deserves to know about it.
And then there’s Mic and Aizawa.
It takes a lot longer for either of them to return to the dorms. Mic refuses to leave Aizawa’s side until he’s out of the woods. Even then, when he’s been sitting in a dirtied hero costume for days, he brushes off anyone that tries to persuade him to leave the hospital. They settle for occasionally fighting to get him to at least leave the room.
The only reason the pair come back so soon is because, well, the hospitals are overrun with people. Aizawa insists he’s well enough to leave, so the pair return one night.
None of the other teachers have touched her things. Not even the jacket thrown over the back of one of the sofas in the common area. It’s an unspoken agreement that it isn’t their place to do so. They all considered her a friend, but Mic and Aizawa were her family. They should have the final say on what happens to her things.
At first neither of them acknowledges her closed door when Mic helps Aizawa to his room, intent on getting some much needed rest. Aizawa is fragile, shaken. He wouldn’t agree to go inside until he was sure someone had put Eri to bed in her room, he insists she can’t see him like this yet. His mind is scattered, torn between worrying for his students and trying desperately not to think about the absence hanging over the dorm. Mic sets himself down on the uncomfortable office chair at Aizawa’s desk, and they both pretend that either of them will get some rest, but it doesn’t last. Eventually, Aizawa sits up in bed, planning on using his crutches to sneak out. But Mic is already rising, he knows where they should be right now. Aizawa foregoes one of the crutches for Mic’s shoulder. There are no words exchanged as they hobble together down the hall, back to the closed door.
It’s as powerful as a physical attack as soon as they step inside. The scent of her perfume reaches Mic’s nose and his knees buckle, fighting with himself to remain upright. He’s painfully aware of how heavy Aizawa is. They’ve been in this situation many times over the years, three heroes stumbling together into each other’s homes after missions and nights out. Whoever’s worse off gets hauled to their room by the other two, helped to bed. The difference this time, Mic is shouldering the weight of the man next to him alone.
They all but collapse onto her bed, burying their faces into the pillows. She’s always insisted on the nicest bedding money can buy. This set is 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, with more pillows than she knows - knew - what to do with.
Aizawa inhales, long and deep, at the faint lingering aroma that’s not quite lavender from her quirk rubbing off on the sheets. He remembers her visiting him after one too many sleepless nights, haunted by dreams of Shirakumo and a thousand other tragedies he’s witnessed in his life, allowing that same calming fragrance to roll off her shoulders and lull him into dreamless sleep.
As Aizawa takes long, almost greedy breaths, trying to will himself to sleep, Mic stares up at the ceiling. He traces meaningless patterns into the covers with a finger. They’ve been here before, clinging desperately to the remains of a life already lost. The room is dark, but he knows it off by heart anyway. He knows the sky blue colour she painted her ceiling the moment they moved into the dorms, knows what it means. He wonders how long it will be before someone comes to paint over it, to clear out her things and make funeral arrangements. That’s what happened when Shirakumo died. His locker in the hero course changing rooms was cleared by the end of the week, his parents planned his funeral, their teachers arranged a memorial.
Then it hits him, as he listens to Aizawa’s deep breaths become shallow, turning desperate for the small amount of relief sleep could bring him. They’re not kids anymore. It’s up to them. There’s no one left to rely on for the practical things while they fall apart.
He claws at the sheets, balling them up in his fists, as he tries to remember what the last thing they said to each other was. Probably well wishes for the mission, maybe a mini lecture on staying safe out there without her to watch their backs. There might have been a dirty joke, but he can’t remember it. He wants to scream.
He can’t remember what she last said to him.
He wonders how long it will be before he can’t remember what she sounded like at all.