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The apartment is dark when Hizashi lets himself in, but that’s nothing new. Aizawa likes the shadows,claims they’re “energy efficient,” though Hizashi knows it’s really just that he hates getting up to turn on the lights.
“Shouta?” Hizashi calls quietly, voice a rare murmur instead of its usual booming greeting.
Silence answers. Then a rustle from the couch.
Aizawa is exactly where Hizashi expected: wrapped in his capture weapon like a blanket, hair spilling in every direction, eyes half-lidded but stubbornly awake. There’s a faint tremor in his fingers every time he tries to push himself upright.
Hizashi’s chest tightens.
“You should be in bed,” he says, setting a grocery bag on the counter.
“I’m fine.” Aizawa’s voice is a rasp, low and too brittle for Hizashi’s comfort. “Just tired.”
“Yeah,” Hizashi mutters, “and I’m the new Symbol of Peace.”
Aizawa doesn’t argue,too worn to muster a comeback. That alone tells Hizashi everything.
He kneels beside the couch. “You’re still overusing yourquirk. Recovery Girl said,”
“I know what she said.” Aizawa exhales sharply. “Heroes are needed. Kids are in danger. I don’t have the luxury of downtime.”
“You do,” Hizashi says, softer but firmer. “You just don’t take it.”
Aizawa closes his eyes. Hizashi can see how much effort even breathing seems to take, the way exhaustion clings to him like a second skin. He reaches out cautiously, hand hovering over Aizawa’s shoulder.
When Aizawa doesn’t pull away, Hizashi lets his palm rest there,warm, steady, grounding.
“You’re pushing yourself to the point of collapse,” Hizashi says. “So I’m moving in until you stop being an idiot about your own health.”
Aizawa snorts. “I’m not letting you move in.”
“You don’t have to let me,” Hizashi replies cheerfully. “I already brought pajamas.”
Aizawa cracks an eye open. “Did you really?”
Hizashi lifts the grocery bag with a victorious grin. “And soup. And those pain patches you pretend aren’t helpful.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re welcome.”
Aizawa tries to sit up again, and this time his breath catches,not with stubbornness, but with pain. Hizashi is there instantly, sliding an arm behind his back, guiding him gently but firmly into a sitting position.
Aizawa tenses… then slowly, finally, relaxes.
It’s barely noticeable, but Hizashi feels it. The surrender. The trust.
“Just… stay still,” Hizashi murmurs.
Aizawa’s head tips, just slightly, against Hizashi’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to stay,” he says, but the words are weak, unconvincing.
“I know.”
A beat of quiet passes.
“Don’t want you to leave,” Aizawa adds, barely audible.
Hizashi’s heart stutters. He lets his cheek rest lightly against Aizawa’s hair.
“Then I won’t.”
The room stays quiet, but it’s a warm quiet,not the lonely kind that Aizawa wraps around himself like armor. Hizashi breathes slow and steady, letting Aizawa match the rhythm.
Later, he’ll get the soup. He’ll make sure Aizawa takes proper medicine. He’ll force him into bed, tuck him in, pull up reports from UA, keep the world at bay.
But right now?
Right now, Aizawa is leaning on him,literally,and Hizashi can feel the fragile trust in every ounce of his weight.
“Get some rest,” Hizashi whispers.
Aizawa’s fingers curl into the fabric of Hizashi’s shirt.
“Stay,” he murmurs, half-asleep.
“I’m right here.”
And for the first time in weeks, Aizawa lets himself drift off,safe, supported, and no longer alone.
Hizashi wakes before Aizawa does.
It’s not the first time he’s woken up with Shouta practically draped over him, but it is the first time there’s no humor in the situation,no teasing line about “clingy cats” or “should’ve worn earplugs, Mic.”
Just quiet. Exhausted, aching quiet.
Aizawa is still half-curled against him on the couch, hair mussed, breathing shallow but steady. The circles under his eyes are deep, bruised-looking. His capture weapon is tangled loosely around his waist like a comfort item he won’t admit to needing.
Hizashi brushes a few strands of hair off Aizawa’s forehead.
The man doesn’t stir.
And that scares Hizashi more than he wants to admit.
Aizawa sleeps like a soldier,light, wary, reactive. Getting thisclose without being shoved off the couch should be impossible. The fact that it isn’t means one thing:
He’s completely spent.
Too spent.
Hizashi exhales slowly. “You really were falling apart,” he whispers, voice soft in a way only Shouta ever hears.
He shifts carefully, easing Aizawa down so his head rests properly on a pillow. Aizawa makes a faint sound,half protest, half instinct,but he doesn’t fully wake. Hizashi adjusts the blanket around him, checking for signs of fever, injuries, anything he might’ve missed last night when adrenaline was doing all the thinking.
Aizawa’s hand twitches. Fingers curl weakly around Hizashi’s sleeve.
Not enough to hold him in place.
Just enough to say don’t go.
Hizashi’s chest squeezes.
“‘Course I’m not leaving,” he murmurs. “You’re stuck with me, Shouta.”
He stands only when he’s sure Aizawa won’t jolt awake. He moves around the apartment as quietly as someone with his energy can,putting on soup, tidying the disaster zone Shouta calls a living space, finding the first aid kit that’s been shoved behind a stack of grading rubrics.
When he comes back with a cool cloth, Aizawa finally stirs, blinking blearily.
“…Hizashi?”
“Morning, sleepyhead.” Hizashi sits beside him again. “Or afternoon. Time’s a social construct.”
Aizawa squints at him, confused, then at the blanket around himself.
“You’re still here.”
“Obviously.”
“You didn’t have to,”
Hizashi stops him with a fingertip against his forehead, pressing the cool cloth gently there. “Yes. I did.”
Aizawa sighs. It’s the kind of sigh that sounds like years of weight being set down, even if just for a moment. He leans into the touch, and Hizashi feels the heat under the cloth,too warm for comfort.
“You’re running a fever,” Hizashi murmurs. “I knew something was off.”
“It’s nothing.”
“No, you are nothing, because you’re delirious,” Hizashi counters lightly. “Soup’s on. Medicine too.”
Aizawa turns his face slightly, eyes slipping shut again. “…Thank you.”
The words are quiet. Fragile. Honest in a way Aizawa rarely allows himself to be.
Hizashi smooths his thumb over Aizawa’s cheekbone, surprised at how easily Shouta leans into it.
“You don’t have to fight everything alone,” Hizashi says. “That includes resting.”
Aizawa’s hand finds his wrist,still weak, but purposeful.
“Hizashi,” he murmurs, voice rough with vulnerability he usually buries. “I… don’t know how to stop.”
Hizashi feels that like a punch to the heart.
He sits fully on the couch, slipping an arm behind Aizawa to support him as he shifts upright.
“Then I’ll teach you,” Hizashi says softly. “One day at a time. One nap at a time if I have to.”
Aizawa breathes out, shaky and raw, his forehead finding Hizashi’s shoulder. “I don’t want to be… a burden.”
“You’re not,” Hizashi says, holding him firmly. “You never are. You never could be.”
Aizawa doesn’t answer with words. He just lets himself rest in Hizashi’s arms, tension slowly draining away, fingers clutching Hizashi’s shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
And Hizashi holds him,gentle but steady, heart breaking and healing at the same time,whispering into Aizawa’s hair:
“I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
The soup is on the table.
The medicine is taken.
Aizawa is wrapped in a blanket that Hizashi pretends wasn’t freshly warmed in the dryer specifically to make him comfortable.
Everything looks fine.
But something is wrong.
Hizashi can see it in the way Aizawa stares at the steam rising from the bowl, unfocused. In how his fingers tap restlessly against the blanket, a rhythm just off enough to betray anxiety. In the tight set of his jaw,tension Hizashi hasn’t managed to massage away.
“Shouta?” Hizashi crouches beside him again, gentler this time. “You with me?”
Aizawa blinks, like he’s pulled back from somewhere far away.
“I’m tired,” he says.
It’s the way he says it,flat, almost empty,that makes Hizashi’s stomach twist.
“Hey,” Hizashi murmurs. “Talk to me.”
Aizawa’s hand curls into a fist on his knee, knuckles whitening. He doesn’t meet Hizashi’s eye.
“I can’t afford to fall apart,” he mutters. “Not now. Not in front of you.”
“Shouta,”
“I’m fine.” The words crack, sharp. Unconvincing.
Hizashi recognizes the signs: voice thin, breathing too fast, shoulders rigid like a pulled wire. This isn’t just exhaustion. This is everything Aizawa has been holding back, stacking quietly inside himself because he thinks he has to.
Hizashi sits beside him fully, close enough their shoulders brush. “You don’t have to be strong right now,” he says softly.
Aizawa flinches.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
And the thread holding him together finally snaps.
“I can’t keep doing this.” The words drop out of him like stones. “I’m so,” His breath falters. “,so damn tired, Hizashi.”
Aizawa presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, like he’s trying to physically shove the emotion back in. But it’s too late. His breath trembles. His shoulders hitch.
And suddenly he’s shaking.
“Aizawa.” Hizashi’s voice breaks on the name.
Aizawa tries to turn away, hiding his face in the blanket, shame rising faster than the tears he refuses to let fall.
“No,don’t,” His breath stutters. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Hizashi gently catches his wrists, guiding them away from his face,not forceful, just enough to say I’m here.
“Shouta,” he whispers, “let me see you.”
Aizawa’s eyes are glassy, red at the corners. He tries to look away again, but Hizashi cups his cheek with warm, steady fingers.
“You’re allowed to fall apart,” Hizashi says. “Even heroes break down. Especially you.”
Aizawa’s chest rises sharply, a breath caught between a sob and a gasp. Then,
He breaks.
He collapses forward, forehead pressing hard against Hizashi’s shoulder, hands clutching the front of Hizashi’s shirt like he’s drowning.
Hizashi wraps his arms around him instantly, one around his back, the other cradling the back of his head. He holds him close, grounding, solid.
Aizawa’s voice is muffled, cracked. “I can’t keep watching the kids get hurt. I can’t keep losing sleep,I’m so scared I’ll miss something,fail them,fail you,”
“You won’t,” Hizashi murmurs, pressing a kiss into Aizawa’s hair without thinking. “You never have. You’re doing more than anyone should ever be expected to.”
Aizawa shakes harder, breaths sharp and uneven. “I’m supposed to protect them. I’m supposed to protect everyone. But I… I can’t protect myself.”
Hizashi leans his cheek against Aizawa’s temple. “Then let me protect you.”
Aizawa freezes.
Just for a moment.
Then a quiet, broken sound escapes him,pain and relief intertwined,and he sinks fully into Hizashi’s arms, burying himself there.
Hizashi tightens his hold, voice low and trembling with emotion he can’t hide.
“I’ve got you. You don’t have to hold everything alone. Not while I’m here. Not ever.”
Slowly, Aizawa’s sobs soften. His breathing steadies. His fingers loosen their desperate grip, eventually resting against Hizashi’s chest like he’s finally, finally letting go.
And Hizashi keeps holding him long after the tears stop, long after the shaking fades, long after Aizawa falls asleep against him,exhausted, but safe.
Wrapped in someone who isn’t going anywhere.
Aizawa sits on a stool beside the tub, a towel around his shoulders. Hizashi kneels behind him, rolling up his sleeves. When he runs warm water through Aizawa’s hair, Aizawa almost flinches,then relaxes, the warmth soothing his headache.
Hizashi’s fingers are gentle but firm as he works through the tangles.
“You don’t have to do this,” Aizawa murmurs, voice thick.
“I know,” Hizashi repeats softly. “I’m doing it because I care.”
Aizawa closes his eyes, breathing slowly. The intimacy of it,someone touching his hair, caring for him like this,it’s too much. He feels raw. Exposed.
“Why?” he asks quietly. “Why do you care so much?”
He expects a joke. A deflection. Hizashi’s usual bright mask.
Instead, Hizashi goes very still.
His hands pause in Aizawa’s hair, trembling just slightly.
“Shouta,” he says, voice unsteady. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Aizawa’s heart skips.
“Not to me.”
Hizashi exhales shakily. “I’m in love with you.”
The words hit the small room like a soft explosion,quiet but unavoidable.
“I have been,” Hizashi continues, voice barely above a whisper, “for a long time. I didn’t say anything because you’ve got enough pressure. And because I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me something.”
Aizawa breathes in sharply.
“I don’t want you to think last night changed anything about why I’m here,” Hizashi says quickly. “I’m not helping you because of that. I’m helping you because you deserve someone who gives a damn. And,I’m that idiot who does.”
He resumes washing Aizawa’s hair, slower now, as if afraid he’s crossed a line.
Aizawa’s eyes sting.
“Hizashi,” he whispers. “I’m not good at… understanding things like this.”
“You don’t have to say anything back,” Hizashi assures him. “Not now. Not ever, if you don’t want. I’m still here regardless.”
Aizawa places his hand over Hizashi’s where it rests on his shoulder.
“Hizashi,” he says again, quieter. “I… want you here.”
Hizashi’s breath catches.
Aizawa turns his head slightly,not enough to break the moment, but enough that Hizashi can see the honesty in his eyes.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Aizawa admits, voice low and vulnerable. “But I don’t want you to go.”
Hizashi’s eyes soften with something warm, overflowing. He squeezes Aizawa’s shoulder gently.
“Then I won’t go,” he whispers. “Not unless you tell me to.”
Aizawa closes his eyes again, letting Hizashi rinse his hair, letting himself be cared for in a way he’s never allowed before.
For the first time in a long time, he feels… safe.
And Hizashi feels him leaning back just slightly,trusting him, choosing him,and it is enough to make his heart break open in the most beautiful way.
Aizawa drifts in and out of sleep for most of the afternoon.
The fever is low but persistent, tugging him under in slow waves. Every time he wakes, the apartment feels different than usual,warmer, softer, lived-in in a way it hasn’t for years.
Because Hizashi is here.
Always close.
Sometimes in the armchair grading papers, sometimes humming as he reheats the soup, sometimes sitting on the floor beside the couch with a blanket draped over both of them.
But always here.
Aizawa wakes again close to evening, the room dim, golden with sunset. Hizashi is sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, head resting back against the couch, reading. His hair is down again, messy but clean, still damp from a shower.
Aizawa watches him for a moment.
He shouldn’t stare. He knows he shouldn’t. But exhaustion makes him honest, and the sight of Hizashi,calm, comfortable, humming softly under his breath,is something he can’t look away from.
“Shouta?” Hizashi says without looking up. “You awake again?”
“…Yeah.”
Hizashi sets the tablet aside instantly and shifts closer. “Headache?”
Aizawa shakes his head. “No. Just… thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime,” Hizashi teases gently. “Let me guess,you’re worrying about this morning.”
Aizawa hesitates. “Some of it.”
“And the rest?”
Aizawa feels his pulse quicken. His mouth goes dry.
Hizashi tilts his head, patient, curious, so open it makes Aizawa’s chest ache.
Slowly, Aizawa pushes himself upright on the couch. Hizashi moves to help, but Aizawa stops him with a small shake of his head. He has to do this himself.
“Hizashi,” he begins. His voice is quiet but steady. “About what you said earlier.”
Hizashi freezes, breath catching. “You don’t have to,”
“I want to.”
Hizashi swallows.
Aizawa looks down at his hands, fingers twisting in the blanket. He hates feeling exposed, but he forces himself to continue.
“I’m not good at emotions. Or… reading them. Or showing them.” His voice falters. “So when you told me how you felt, I didn’t know what to do.”
Hizashi nods slowly, carefully. “That’s okay.”
“It scared me,” Aizawa admits, barely audible. “Not because it was unwanted. But because it wasn’t.”
Hizashi stares at him, stunned silent.
Aizawa’s cheeks warm. “I care about you. More than I understand. More than I’m used to.” His breath shakes slightly. “When you said you loved me… something in my chest just… loosened.”
“Shouta,”
Aizawa forces himself to meet Hizashi’s eyes.
“I don’t know how to love the way people usually do,” he whispers. “But I know I want you here. I know I feel better when you’re near me. I know I trust you with things I’ve never let anyone see.”
Hizashi’s eyes are shimmering now. “Shouta,are you saying,?”
Aizawa nods once, small but sincere. “I… care for you. Deeply.”
Hizashi’s breath escapes him in a shaky, trembling laugh of pure relief.
But Aizawa isn’t done.
He leans forward, resting his forehead lightly against Hizashi’s shoulder. “I’m tired. I’m sick. I’m still overwhelmed. But I wanted you to know before I fall asleep again.”
Hizashi presses a hand gently to the back of Aizawa’s head. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For trusting me with that.”
Aizawa hums softly.
“But Shouta,” Hizashi adds, voice barely a breath, “that sounded a lot like a confession.”
Aizawa’s ears go warm. “…Maybe it was.”
Hizashi laughs under his breath, disbelieving and delighted. “You’re going to kill me.”
Aizawa leans a little closer, his voice low. “Not before I do this.”
Hizashi blinks. “Do wh,”
Aizawa, exhausted and halfway into sleep again, brushes his lips gently,hesitantly, almost shyly,against Hizashi’s cheek.
It’s barely a kiss. A ghost of one. But it steals the air from Hizashi’s lungs.
“…Shouta?” Hizashi whispers, voice cracking.
Aizawa’s eyes are already closed, head leaning heavily against Hizashi’s shoulder. “Was aiming… for your mouth,” he mumbles, slurring with sleep. “Missed.”
Hizashi’s heart just about stops.
He cups Aizawa’s cheek carefully, turning his face toward him.
“Here,” Hizashi says softly. “Try again.”
Aizawa… doesn’t quite manage. He leans in, drowsy and unfocused, and their lips meet in the most clumsy, soft, half-asleep kiss imaginable.
It lasts a second. Maybe two.
But it’s enough to set something warm and bright alight in both of them.
Aizawa slumps immediately after, completely asleep, breathing even and trusting.
Hizashi catches him, easing him back onto the couch, brushing hair away from his forehead with trembling fingers.
He kisses Aizawa’s temple,light, reverent. “I love you,” he whispers. “And I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Aizawa, barely conscious, murmurs, “Good.”
And Hizashi smiles like someone who just found everything he’s been waiting for.
Aizawa wakes slowly.
Not groggy like before.
Not fever-dazed or shaking.
Just… tired. But clear.
The first thing he registers is warmth.
A blanket tucked around him.
A glass of water waiting at the table.
And Hizashi, asleep at the edge of the couch, head resting on his crossed arms, right beside Aizawa’s hip.
His hair is falling everywhere.
He looks uncomfortable.
He looks seriously loyal.
Aizawa’s chest tightens.
He remembers pieces of last night,
Hizashi’s hand on his cheek,
the confession,
the warmth of his touch,
the soft kiss he had missed,
and the clumsy one he’d managed before sleep dragged him under.
Aizawa’s face warms instantly.
He tries to sit up quietly, but Hizashi stirs, blinking awake. His eyes are warm in the morning light, softer than Aizawa has ever seen them.
“Mornin’,” Hizashi murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “How’s the patient?”
Aizawa looks at him for a long moment.
Then:
“…Thank you,” he says quietly. “For staying.”
Hizashi rubs his eyes with a little smile. “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”
Aizawa hesitates.
There’s something inside him,soft, new, unfamiliar,wanting to reach out, to bridge the space between them. He doesn’t know how to do it naturally, so he settles for something small:
He shifts closer.
Hizashi notices instantly, breath catching the way it always does when he pretends he isn’t hopeful.
Aizawa looks down at his hands. “I remember… most of last night,” he admits.
Hizashi’s eyes widen. Panic flickers across his face. “Oh. Oh no. Including the part where you,uh,kissed my cheek because you were so out of it you could’ve missed a building?”
Aizawa blushes hard. “…Yes.”
“And the part where you didn’t miss?”
Aizawa’s blush deepens. “Yes.”
Hizashi, flustered, babbles, “Just for the record, I wasn’t expecting,”
“Hizashi.”
It’s quiet.
Soft.
Steady.
Hizashi freezes.
Aizawa almost never says his first name. Not unless he’s in pain, or serious, or…
…or trying to say something important.
Hizashi’s eyes lift to meet his,bright, stunned, waiting.
Aizawa’s voice lowers. “I meant it.”
Hizashi’s breath hitches. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
Aizawa reaches out,hesitant, awkward,and touches Hizashi’s cheek with the back of his fingers. It’s clumsy and shy and earnest, and it makes Hizashi go perfectly still.
“I care about you,” Aizawa says. “Not because you take care of me. Not because you’re loud. Not because you fill the room.” His thumb brushes Hizashi’s jaw. “But because you’re you.”
Hizashi’s eyes shimmer.
“Shouta,” he whispers, voice breaking.
Aizawa takes a slow breath. His pulse thrums loud in his ears. “And I want to try this. I want to try… us. If you still want that.”
Hizashi doesn’t answer with words.
He moves closer but stops just short,giving Aizawa space to pull away if he needs it.
Aizawa doesn’t.
He tilts his chin up just slightly, gaze flicking down to Hizashi’s lips.
It’s all the permission Mic needs.
The kiss is soft at first,gentler than the half-asleep one, slower, careful, like Hizashi is afraid Aizawa might break if he presses too hard.
Aizawa’s breath shudders. His hand slides from Hizashi’s cheek to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. He pulls him closer, deepening the kiss with quiet certainty.
Hizashi makes a small, helpless sound,half laughter, half relief,and cups Aizawa’s jaw with warm hands.
They separate only when breathing becomes necessary.
Aizawa leans his forehead against Hizashi’s, eyes half-lidded. “Hizashi…”
Hizashi swallows, trying not to melt. “Yeah?”
Aizawa’s voice drops, rough with emotion. “Stay.”
Hizashi brushes a thumb along his cheekbone. “Always.”
Aizawa closes his eyes. His hand drifts to Hizashi’s chest, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his shirt.
“And… come to bed with me,” he adds softly. “Just to sleep.”
Hizashi goes red to the tips of his ears. “Y-yeah. Absolutely. Yes. Bed. Sleeping. With you. I can do that.”
Aizawa cracks the faintest smile,the real kind, tired but genuine.
And for the first time in a long time, he feels safe enough to let someone hold him through the morning light.