Chapter Text
It takes Aizawa longer than he'd like to admit for the realization to finally dawn on him, but once it settles deep in his gut, once he finally allows himself to think the words 'I'm going to die here', it's not as monumental of a moment as he'd anticipated.
He's lost a lot of blood. He knows this because it's starting to puddle out beneath him–he can feel his clothes cling to him where they're saturated with it. He stopped trying to put pressure on the wound a while ago–he's not naive, he knows how unlikely he is to be found in an abandoned building off of his patrol route, especially since he hadn't had the time to phone in his location to his agency.
Time had passed, too much time; and if he were to be candid, he's just so tired. Tired of prolonging the inevitable, tired of the lights dancing across his line of vision, tired of the way he can't feel the tips of his fingers. Tired, he thinks, of fighting. That's all this life has ever been for him anyway, a fight, and he finds himself oddly content to let his death be different.
He knows it won't be peaceful, the furniture around him is dirty and tarnished and the carpet beneath his head smells like mildew. He finds, though, if he focuses hard on the window to his right, he can see the stars.
That, he decides, is enough.
He's only let his eyelids flutter closed for a moment, a split second, before someone is shaking him awake.
"Holy shit, are you sure he's alive?"
The question comes from across the room, and Aizawa winces at the familiar, keening voice that replies, laced with panic and always, always just over the line of too loud.
"He has to be. Go. Tell them that we need paramedics, too," Yamada hisses, and fingers are prodding at his wrists, under his scarf, anywhere, anywhere a pulse might be found. His voice is softer when he speaks again. "Shouta?"
It takes all of his strength, but Shouta manages to crack one of his eyes open. He almost blinks it back closed when he sees how fucked Hizashi looks, doesn't want it to be the last thing etched into his memory, but the way the blonde smiles when he sees Shouta's half-blank stare is enough to keep him looking.
"Hey! Hey, you're here, you're here," he babbles, giving Shouta a once-over. "We've got some people on the way to take care of you. Sho, why the hell were you off your route? Do you know how long–how difficult–"
"Had to," Shouta mumbles, and christ, he sounds a lot worse than he'd imagined he would. He tries not to let himself cough, can feel blood from his mouth congealing on his face, doesn't want to worsen it.
Mic looks horrified, looks like a kid again, looks like a fledgling hero losing his best friend and not knowing how to cope, where to turn; he looks lost, and Shouta–
Well. In his defense, Shouta hadn't known how to cope with it either at the time; wouldn't know how to cope even now. He does feel guilty leaving Hizashi like this, though, with some sort of sick badge of honor and no one to help him grieve, The Last of the Gang to Die, but it isn't as though the choice ultimately belongs to him.
A hero never dies at home in their own bed, anyway. It's expected. Familiar.
There are footsteps coming from the other side of the room, but Shouta can't tell if they're coming or going, can barely hear them over the ringing in his ears. He tries to focus on Hizashi, the ridiculous daffodil tint of his hair or the watery emerald of his eyes, but he's so dizzy, and he winces and slams his eyelids shut as a strong wave of nausea rolls over him. He's hit immediately by an even more excruciating wave of pain, feels like his gut's being torn open again when a hand–presumably Hizashi's–is pressed to the worst of his wounds.
"I know, I know," Hizashi murmurs, hand brushing at his wrist to check his pulse again. He doesn't let go, his hand a loose circle around Shouta's wrist, and the warmth of it is intoxicating. He finds himself faintly wishing he had his sleeping bag with him, the newer yellow one Hizashi had gotten him with the down feathers. Maybe Hizashi would go grab it for him, if he asked. He's freezing. "You can beat the shit out of me later, okay? Right now, I need you to keep your eyes open."
Shouta huffs, annoyed, in reply. In return, Hizashi presses harder on his wound. He feels his breath stutter, thinks that if he were capable of screaming, he would. It isn't fair, he thinks; the soft comfort of Hizashi's voice being accentuated by the burn of Shouta's wounds.
"Let it go," he rasps, breathing shallow. He feels desperate, feels weak, and when he tries to bring an arm up to swat him away, Hizashi gently holds it in place. "Don't make me go feeling like this, 'Zashi."
"You're not going anywhere but the back of an ambulance," Hizashi replies coolly. "I know it hurts, I'm sorry, but I'm not letting go. There's a woman outside who wants to thank you, you know. And Eri needs you here to teach her to control her quirk, needs you here to teach her that there's kindness and patience in the world. Shinsou still needs you to teach him how to be a hero, too, one just like you, the best fucking kind, and–"
"The kind that abandons his route?" Shouta interrupts, his voice a near-whisper. One of his eyes cracks open again to meet Hizashi's, and the panic he sees there makes his heart sink. "The kind that bleeds out on the floor in front of his friends?"
"It's not that bad," Oboro snorts from across the room, striding over to squat down next to him. Hizashi continues to stare forward, and Shouta grimaces at his lack of acknowledgement. "It's nothing we haven't seen before, right? Nothing we won't see again. At least there's no rain this time."
"I don't want either of you to have to see it," Shouta retorts, the blue-white of Oboro's hair too much of a strain on his vision to keep his eyes open any longer.
"Shou…" Hizashi's voice cracks on his name, grip tightening around his wrist like it's the only thing keeping Shouta semi-conscious. And hell, as far as he knows, maybe it is. "Shouta, who are you talking to? I'm the only one here."
Ah. That's right–he is, isn't he?
"Oh," Shouta sighs, frowning. "Sorry."
"You should be," Hizashi hisses, biting down hard on his lower lip to stop the words from coming out too loud. "You should be, Shouta. You shouldn't have come here, should've let someone know where you were–fuck, if you die, I'm never going to forgive you. Never."
"Holding onto resentment's bad for you," Shouta slurs. He can taste blood in his mouth, warm and metallic, and wonders for a moment whether, if he managed to tilt his head up, he'd still be able to see the night sky.
He resolves to try, blinks once, and decides Hizashi's face is better.
"I don't care," Hizashi growls. "I need you here, you idiot."
"Hey." Shouta feels the blood finally begin to leak out of the corner of his mouth, the beginning of a steady stream, and he doesn't have the presence of mind to care all that much. He tries his best to humor Hizashi, to keep his eyes open for as long as he can, locked with his. He doesn't feel cold anymore–feels calm, light–and he has a sneaking suspicion that if he lets his eyelids flutter shut again, they're not going to open back up. "'S okay. You'll do alright, just like before."
"I don't want to do alright," Hizashi sputters. Shouta thinks he puts more pressure on the wound, but he can't feel it. "I don't want to do anything, Shouta. Not without you."
"Hm," Shouta replies, the ghost of a smirk glinting across his features. "Love you too, 'Zashi. Meant to say it sooner. 'm sorry. We lost a lot of time, didn't we?"
The ringing in his ears is too loud now to hear how Hizashi replies, his vision too blurred to see anything but the general shape of him. He finds, though, that if he focuses hard on what he thinks is Hizashi's face, he can make out the bright, blinding green of his eyes.
And that, he decides, is enough.