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Creak, creak, creak went the rope, pulled taught as it swung from side to side. Shouta gritted his teeth, breathing hard as his muscles burned in protest. He could do this. Just a little more.
One by one, he slid his hands further up the rope, ignoring the way he could barely bend his fingers from the pain. The joints were swollen, his knuckles were bruised, and his palms left bloodstains wherever they touched.
Ignore it! Shouta ordered himself. You can take this, come on.
He reached up once more, stretching his screaming arms as far as they would go.
The fingers on his other hand cramped. His grip loosened.
Shit! he swore to himself, flailing around with his other hand to try and regain his hold. Shit!
The world began shifting, walls of the gym rushing past him as he fell. Desperately he groped forward, seizing the rope with both hands. Like tires braking on a road, his palms shrieked. Red hot fire blazed through them, biting through his skin.
With a scream, Shouta released his death grip, letting himself free-fall the last few feet. With enough force to knock the air from his lungs, his back slammed into the training mat. Stars danced before his eyes, vision going black at the edges. He couldn’t breathe, he could only lie there in a stupor as the world spun around him.
Dimly Shouta could hear footsteps running towards him, someone calling his name. He opened his mouth to reply, but he couuldn’t even take in a breath. Something at the back his mind told him that probably wasn’t a good thing.
A shadow fell over him. “Aizawa? Aizawa! Are you ok? C’mon man, talk to me!”
A pair of orange shades peered down at him, eyebrows drawn tight with worry. Oh yeah, Yamada had been waiting for him.
Shouta ignored him, focusing instead on getting air back into his lungs. He wet his mouth, and drew in a small gasp of air. His chest hurt, but not too badly.
No broken ribs then, Shouta thought. Good.
Yamada was still talking, eyes raking over Shouta’s battered body, hands hovering over him like he wanted to help but didn’t where to start. He should probably do something about that.
“‘M fine,” Shouta mumbled, blinking away the last lingering fairy lights.
“Dude, you fell like ten meters,” Yamada pointed out. “I’m taking you to Recovery Girl.”
“No,” Shouta responded, gasping as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Yamada’s hand was immediately on his back, helping him sit upright. “I haven’t finished today’s training.”
“Man, just stop already!” Yamada said insistently. “Look at yourself! We’re going to Recovery Girl.” He grabbed Shouta’s arm, though whether that was to help him up or stop him running away, Shouta wasn’t sure.
“You stop,” Shouta growled, wrenching his arm from Yamada’s grip. “I need to-“
But as he put his hand on the ground to push himself up, fire lanced through him. Hissing through his teeth, Shouta brought his palms up to look at them. Raw, angry red skin greeted his eyes, each palm having its own stripe through the centre, leaking blood.
Damn. Rope burns.
Yamada crossed his arms, giving Shouta a stern look that was so out of place on his usually cheerful face.
“Don’t tell me you’re still going to train with those injuries! You need to go to Recovery Girl.”
Shouta bowed his head over his ruined hands, frustration, pain and anger all boiling through him. He didn’t have time for injuries, he needed to train.
“Fine,” he bit out. “I’ll go.”
Yamada didn’t say anything else, just grabbed his upper arm and pulled Shouta to his feet.
The walk to Recovery Girl’s office was slow. Every muscle his Shouta’s body trembled, the day’s exertions catching up with them. Yamada kept a hold on his arm, and for once Shouta didn’t resist.
They attracted lots of looks from other students as they made their way through the halls. Shouta couldn’t tell if they saw his hands first or his face. Despite the months that had gone by, he was still attracting attention. People would notice him, and then not so subtly turn their heads away to pretend they hadn’t, before loudly whispering to each other, “Hey, wasn’t that guy friends with the kid who died?” or “He was the one who took down that huge villain all by himself, right?”
Whatever, let them look, let them talk. Shouta was determined, he knew what he had to do. A bunch of nosy onlookers weren’t going to distract him from his goals.
Recovery Girl’s face was difficult to read when they reached her office. She took a long look at Shouta and sighed, before patting the bed next to her.
“Up you get, sonny, and I’ll have you fixed up in no time,” she said.
Shouta awkwardly clambered onto the crisp sheets, keeping his hands up and relying on Yamada more than he’d ever admit. Recovery Girl gently took his hands in hers and examined them. Shaking her head, she gave each of them a smooch.
A tingling sensation went through Shouta as the old woman’s power worked its magic. Flesh knitted back together and skin reformed, the blistering heat cooling down in sweet relief. Shouta felt the tingling travel through the rest of his body, healing all the other bruises, torn muscles and scrapes he’d accumulated recently. Tiredness immediately set in, and Shouta’s shoulders slumped.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
“You’re welcome dear,” Recovery Girl said in her thin old voice. “But do go easier on yourself. You’re not going to help anyone if you beat yourself to a pulp.”
“That’s the only thing I can do to help,” Shouta replied, pushing himself off the bed. His knees folded as soon as he tried to put weight on them, but then Yamada was there, looping an arm around his shoulders to keep his friend upright.
“Come on, Sho,” Yamada said, voice low as he’d ever heard it. “Let’s get back to class, and you can have a nap.”
Shouta just hummed in response. He should get back to his training. He needed to train, he needed to get stronger, he needed to be able to do more. But Yamada was a warm, solid presence beside him, and Shouta was just so tired. He let his friend lead him along without protest.
Recovery Girl watched the pair as they walked away, her heart breaking for them. One’s eyes were drooping with exhaustion, the other trying to blink back tears.
“You poor boys,” she murmured to herself. “You poor, poor boys.”