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If Shouta breathes one step into the ocean that is Hizashi, his legs will take off into the water faster than his mind can even process the idea of 'no'.
A drip, a splash, and then a tumble as black, frizzy hair falls flat and wet and floats not for the fault of a quirk, but a manic, burning glee, body swallowed by sunlight and pure, utter, mossy warmth.
He will drown in acidic and chartreuse and spirals of vibrant lime; tips of his fingers flayed out like mauve funeral masts hung high.
A bruised heart breathing heavy will barely register the stabbing guilt of taking and taking, knowing it's unwise, illogical,
but it's oxygen and it's carbon monoxide and it's, frankly, all he needs in death and in life. His blood wouldn't know the difference even if it mattered.
(It doesn't matter whether Hizashi is Hizashi or Present Mic. As much as Aizawa Shouta would 'love' to admit hating the latter and loving just the former; bringing to light a clear contrast and an obvious conclusion due to their personalities; it is simply too much of a trade, a hard bargain to even dare request.
He loves them both because they mean the world to Hizashi, and loving what Hizashi loves means no difference to him. It's just love.)
A sea of anemone, a coral reef, golden barracuda glaring wildly with slitted pupils and an reminiscent look; he'll collapse deeper and deeper into the orbit and whirlpool of water.
For all that he prides himself on, all logical thought would cease to matter. Matter wouldn't matter; if he were real, if he were unreal, it wouldn't matter, if he were to even get the chance to know what it means to love Hizashi even in unreality.
He would chase after the yellow delusion, the truth, daydream and the lie. The idea and maybe just a bit more.
Even the mere glimpse of a lifetime of genuine love is crueler than the blip of false hope. To fantasize. To entertain it, no less.
(Another one of his dates knock on the door of their shared apartment to pick Hizashi up.
The fantasy tumbles fairly easily.)
So, really,
It's best that he takes in a deep breath. Relicalibrates himself.
It's best that he gives his mind time to think, time to look back on his regrets and future mistakes; a foreseeing sight into a future he's always and never wanted.
And with that, blistered soles retreating from the embrace of the sand,
he finds himself no longer at an impasse, at a stalemate, a crossroads.
It's best, Shouta Aizawa decides, that he keep a life jacket on.