Chapter Text
The week after Shirakumo Oboro’s funeral, Shouta is dragged out of his bed by his ankles and is pushed into attending class again. No one knows better than him that he has to go back to UA and catch up on all of the work that he was sure he was going to drown under, but maybe the suffocation could prove to be a useful distraction from the events of the last month alone.
Thoughts pester him, each step he takes sways more and more with guilt. Whoever came up with the idea that time heals all wounds was a filthy liar, Shouta is sure of it. Unkempt hair became a staple of his mornings. Searching for the energy to make it look semi-decent made Shoutasick to his stomach as he drags his shell of a body out of his bed.
Nausea has also become a staple of his mornings, when he stares at himself in the mirror for a little too long and remembers. Everything looks inherently wrong. Whispers of Oboro’s fingers around Shouta’s wrist don't let go, no matter how hard Shouta tries to pry cold, dead fingers off of his clammy skin.
He half-hopes for a villain with the power to erase memories attacks him on his way to school. Either walking away with no memories or not walking away at all would suffice; Shouta isn't picky.
This is a large part of the job description. Shouta, for years, has known that he puts his life in jeopardy every single time he puts himself in between civilians and heroes. The thought of dying has crossed his mind before, but this time, it makes its presence known, etching deep inside of his bones, a soft call at the passiveness of death. An acceptance that Shouta was capable of wrapping his head around. Now he isn’t too sure if he understands that loss anymore.
With each step, the guilt piles on top of him until his mind is full of dull, gray rocks. This world isn’t kind. Shouta is stupid for ever believing that it is.
Upon his arrival, the classroom grows a little quieter. Shouta can't help it, but his attention is dragged towards Oboro’s seat. It’s not his seat anymore, Shoutan needs to remind himself, but who sits at Oboro’s seat is none other than Hizashi, head down, headphones smoothing out the top part of his hair, and he doesn’t seem to recognize Shouta coming through the door.
All eyes on him and Shouta decides to ignore it. He can only imagine their hushed whispers, tragic stories of heroes who died in battle. Compare them to Oboro, make excuses for his death so they don’t feel bad. His legs grow a mind of their own as he approaches Hizashi and opens his arms, wrapping them around his friend’s torso and pressing his own chest up against Hizashi’s back.
Shouta feels Hizashi jump at his touch, not expecting it, and he tears his bulky headphones off of his ears to pull his attention towards the body using him for support. His shock twists into clear concern.
”Shouta,” whispers Hizashi, soft and warm, just how Shouta remembers it. “Welcome back.”
”I wanna go back home,” Shouta murmurs into Hizashi’s gray blazer. A soft laugh catches through the tense air and a hand, slimmer than Shouta’s, is placed upon his knuckles.
”I’ll walk you home at the end of the day.” The offer is so tempting, Shoutaalmost believes that he doesn’t deserve it.
”Mhm,” he hums, and all of the words are lost on him when he holds Hizashi just a little tighter, afraid to let go. Afraid for the worst, afraid that what happened to Oboro could also happen to Hizashi.
They sit like that until the homeroom teachers arrives. When class starts, Hizashi sits at Oboro’s desk and Shouta sits at his own, side by side, and Shouta wants to hold onto Hizashi until their skin fuses together.
They go through their morning class. It’s as slow and as sluggish as Shouta expects and he falls asleep at his desk. Lunch starts when Hizashi flicks him on the forehead and wakes him up from his nap. When they leave the room, their English teacher makes a comment, clearly directed towards Shouta, how some students are going to continue to fall behind if they don’t try to get their grade up. Shouta thinks about dropping out of UA.
There should be another body next to Shouta, arm around his right shoulder, shouting into his ear, sides pressed together. Hizashi would make a quip and Shouta would scoff before fighting back the urge to laugh. They’d grab their food from the cafeteria, force Nemuri to leave her friend group for a bit, and Oboro would grab Shouta’s wrist, pulling him through the somewhat-empty halls of UA. All four of them would stifle their laughs, avoiding teachers as they ran up the stairs. Make it onto the rooftops, shout and laugh at each other, shove each other, steal each other’s food.
There is nobody next to Shouta. There is no incessant whispering, and there is no Oboro. There is nothing there, except for Hizashi’s quiet humming, staring off into the long lunch line. Shouta’s appetite disappears.
Hizashi twitches when he feels fingers brush against his own. The playful quip he plans on slinging at Shouta in an attempt to make him laugh disappears just as quickly as it did appear, when the fingers that wrap around his own catch his attention.
The first thing Hizashi recognizes about Shouta’s hands is that they’re a little thicker than his own, carved with the intention to fight against villains and protect the civilians. His eyes flicker to Shouta’s, but he seems distracted with his hands interlocked. It feels off, even though it shouldn’t, because Shoutanever initiates physical contact, much less something that makes Hizashi’s heart sputter in his chest like a polygraph.
”You okay?” Hizashi cuts through the silence like a heated knife through butter. The chatter around them seems to grow, the cafeteria stuffy and loud, and it’s everything Shouta despises. Their voices overlap with one another.
It gets louder, and louder, and louder, until Shouta finds himself in the empty hallways of UA. There’s something in his throat that’s preventing him from being able to conjure up words, palms so clammy and disgusting that he wants to rip his school uniform off of his body, and he must be crying, because his face is wet and his skin is all tingly, weird, wired.
“Shouta?”
Through a haze of it all, Shouta can make out the blurry figure in front of him, blonde hair slicked upwards and white, tacky glasses that Shouta always manages to hide. Through a mouth so sickly dry and hot, disgusting bile rising from his stomach and up to his throat. He’s so dizzy he thinks he’s about to fall over.
”Shouta, can you hear me?”
Hands that feel all too familiar grip onto Shouta’s wrist and he can finally recognize something through the blur of tar: a choked sob that escapes his throat and he heaves.
“Breathe, breathe,” a voice rings. His breathing is ragged, hands trembling so violently, and there’s something reminiscent of clouds under his skin that threaten to slice through every artery inside of his body. Nothing belongs to him. Not his brain, not his lungs, not his throat, and not his quirk.
”Shouta, I need you to breathe.”
”I-I’m forgetting his voice, his-his—“
“Shouta, breathe. Just take a few breaths.”
Drool dribbles down from Shouta’s lip, down his chin, and his hands shake as his hold on reality slowly comes down from the skies.
”Shouta, buddy, you okay?”
For a second, Shouta thinks it’s Oboro that’s speaking to him. Oboro is dead. Shouta has to constantly remind himself of that.
“Fuck,” Shoutahisses beneath his huffing. He uses the end of his sleeve to wipe the saliva from his face and he coughs, tongue out, gagging on air. The pressure in the base of his skull feels like his brain is going to explode at how revolting the tears in his eyes feel, or how his sweaty body drags the fabric of his itchy uniform against his skin.
Most of all, Hizashi is leaned down, his grip on Shouta’s wrist so tight that he’s almost capable of cutting off circulation. Shouta frantically looks up and Hizashi is looking right at him- almost through him- eyes trying to find some type of betrayal. Something that ensures that Shouta isn't losing his mind when he realizes that it isn’t Oboro standing in front of him.
”You’re okay,” and the words don’t even sound assuring, but Shoutastill takes them and stores them inside of himself. A reassurance that essentially means nothing. “Hey, hey, you’re okay, Shouta. You’re okay.”
“I wanna go to the roof.” It’s a simple, clear, request, but doubt flickers across Hizashi’s face like a broken light switch and Shouta realizes that maybe Hizashi isn’t ready.
”Yeah, okay, do you want me to grab you anything to eat?”
”I-I feel like throwing up, Hizashi.”
“Oh! Um, yeah, okay, let’s go to the bathroom first.”
Shoutafeels fingers in his hair, delicately pulling it back when he heaves over the toilet, but his empty stomach extrudes nothing but spit. He should not be this fragile. He is not a glass doll; he is not easily shatterable.
Despite Shouta’s convincing arguments, Hizashi holds his hand the entire way up the stairs.
The stairs knock the wind out of Shouta, but the thrill of his heart beating from practically skipping the steps helps him clear his mind from the nasty fog that embeds itself into every wrinkle in his brain. His hold on reality is taut, but it tilts, slips, and sometimes Shoutais chasing after it over and over again. Hizashi’s warm hand gripping Shouta’s gives him a weird sense of clarity; he’s real. Even if it might feel like he is.
The wind catches in his hair when Shouta pushes the door open. The roof is empty, as it always is, the railing tempting. Fresh air collects in his lungs as he breathes in, heavy, and when he exhales, Hizashi slides past him. The door behind Shoutaslams closed as his eyes frantically scan the flat roof, trying to find the outline of a familiar friend, or clouds coloured a pretty shade of sky blue that compliments Shouta’s dark curls he never cares to keep tamed.
Without any other complaints, Shouta approaches Hizashi. He sits down first and presses his back against the box vent, overlooking the city that flows past the forest that surrounds UA. Shouta trails behind, sliding down next to Hizashi with his knees hiked up to his chest. There’s barely any space between them, when Shouta impulsively decides to tangle his fingers in between the gaps of Hizashi’s. The silent understanding that their mutual friend isn’t here anymore grabs at Shouta fiercely, trying to pull his organs from his rib cage and the layers of muscle that remind Shoutahe is pursuing the dream of becoming a hero.
They don’t say anything. Wisps of Hizashi’s steady breathing is all Shouta is capable of following, and his hands are clammy, warm, sort of gross, but Shouta can’t get himself to care right now. Hizashi’s clunky headphones sit around the nape of his neck, quietly playing a song that Shouta can barely hear due to its volume and the sound of wind chiming. Shouta wants nothing more than for the wall he’s currently pressed up against to swallow him whole and give him another chance at being human again. Maybe this time, he can save Oboro.
“C’mere.” Hizashi’s voice also catches in the wind, almost floating over Shouta’s head.
The rest of their lunch is spent with Shouta’s head leaned up against Hizashi’s shoulder. No other words are spoken other than soft whispers, Hizashi asking Shouta if he’s comfortable or if he should adjust. Shouta always says no. Hand in hand, Hizashi traces mindless shapes into the back of Shouta’s hand, trailing his slim fingers up to knuckles, rubbing in between the joints. It’s a quiet plea of tranquility, a query where Shouta asks Hizashi if it’s okay for him to fall to pieces a little more before he has to pick himself back up.
Still, Shouta can’t help but scan the rooftops for the silhouette of a taller boy with fluffy hair and a smile so brilliant that it somehow even brightens Shouta’s day. Somehow, Hizashi catches onto his silent pleas and runs a hand through Shouta’s unkempt hair, slowly untangling some of the knots with his fingers.
He’ll pick himself back up later. Right now, Shouta is content, basking in the warmth of a friend who sees his grief and helps carry the load.
“Do you want to come over after school to study? You didn’t even finish writing your last essay.”
Shoutagroans, dropping his head against his desk in faux annoyance. He doesn’t need to look at Hizashi to know that he’s grinning eye-to-eye. “Don’t remind me.”
In school, they try to act normal, like how they always did. It’s difficult, but they’re trying to manage.
“So? I’m pretty good with English, and I know you need the help!” Hizashi’s smile is so bright, it’s enough to blind Shouta permanently.
“Fine, fine. After school.”
The walk home is quiet, pleasant, and the weather is warming up as the weeks pass, but Hizashi still catches stolen glances and Shouta still intertwines their fingers when they’re alone.
Soft breathing is something Shouta has become accustomed to, when they don’t have very much to say anymore. When words don’t work, Shouta listens to Hizashi’s sentience to make sure he’s okay, that he’s alive and that he isn’t going anywhere. When words do work, they exchange small questions and murmurs, sounds of appreciation and approval, before falling back into a comfortable silence that feels like crashing into bed after a long day of training. Backs of wrists and fingers brush against each other, quietly asking if it’s okay to hold his hand. If being clingy was a crime, Shouta would have been hauled off to Tartarus long ago.
They both pile into Hizashi’s room after grabbing a few snacks from the kitchen. Hizashi’s mom is kind, offering the kids snacks or drinks, but Hizashi hauls Shouta into his room before his mother even thinks of continuing a potential conversation that’s sure to have them glued to the couches for the remainder of Shouta’s time at the Yamada Household.
But Shoutadoesn’t recall the last time he stood in Hizashi’s room without Oboro, and suddenly his chest is tight, taunting him with the old memories of his friend that feel like nothing more than a dream. If Shouta reaches out, maybe he can find the tendrils of his old friend hidden under the carpets.
“We need to go over everything, Shouta. I can’t have you falling behind now.”
Hizashi throws his book bag onto his twin sized mattress, falling back onto it with a comfortable grunt. Deciding against sitting on the floor, Shoutajoins his friend. He falls face front into the mattress instead, a luxury Hizashi is not granted due to his glasses.
They get to studying, notebooks pulled out of binders, skimming through textbooks. It’s quiet for the most part, falling into the common routine they’ve made for themselves. They're both laying on the bed, stomachs down, elbows and arms pressed up against each other as Hizashi furiously writes down some of the material in his notebook. Shoutastill struggles to pay attention when his eyelids feel as heavy as weights.
“Don’t go falling asleep on me, we just started!” Hizashi’s voice booms, a little louder than Shouta would have liked. He jolts awake, the grip on his pencil tightening as he turns to Hizashi with a grimace. Hizashi is lying on his side, his left elbow dug into the mattress and his hand against his palm to keep himself upright. Pieces of hair fall in front of Shouta’s eyes as he blows on them.
“Fuck you,” Shouta mumbles softly, before bringing half of his attention back to the notebook. “M’ not falling asleep that easily.”
“Right, well,” the cadence of his voice is enough for Shouta to raise an eyebrow in curiosity. “Studying can wait. You can sleep if you want.”
“You were hounding me to get back to studying,” Shouta replies blankly.
Hizashi finds it difficult to look for the correct words, his mind searching for what to say without scaring his friend off. “Shouta,” his tone takes on something more serious, something Shouta isn’t very accustomed to. “I know you.”
I know you. That much is enough for Shouta to scrunch his nose up in subtle irritation. He puts his pencil down on his notebook. It rolls off of the page but Shouta finds it in himself not to care. “M’ not tired,” he repeats, doing no favours to convince anyone as he shuffles over and fits his head in between the gap of Hizashi’s chest and the mattress under them both. “I’m not tired, I said I’m not tired.”
All Hizashi can muster up is a smile. “Sure, Shou. Sweet dreams.”
Shouta makes a small noise of approval, hiking his hands against his own chest as he fits himself in between the space. Despite the teasing, being short has its perks. The mattress under him sinks with his weight as he tries to fight against the fogginess, focusing on the warmth of Hizashi’s body against his. Hands rake through his hair, fingers gently digging into his scalp, tugging away the last bits of lucidity he has left inside of him.
Losing a fighting battle becomes a pattern when Shouta dozes off.