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Self sabotage never ends well. Hizashi knows this. He knows that going down a path of destruction will lead to exactly that. That all he is doing is setting up the bomb, ready for it to implode.He convinces himself that if he’s at least aware of what he is doing then it’s not so bad. If he knows that the people around him are only using him for fame, then it doesn’t hurt. If he knows that it’s just for the money, it doesn’t matter. He has a lot of it anyway, if spoiling the people around him kept them around, then at least it meant that he wasn’t alone.
What he struggles with isn’t being alone, it’s being lonely. He can sit in the busiest, nicest nightclub, surrounded by a horde of people draping themselves over him with empty flattery. He can’t tell them his secrets, who his favorite kid in class is, or discuss cases. He talks to them, sure, but the words feel empty. Hollow. They mean as much as the compliments from the people around him, as much as the promise of friendship from the women who fawn over his radio show.
He wonders what friendship is like. He thinks about Nemuri, before she died. He likes to think that what he had with her was real. That their friendship was mutual. She always went out of her way to invite him to things without him even asking, and when he invited her, she always accepted. She didn’t feel like she was just humoring him. But with her gone, he can’t even ask. He’s not sure why the lack of closure on that bothers him more than her actual death.
What he had with Aizawa had to be genuine. At least it used to be when they were just three kids with a dream; when Oboro was there to balance them out. He always had a way of getting to Aizawa in a way that Hizashi couldn’t. Oboro had to be the one person that he doesn’t question, even after his death. He knew what they had was mutual. Oboro was his first real friend; Aizawa’s too. Oboro was the one who even brought them together.
Maybe that is why it isn’t the same after Oboro died. Maybe that is why Aizawa distanced himself so much. Aizawa has to blame Hizashi for what happened and when Nemuri died, he just piled that death on him too. Because it is all of his fault. Hizashi could’ve been a better friend, a better hero , then neither would have had to die.
Aizawa… He’s not even sure what to do about the underground hero anymore. He debated about talking to him before coming to the club. He stared at his phone for hours, his finger hovering over Aizawa’s name. He called once, but he hung up just as fast. He figured that it wasn’t worth it to even bother Aizawa anymore; he thinks vaguely that maybe like everyone else, Aizawa is just using him too. Leaning on him because he’s the only crutch he has. Hizashi thinks that’s okay, at least he’s needed to some degree. He’ll take the weight until someone better comes along; he already has so much on his shoulders, he can take it.
He can handle it.
The crowd, the loud music, the bright lights, just all seem so dim now. He almost hears Aizawa’s voice in the back of his mind, reprimanding him, voicing his disappointment. Because that’s all Hizashi manages to do - disappoint him.
It all blurs around him and sounds muffled, like a thousand miles away. Someone looks at him, he can’t remember their name and when they speak to him, their voice sounds like it’s underwater. He answers them, smile on his face, but he isn’t even sure what he said. The words - the smile - the movements all become automatic. None of it feels real or even him.
He’s awake, but he doesn’t feel conscious. He’s alive, but he feels dead.
Aizawa frowns at his cell phone, still not quite satisfied. Hizashi had called him hours ago. Aizawa hadn’t answered, he had his phone on silent, enjoying the silence while he graded the papers. The voicemail is only about two minutes long. Not a word said until it just hangs up. Most people would dismiss the call as a buttdial, but Aizawa can’t quite shake the feeling that something is just wrong about the call.
He listens to it again. Nothing changes from the first time he listened to it. Uneven breathing close to the phone. A mumble. Then click. Aizawa presses play again, brows furrowed as he leans back into his chair. Breathing. Mumble. Click. It just doesn’t seem like Hizashi. Hizashi has butt dialed him before; Aizawa has learned to not pay too much attention to something accidentally overheard, his friend’s life is his business. He’s voiced his opinions a few times already about how he feels about Hizashi’s clubbing; but he is an adult, he can make his own decisions.
But Hizashi is a man of habit. Aizawa knows these habits like his own. Hizashi always says something when he realizes it’s a buttdial. Usually it’s him laughing, sometimes an apology if what was recorded is a bit scandalous, and most of the time, he just makes a joke before saying his goodbyes.
This doesn’t feel like a buttdial. Hizashi says nothing. Breathing. Mumble. Click. Aizawa lets out a deep sigh, that’s exactly it. Hizashi says nothing. But he wanted to. He was close enough to the phone to be breathing into it. The mumble isn’t something far away from the phone either, just a whisper. Aizawa listens closer. Breathing. Mumble. Click. Again. Breathing. Mumble. Click. Again.
There. Aizawa strains his ears to listen as close as he can.
“This was a dumb idea, I shouldn’t bother you.”
Click.
Aizawa’s heart drops. He swallows thickly and it feels like a rock has settled deep at the bottom of his stomach. He feels sick. Hizashi. The voice is quiet, but it’s sincere. Broken. I shouldn’t bother you. He knows that voice, that saying. He knows what it means, how it feels. He hates how familiar it is to him, but he hates hearing it from Hizashi even more. A part of his resolve crumbles away.
He checks the GPS. An app Hizashi installed that Aziaw never really thought of or looked at twice. The purpose of the app was to show their location, at all times, and their location history. Aizawa would have found it a bit invading, but in their line of work, it’s not a bad idea. It never occurred to him to look at it for anything other than if they were working a case and hadn’t checked in.
Hizashi’s location lights up, a small yellow ping at a sketchier club. Aizawa’s frown deepens and he opens the location's history. His own history isn’t too interesting; locations he remembers from cases, patrols. All of his recent locations are the same - home, UA, a few of the parks Eri likes to frequent, the mall that Hitoshi likes to go to. Hizashi’s history is what has him collapse into his chair with defeat and horror, a hand over his mouth as realizations start to wash over him, drowning him with how much he has failed his friend. His best friend.
Liquor stores. Clubs. Random houses. Very few locations are actually familiar like the school and his radio station. None are from Hizashi’s patrol route, which means he hasn’t even been doing that lately. His own house address is vacant from the last thirty days worth of history. He hasn’t been home in at least a month. Seeing the history, the red flags start to wave so close to his eyes, it blinds him.
“So we can keep an eye on each other.” Hizashi had said while downloading the app with a wink, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Aizawa chalks it up to stress and lack of sleep; none of them seem to be getting that lately. “We’ll keep each other in check, yeah? If you spot me at the club a few too many times, you can just drag me home!” Hizashi laughed; the sound sounds a bit empty.
Hizashi practically told him. Warned him. Wanted him to look out for him. He wanted Aizawa to see the history. He wanted Aizawa to stop him. To save him. Aizawa was too late to save their other friends; their deaths weighed on his chest so hard he couldn't breathe at night.
He refuses to fail another friend.
The club is crowded. The smell of it assaults Aizawa’s nose so hard that it’s nauseating, the lights flashing so much that it makes him dizzy. His only good eye throbs at the flashing lights and he squints, trying to look for a flash of gold hair. He starts trying to call his name, ask anyone he bumps into if they’ve seen a tall blonde (the ones he gets pointed to aren’t the tall blonde he’s looking for). He ignores the people trying to flirt with him, the ones whose hands touch his shoulder. He feels claustrophobic - and gross. All this does is just make him sick to his stomach; he wants to go back home, to his kids, his cats. He wants silence, dim lights, one of Eri’s new favorite movies playing in the background with the smell of burnt popcorn.
But his friend deserves all of that too. Hizashi deserves to go back home too; Aizawa doesn’t plan on it though. At least not yet. Hizashi’s home hasn’t been touched in a month, Aizawa needs to go to his address and clean everything up first; he doesn’t want his friend to go home like this to whatever mess is waiting there. No. Hizashi needs the same thing Aizawa does; family, friends, popcorn, a movie…. Not whatever this is. Aizawa knows that his family isn’t a lot, and at times dysfunctional, his cats scratch the furniture, and the apartment is a bit cluttered and small. But he hopes it’s enough .
There.
Hizashi doesn’t even look like himself. Aizawa wonders how long Hizashi’s smile has looked like that; plastered, fake, never reaching his eyes. His eyes even seem empty, like nothing is quite behind them. It feels wrong. It doesn’t even feel like his friend . Aizawa twitches and for a moment, he wonders if he is too late to save his friend; that just like the others, Aizawa has failed him, left to die.
Aizawa pushes his way through the crowd, a bit more aggressively than any of the club goers necessarily deserved. Hizashi’s booth is full of a few women and men that drape over him, their eyes plastered more to Hizashi’s jewelry and expensive clothes than to his smile. Aizawa slams his hand on the table, eyes steeled at the patrons around Hizashi.
“Go.”
They scatter like the roaches they are, like parasites being purged from their host. Hizashi doesn’t even seem to notice that they are gone at first. His eyes dimming, his mind reeling as it catches up to the new scenario around him. It takes a beat; a beat of nothing, of a blank face, an empty look. Then Hizashi looks at Aizawa with that same plastered smile. He opens his mouth, but Aizawa doesn’t get him the chance to even speak.
The rest of Aizawa’s resolve finally crumbles away, the stones of his walls turning to dust as he crashes. Emotions boiling over as the dam breaks. Aizaw had thought about what he would say; he ran it over in his head. It was the only thing he could think of on his way to the club; the million different ways this could play out. What comes out of his mouth isn’t anything that he practiced.
“You would never bother me, Hizashi.”
His voice is steady, even as his hands start to shake. Not bringing the crutch proves to be a mistake as he collapses into the booth across from Hizashi; the prosthetic leg is still such an adjustment. He hopes that Hizashi hears him over the blaring music. Hizashi seems… quiet. Stunned. He can’t quite look Aizawa in the eyes.
“Aizawa -”
Aizawa. His heart twists; how long has Hizashi not even used his first name? Hizashi startles, realizing his mistake, trying to cover it up.
“ Eraserhead~” He does in his usual singsong voice, it pains Aizawa how easy it is for his friend to fake it. How it’s like a switch being flipped. How many times as Hizashi said his hero name like that? How many times did he do it when he was actually anything but happy and energetic?
Hizashi fumbles immediately after, sighing deeply, his shoulders sagging as the mask finally drops. Like waking up from a bad dream, Hizashi feels acutely aware of his body feels. He twitches his fingers and wonders how long it’s been since he’s been able to consciously move them, how long it’s been since he’s really felt everything around him. The ache settling in his chest reminds him why it’s better when he doesn’t.
“Forget it.” Hizashi’s voice sounds tired . He sighs deeply and rubs his eyes. “I just - I don’t have the energy for this, Aizwa. I just can’t. I can’t do this.”
“This?” Aizawa presses gently, aware of the delicate state of his friend. He wants this to go well; he thinks about the worse case scenarios he’s thought of on his way over. If in the end, Hizashi doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore… He’ll accept it. He’ll take the blows that Hizashi throws at him.
Hizashi waves vaguely to Aizawa, “ This. You. Everything. I… I can’t do it anymore, Aizawa.”
Aizawa braces himself.
“ I can’t stand you pretending to just be my friend anymore.”
Aizawa feels like the air is knocked from his lungs. What? Is that what Hizashi thought? Aizawa prepared himself for everything; he likes to think he thought of every possible way this could go. This… This isn’t one of the things he predicted.
“Do -” Aizawa finds it hard to talk. His mouth feels like cotton. He needs a drink. He eyes the glasses on the table, but not one of them looks like it’s water. He swallows his own spit. “-Is that really what you think? You think that… that I’m not your friend? That we’re not really friends?”
Hizashi looks up at Aizawa, meeting his gaze for the first time that night. His eyes seem dim, but full of pain. Aizawa wonders why he hasn’t seen it before. He really did fail to save his friend. Again. HIs heart pounds wildly against his chest.
“ Don’t.” Hizashi presses, his voice steeling. “ Don’t pretend anymore! I know. I have known for a while now. Since Oboro died, it’s been obvious. You didn’t talk to me anymore, we didn’t hang out. We never were friends, were we? We just shared a friend.”
Hizashi’s voice cracks, “I know okay? I know you blame me for his death. I know I should have been better. I know that you blame me for Nemuri too. It’s okay. ”
Hizashi’s voice grows quiet, his eyes bristling with tears in the corners, “It’s okay. ” He repeats. “I don’t blame you. I blame myself too.”
Hizashi can’t look at him anymore, not that he could as the tears start to build up and blur his vision. He rubs frantically at his eyes. He hiccups. Hizashi can’t remember how much he’s had to drink tonight, but it must have been enough to finally shake the bottle he’s been keeping. It finally exploded. It was only a matter of time; the worst part Hizashi thinks is that now he won’t even have a pretend friend. It may not have been mutual, but it was real to Hizashi.
Arms wrap around him tightly, hugging him like he’s going to run away. Hizashi’s eyes widen, his arms drop to his sides.
“I’m sorry.” Aizawa whispers. “I haven’t been a very good friend, Hizashi. I promise I’ll do better. I - I’ve never blamed you, only myself. For Oboro. For Nemuri. For everything … Oboro really was the only one of us who knew how to communicate and express his emotions, wasn’t he?”
Hizashi laughs . For the first time it feels like forever, he laughs. The sound is raspy in the back of his throat as he swallows back tears, but he breathes. He feels awake. Conscious. He can feel Aizawa’s arms around him and when he returns the hug, his arms are desperately grasping at his friend like he can’t believe he’s there; he can’t. But it is proof that no matter what he believes, it doesn’t change reality.
And the reality was that he does have a friend. He has Shouta.
“He really was.” Hizashi whispers, his voice lighter.