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As it turned out, there was a limit to how much a man could take before the weight of his trauma broke him.
And Shouta Aizawa was discovering that limit.
The Friday night air bit cold against his skin, jacket left abandoned at home—he hadn't even thought to grab it as he stumbled out into the street, bottle still clutched in hand. What would his friends think of him if they could see him now?
Except that was the whole point, wasn't it? The fact that they couldn't see him, because they were gone. Oboro, Nemuri, and Hizashi. All dead.
And Shouta was left to gather the scattered pieces of his half-life, each one broken beyond repair. His leg throbbed at the thought as he sank down heavily, the cold night moisture of grass seeping through his sweatpants.
Cold concrete pressed against his back through his shirt, the carved engravings of Hizashi's name etching themselves into his skin.
He took another long pull from the bottle, the alcohol burning its way down his throat—a familiar punishment he'd grown accustomed to in the months following the war. The stars above blurred through unshed tears, indifferent witnesses to his self-destruction.
“You'd have my head for this,” Shouta murmured into the graveyard's silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you knew I was drinking myself into the ground. All three of you would.”
Shouta huffed quietly, tipping his head back against the cold stone.
“But you don't really get to judge me, do you? Because you left me here alone. I can't be held responsible for what comes after that.”
The silence that answered him was deafening, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the rustle of wind through dead leaves. He pressed the bottle to his lips again, seeking the numbness that had become his only companion. His only relief. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Hizashi's told him he was being an idiot—but even that was fading now, worn down by grief and cheap whiskey.
“You promised me, you bastard. You swore you wouldn't leave—not like Oboro, not like Nem. And you broke that promise,” Shouta's breath hitched, the tears spilling over before he could stop them. “You fucking liar.”
The words felt hollow even as they left his mouth, swallowed up by the night. He knew Hizashi hadn't chosen to die any more than Oboro or Nemuri had. He knew that blaming him was unfair, irrational, nothing more than the desperate anger of a broken man with nowhere else to direct his pain.
But rationality had long since abandoned him the moment he'd watched his best friend's body go still, and he wasn't sure he'd ever get it back.
The worst part was that everyone knew. They all recognised the signs, all stepped on eggshells around him. Like he was breakable, rather than already broken. Or maybe they just didn't want to shatter him any more than he already was.
Ectoplasm had suggested therapy again last week. Shouta had laughed in his face—literally laughed, because what the hell was talking to a stranger supposed to do when the people who actually knew him were six feet under?
The bottle was getting lighter in his hand, almost empty now. He should probably go home before someone found him here, but the thought of returning to that silent apartment made his chest constrict painfully.
So instead he stayed, letting the anger consume him—welcoming it, even, because at least anger was something. A feeling to fill the emptiness that had taken route inside him.
“I hate you. All of you,” Shouta's voice cracked. He stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly as he whirled on the gravestones as if they could argue back. “Why did you have to force yourselves into my life, just to leave me? Why—Why won't you just—Why couldn't you have left me alone?!”
The bottle left his hand before he could think, muscle memory and rage propelling it forward. Glass exploded against Hizashi's headstone, the sound jarring and violent in the graveyard silence. Shards scattered across the grass like stars. Alcohol streaked down the stone, darkening the carved letters of his best friend's name, seeping into the fresh crack that now split the surface.
The sight of it stopped Shouta cold.
Horror crashed over him all at once, sobering and suffocating. He'd chipped the stone. He'd desecrated his best friend's grave.
A sob tore from his chest as he dropped to his knees, hands reaching out with urgency. He gathered the glass shards into his palms, unaware or simply uncaring of the way they bit deep into his skin, drawing blood that mixed with the spilled whiskey. The pain felt deserved. Necessary.
“I'm sorry,” he gasped, the words tumbling out between broken breaths. “I didn't mean to—I'm so sorry, 'Zashi. I'm so sorry.”
His hands trembled as he tried to piece the glass back together, as if somehow reconstructing the bottle could undo the damage he'd caused. But the shards kept slipping through his bloodied fingers, leaving ugly crimson smears across the grass. He was destroying everything he touched, just like he always did.
“Please,” he whispered, voice raw, like he’d been screaming. Maybe he had. “Please come back. I can't—I can't do this without you.”
But the graveyard remained silent, offering no absolution for his sins.