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1 month, 13 days, 6 hours, and 37 minutes. That's a total of 63757 minutes. That's enough time to fly around the world 23.3 times; to go for a walk in the park 2520 times; to say "I love you so so much, to the moon and back!" over 84000 times.
Yet Aizawa had done nothing but gaze blankly at the peeling wall of his bedroom, his eyes unseeing and the squeezing of his chest unrelenting. There was an indescribable, crushing weight coating his limbs, grasping his arms with curved talons and forcing him to submit to the pain and suffering, to accept the torture that he deserves.
After all, we get what we deserve. The universe makes damn sure of it, and Aizawa was beginning to realise it too. The smell of his late husband and best friend Hizashi -"C'mon 'Sho, call me 'Zashi"- taunts him from the leather jacket that he clings to, cackling with glee as the shadows feed on Aizawa's rotting soul.
Aizawa's shirt clings to him due to the sweat that tends to accumulate when one doesn't shower for weeks. His hair is knotted and matted - Aizawa had tried to brush it once but the feeling of hands in his hair that do not belong do 'Zashi caused thick, putrid bile to rise in his throat, choking him with his own misery. His sweatpants hang loose on his hips, and his cheekbones are sunken and almost as dull as the underneaths of his eyes.
Aizawa has surely never looked worse. But he doesn't care, not even slightly. There is nobody left in this world whose opinion is important to him, for nobody could ever, not in ten million years, understand him the way Yamada Hizashi did.
For Aizawa is cold. He is cruel and harsh and brash and generally disliked by people. That's the way he was born, and it's the way he will die. And yet, against all the odds, Hizashi had seen something in him. A spark, a light, even just a grain of kindness and care. Hizashi had nurtured this spark, blowing softly upon it until it crackled and popped with a blinding passion. Aizawa's frozen heart melted, and as it did, his cold exterior softened into the gruff but loving face that his students came to know. His dull soul had been infused with a blissful, hopeful light that he clung onto with tense fingers and trembling hands. He was never, ever going to let this go.
But sometimes you don't choose to let something go, it gets wrenched from your hands with the ferocity of a thousand seas, tearing your fingernails and burning your skin. This is what Aizawa had felt the day he lost the love of his life, the day his light was not just turned off, but shattered beyond repair. He can still remember the way Eri's little hands had clawed at his blood-coated sleeve, doe eyes glassy with pain as she searched for anything, any reassurance or answers.
"'Zawa?" Her voice trembles as she speaks. "Is Mr Hizashi going to be okay?"
"..." Aizawa does not hear a word over the ringing in his ears. There is a thunderstorm in his head, and a tsunami in his chest. His heart writhes with horror and his vision is blurred. 'This isn't real,' he tries to tell his mind. But oh, was this realer than ever, and that's what scares him. He knows this is real, but he also knows that this would change him, and not for the better. Nothing would ever be the same again.
Eri and Shinsou had promptly been removed from Aizawa's care to allow "sufficient recovery time," as the social worker had called it. Bullshit. 'They just don't think I'm strong enough to take care of them,' Aizawa thinks. 'Just like I wasn't strong enough for him.' from his position on the bed, Aizawa catches a glimpse of himself in his mirror and feels queasy. Nothing is right. Everything is fucked up and the weight of regret squeezes his lungs. It's all wrong.
"This is unnecessary." Aizawa hoarsely states to the therapist sat across from him. Her fake, plastic-white teeth glisten through her grimace that he thinks is supposed to be a sympathetic expression. "You spout some crap about how 'everything happens for a reason' and I smile, nod, and pretend I agree before going home to my kids."
"Firstly, Shouta-"
"That's Aizawa to you."
"Okay, Aizawa. You're not currently permitted to reside with your children to allow sufficient recovery time. Secondly, I don't belive everything happens for a reason. I do, however, believe that you must find a purpose in your pain. You must use this-" she starts.
"A purpose in my pain? Is there a purpose to my nightmares and all the years of progress unraveled? Is there a purpose to me throwing up anything I try to eat? What's the purpose in that? Tell me! If you're so damn clever then tell me! Oh, you can't? Then don't contact me again."
Aizawa rises sharply from his place on the too-soft sofa and glares cruelly at the therapist. His eyes burn red and his hands tremble, though he would never admit it.
When he storms out of the room, Nemuri rises from her seat.
"Done already?" She asks.
"Done now, and done forever," he spits out, before turning on his heel and leaving the building.
He hadn't seen Nemuri since then. He has a suspicion that the incessant phone calls and doorbell rigns that made him want to bash his head against the wall were her doing. Not that he cares. He's been deemed an inadequate father, a useless teacher, an inactive pro-hero, and an all-round shitty guy. if there was a medal for the lousiest, most useless, incapable and irrational man on the planet, he'd have won it a million times over. For Christ's sake, he couldn't even bring himself to attend the funeral. What kind of husband does that?
He feels completely and utterly sick to his stomach when he recounts his forthcomings and misdoings. He didn't attend Hizashi's funeral. His kids have been taken away. He doesn't work, doesn't shower, doesn't eat - hell, he's not even sure he's breathing. he's just an empty corpse. And he hates himself for it.
Please. Please somebody give me a sign. Give me a reason. I miss Hizashi. I miss my kids.
Aizawa is a whirlpool of self-pity, of hatred and rage.
A knock sounds on the door. Aizawa has more than half a mind to ignore it, but the image of his kids smiling pops up in his head and for some reason his legs twitch slightly. Then, they twitch slightly more. Until eventually, he's sat on the side of his bed, feet planted on the floor and room spinning. He dismissed the vertigo in favour of stumbling down the hall, past the moldy plates in the sink and grasping onto the front-door handle. It swings open from his weight and he all but collapses into familiar arms. They smell of Kayama's Dusk 'til Midnight perfume, but also of warmth and familiarity. Not enough to shift the stone in his stomach, but enough for his vision to clear slightly and a familiar mop of purple hair to take shape behind Midnight. Hitoshi.
Aizawa fumbles to shut the front door as he feels a pit of shame. Hitoshi shouldn't have to see him like a- like- like this. But Aizawa's weak muscles provide no resistance against Nemuri, much to her concern as she furrows her brows. Hitoshi slides past her and grasps Aizawa's biceps, eyes wide with concern and fear.
"Dad?" Hitoshi's voice is meek and small from disuse.
"What-?" Aizawa directs his question towards Nemuri, asking why his son is here.
"He wanted to see you, Shouta. He's missed you- and Eri too. We all have." Her voice is impossibly gentle and for some reason Aizawa feels a pinprick in the inner corner of his eye. It burns, his eyes dry and sore.
"Oh, Dad..." Hitoshi squeezes out through tears as he pulls his father into his arms and rests his face on his Dad's chest. Pained sobs leave Hitoshi's throat and Nemuri covers her mouth while looking away. Aizawa hesitates before pulling Hitoshi into a crushing hug, holding him tight and running a hand through his purple hair. Tears stream down both of their faces as they crumple to the floor in a shrivelled heap.
"I'm sorry, Hitoshi." Aizawa whispers into his hair. "I'm so, so sorry." he says again.
"Please Dad. We need you back. We miss you so much-" Hitoshi chokes up as he speaks and Aizawa clings to him even tighter.
"I will, I will, I will I promise you Hitoshi. I'm going to change, I'll get help. I love you both and I've missed you too. God, I promise I'll take good care of you. Your Dad is here now. I promise, I'm not going anywhere."
˖ ︵ ꕀ 🫀 ꕀ ︵ ˖
The rain patters relentessly on the leaf canopy above. Three figures stand in front of a simple, marble tombstone. The middle, albeit gaunt and hunched, has a slight tinge of colour to his face that had not been there a month prior. His eyes blink rhythmically, calmly, with a hint of acceptance. Holding his left hand is a little girl. Her pale blue hair is held in place by two bobble braids. The braids are wonky and by no means perfect, but their presence is a sign of healing. A sign that her Dad can now do the things that her Papa used to do without breaking down. Her lower lip trembles slightly but she furrows her brows and pouts. she must stay strong, it's what Papa would've wanted. On the tall man's right hand, a boy with heavy eye bags gazes down at the words on the tombstone.
JUST WHISPER MY NAME
IN YOUR HEART
AND I WILL BE THERE.
The boy smiles lightly at what he sees, and what he feels when he looks back on all his memories with his family. Maybe things won't get completely better. Maybe there was no reason for his suffering. But no matter what, he's proud of his Dad for what he's achieved, he's proud of his little sister for how she's grown, and he's proud of himself, for hanging in there despite, despite, despite.