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It starts and ends with a pop.
The human body should not be able to make a noise that loud, but Hizashi has always, always been an outlier in that regard. Why should his knee be any different? Stupid, traitorous knee.
It's five thirty in the morning, he's just gotten home from the studio, and the sound emanating from his knee sends a handful of early birds in a nearby tree fleeing from their perches.
The good news is that nobody else appears to be around. The bad news is that nobody else appears to be around. Because he can't get up.
Pretty much everyone has told him that his thirties are where it all starts falling apart. He just didn't expect to blow out his knee doing something as simple as getting out of his car.
His left leg gives out immediately with the pop, but he manages to catch himself on the door frame before he completely wipes out on the pavement.
He tests it gingerly. It doesn't hurt (not yet at least), but it absolutely refuses to bear weight. Any form of stability in his left leg is completely gone. Goddammit.
He sits back down in the driver's seat and weighs his options. If he calls Shouta at five thirty in the morning, he might kill him. But on the other hand, it's been a long night at the studio, and it's a long way back up to the apartment to be hopping on one leg. Or crawling.
He sucks it up and calls his husband.
At five thirty on a Saturday morning, Shouta is usually dead to the world asleep, so it takes a few rings before he picks up. The greeting Hizashi gets doesn't even qualify as words, it's just a monosyllabic grunt.
"Heyyyyyy, so could you come down here for a sec?" he says.
There's a pause while Shouta's brain comes online. "What did you do."
Not a question. Just the instant (and correct) conclusion that Hizashi has done something stupid enough to require assistance, but not severe enough to require an ambulance.
"I'll show you when you get down here," he replies. "Bring the crutches."
It takes Shouta a few minutes to drag his ass out of bed and come downstairs.
He feels a little bad for making Shouta put shoes on this early in the morning (shoes are the natural enemy of the prosthetic leg after all), but he doesn't feel too bad—Shouta currently has two functional legs to Hizashi's one.
The front door to the faculty dorms slams open, and Shouta backs through it, arms laden with The Crutches He Only Uses When He Absolutely Has To. He stalks towards the car and leans over the open door of the Mustang to assess the damage.
"Remember how my knees are a ticking time bomb?" he asks, rhetorically.
The furrow between Shouta's eyebrows deepens. "Which one."
"The left," he replies. "We have the complete set now."
Shouta sets the crutches against the hood and comes to squat down in front of Hizashi. He prods at the leather-clad knee, and Hizashi sucks in a gasp. It's already starting to get tender.
"It's really swollen already," Shouta observes. "Can you move it?"
"Yeah, but I can't put any weight on it. There was a big pop."
The canyon between Shouta's eyebrows digs itself a little deeper. "Torn ligament," he deduces.
"Probably."
"Do you want to go to Recovery Girl?" Shouta asks.
"At five thirty on Saturday morning? I'd rather live, thanks."
"And you didn't think I would kill you for the same reason?"
"You're contractually obligated not to," he replies. One of the many perks of marriage.
Shouta's lips curl up at the edges. "If you wait, you know she'll lecture you for not coming in sooner."
"Then at least I'll have had a good night's sleep under my belt," he replies. He holds his hands out, and Shouta helps pull him out of the Mustang. There's an awkward hop-step to get out of the way of the door, and then another hop-step back to get in reach of the crutches.
"What did you even do?" Shouta asks again, as Hizashi wrangles his arms through the cuffs.
"I was getting out of the car and must have pivoted weird. That's literally it. Stupid fucking old man knees."
There's a twist to Shouta's lips that suggests he's making a valiant effort to not laugh at Hizashi, which he appreciates. He limits his commentary to a deadpan "That's unfortunate," before getting on with his life.
It takes twice as long to get upstairs as it normally does, but at least he has Shouta to hold all the doors open for him. When they get inside their apartment, Shouta insists on helping with his boots as well.
Say what you will about Shouta being crazy enough to cut his own leg off—Hizashi is bizarrely thankful for it now, if only for it having given him a certain clairvoyance in knowing the exact right way to help.
He manages to strip off his own gear above the waist without assistance. But his pants.
Sweet Jesus, the pants.
Shouta has squatted down again, inspecting the increasingly swollen knee as it bulges against the tight leather.
"We can try," Shouta suggests diplomatically, "but it will be quicker and less painful if I just cut them off. Your choice."
"Let's try the normal way first and go from there," he decides.
He lives to regret that decision.
He gets them down as far as his knees, but predictably, the left pant leg gets stuck over his knee. They can't get the right leg off because he still can't bear weight on his left leg. Any amount of prodding at the left knee to coax the fabric over is met with a throb of pain.
"Baby powder?" he suggests.
"No."
"Cooking oil?"
"No."
"Lube??"
Shouta doesn't even dignify that one with a response, he just opens the vanity drawer and extracts the tiny scissors Hizashi uses to trim his moustache.
"You are not cutting my pants off with those."
"It's this or my tanto," Shouta says.
"NO!" he protests. "You can't solve all your problems by cutting them off with a short sword!"
Shouta shrugs, because he can at least try.
"There are real scissors in the first aid kit, just use those."
"Suit yourself," Shouta says, before opening the drawer designated for all their first aid stuff, and pulling out the very normal pair of scissors that he doesn't even have to dig very far to find. Asshole.
Shouta makes quick work slicing up the pants, finally freeing Hizashi from his leather prison. Thankfully, he does not brag about his initial suggestion being the correct one, he just squats down to frown at Hizashi's knee again.
"What's the verdict, doc?" he asks. Rhetorical question again—his knee is already grapefruit-sized. The only answer is 'bad'.
"Compression, ice, anti-inflammatories, bed," Shouta decrees. "I'll call Recovery Girl when it's business hours, you're going first thing when you wake up."
He salutes flippantly. "You got it, boss."
Shouta wraps his knee, then stalks out to the kitchen to grab an ice pack while Hizashi rummages through the cabinet for ibuprofen.
He awkwardly goes through the motions of his bedtime routine, made infinitely more difficult whilst trying to balance on one leg. Shouta returns a few minutes later with the ice pack and a clean change of clothes.
It's another long slog over to the bedroom, and he gratefully accepts Shouta's assistance with getting into bed. Sitting down is a struggle. Getting his leg onto the bed is another struggle. Lying down without jostling anything is a third struggle. He lets Shouta gently manhandle him, keeping his leg as stable as possible.
And once Hizashi is safely tucked in, he listens to Shouta putter around, getting ready for bed for the second time. Plugging Hizashi's phone in. Filling his water glass and setting out more ibuprofen beside it. Shutting off the light. Before finally, he removes his prosthetic leg and climbs under the covers beside him. Alllll the way on the other side of the bed.
"What, no cuddles?" he whines.
"I don't want to accidentally hurt you," Shouta replies.
The room is dark, but he can't help but pout. "But have you considered—the healing power of snuggles?"
"No."
"It works for cats," he argues.
"That's because the low frequency vibration of their purrs has therapeutic benefits," Shouta explains. "I can't purr."
"Not with that attitude."
A resigned sigh comes from the other side of the bed. The mattress shifts, and Shouta's arm drapes over his chest.
"Happy now?"
His knee may be fucked, but he knows his beloved husband has his back. Things could be better, but they could be a whole lot worse, and with that, he drifts off to sleep.
He wakes up to the tune of his leg throbbing.
He fumbles for his glasses first, and the ibuprofen second. Laying still is bad. Moving is worse. The bed beside him is empty, but his moans of anguish summon Shouta expeditiously.
"Old lady is on standby," Shouta announces in lieu of a 'good morning'. "She said she'd make a house call for you, but just this once."
"How nice of her."
Recovery Girl doesn't normally see patients outside of her office (or the field hospital du jour on exam days), but it's a Saturday, so she must be making an exception since they're both still at home. Or maybe she's just taken pity on Hizashi and doesn't want to subject him to the cruel and unusual punishment of a trek across campus on crutches. Or maybe it's some secret third thing, who could possibly say.
"Give me ten minutes," Hizashi grumbles.
Shouta nods, and moves wordlessly to help Hizashi out of bed.
God, the pain is already so much worse than it was last night. Or rather this morning. Time is an illusion when it comes to his late night shows.
He gingerly makes the hike over to the bathroom to relieve himself and brush his teeth so he doesn't assassinate Recovery Girl with his morning breath. He starts heading for the living room once he's finished, but Shouta steers him back towards the bedroom.
"You'll be more comfortable in bed once she's had her way with you," Shouta suggests.
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Shouta rolls his eye. "You know what I mean."
He's only barely settled back in bed when there's a knock at the front door, and Shouta leaves to let Recovery Girl in.
She takes one look at the bulging lump of flesh that used to be his knee and whistles as though she's impressed.
"How'd you manage this one?" she asks.
"I shit you not—I was getting out of the car and must have pivoted weird on it."
"Getting old," she remarks, as she starts manipulating his leg this way and that.
"You would know!" he shoots back.
She wobbles his shin up and down a bit. It's probably not supposed to move like that. "Any noise when it went?"
"Oh yeah, biiiiig pop. Surprised it didn't wake up the whole campus."
She sets his leg back down and gives him a hard candy from her pocket as a reward. "All signs point to a ruptured ACL, but best if you get an MRI to be sure," she says. "If it's fully torn, I can't heal it until it's re-attached, you'll need surgery for that."
He's suddenly grateful that Shouta insisted on him going back to bed, because he may faint like a Victorian-era maiden. Ruptured! MRI!! Surgery!!!! God, he could be out of commission for weeks!
"How soon can you get him in for an MRI?" Shouta asks. Blessed, level-headed Shouta. Hizashi would be cooked without him.
"I'll see if I can call in a favour," she replies.
"Can you at least do something for the swelling?" Shouta adds. "I had to cut his pants off."
"I suppose," she says.
She leans in for the smooch. "Consider this a sign from the universe that this is the end of your Tight Pants Era."
His eyelids are instantly heavy. "In. Your. Dreams."
The next time, he wakes up to the smell of curry.
When he throws back the covers, he can see the swelling has subsided quite a bit. He still can't bear weight on it, but at least the pain has calmed down a bit too.
Shouta pops his head in. "I made lunch. If you're up for it."
On cue, his stomach gurgles. He hasn't had anything to eat since dinner last night.
"Hell yes."
Shouta is neither an ambitious nor a creative cook, but he can at least manage the basics. Curry is a hard one to fuck up. He returns a few minutes later with a steaming plate and a tray table.
"Luncheon for one?" he inquires.
"It's three o'clock," Shouta replies, and Jesus he overslept. "I ate a few hours ago."
Regardless, Shouta still plops onto the bed beside him and kicks his feet up. "Recovery Girl found you an MRI appointment tonight," he continues. "Eleven thirty. Vlad can take you."
He'd rather crawl to the local hospital than have Vlad King know he hurt himself getting out of his car.
"Hey, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to try driving my car," he pitches. "Limited-time offer!"
Shouta laughs. "If you want me to drive, you're gonna have bigger problems than a torn ACL."
"Ruptured," he corrects, and then immediately gets sad about it. "Fucking hell Shouta, I'm gonna need surgery."
Unshed tears sting at his eyes. A calloused hand slides over his own and squeezes. Oh no, now he's crying for real.
"Stupid," he chokes out.
"It's not stupid," Shouta murmurs. "It's just…bad luck."
"Horrible luck."
He sets his glasses aside and jams the heels of his palms into his eyes.
Shouta's palm slides onto his back, a comforting weight while Hizashi has his stupid little cry.
"You should eat," Shouta suggests, once Hizashi has run out of tears and is feeling sufficiently foolish about the whole thing. "Things will feel a little less hopeless on a full stomach."
He picks the spoon up again and takes a bite of curry. The curry lovingly cooked for him by his caring husband. His husband who has gone through the whole 'fucked up leg' rigamarole once before, and knows exactly how shitty this is.
He briefly reconsiders the 'done with crying' thing, but his face already feels hot and gross, and he cannot possibly imagine it getting hotter or grosser.
"How did you live like this?" he asks around a mouthful of curry. "This sucks. Hardcore."
Shouta's mouth quirks up at the corner. "It does," he agrees. "It's…harder to deal with when you can't see the finish line. When you have an end goal in sight and a timeline to get there, you can focus on making it happen instead of how much everything sucks."
He chews thoughtfully. It is still pretty fresh…
"It's fine to wallow for a little bit," Shouta continues. "When it's time to stop…you'll know."
It's a promise as much as it is a threat.
"Oh no," he says, the implications sinking in very quickly.
Shouta grins. "Oh yes," he replies. "You've taken such good care of me every time I've gotten hurt. It's payback time."
"You monster."
"Bathing. Dressing. Physio. Nutrition. Morale," Shouta rattles off. "You're getting the deluxe package."
"What did I do to deserve this?" he laments.
Shouta slides his arm down his back to squeeze into his side, and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. "You married me."
Their vows had included the time-honoured classic—'in sickness and in health'. Shouta's missing a few bits and bobs, and the body parts he has left have seen better days. Hizashi is more than happy to take care of Shouta on his worst days. He just didn't expect that dedication to have to be turned on him. It almost makes him want to cry again.
"I love you," is what he ends up saying, gently resting his head against Shouta's.
"I love you too," Shouta replies, the easiest thing in the world. "Now eat. You need your strength."
So he eats.