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"Shota—!"
The shout rang through the silence of their apartment, shaking thin walls with a near dangerous volume. His breath came quickly, chest aching as his lungs tightened, as his heart thundered with a panic driven adrenaline he feared he'd never leave behind.
"Hizashi—" Shota's voice was soft, not attempting to speak over the ring in his own ears, gaze darting from the hearing aids on the nightstand, to his husbands shadowed face. He shifted, hand pressing to the small of his husband's back as he leaned forward to attempt to get his attention.
It took a moment longer than he would have liked, for Hizashi's gaze to fall on his face. For the other to process, through the haze of nightmare-induced panic, what was reality in the moment.
"Shota—" The name came with a sob, tears that had welled in panic-blown eyes already slipping down his cheeks as Hizashi's shaking hand came to grip onto the other, clinging like a frightened child.
Blood splattered across the dirt, Shota's body twisted, still. Terrifyingly still.
His eyes squeezed closed, tighter, fingers of the hand not clinging to Shota's shirt curling through his own hair, grip tightening near painfully as he tried to force away the images that kept flashing in his mind.
"Stop, stop, you can't leave me, Shota—"
His voice cracked, wavered with breathless sobs that shook his body, left him trembling as he curled closer to Shota, closer to the warmth of his chest, as he struggled to focus on the warmth, the living reality of the now.
Black hair matted with the same crimson that dripped down his face, that pooled beneath him.
The bedside lamp flickered to life before Shota shifted, moving to lift the hero's face in his hands, softly wiping tears as he forced the other to look at him, forced him to process just a little bit more.
"Hey, Mic, look at me." The words weren't heard - he knew that much - but long ago Hizashi had told him to talk. Even when he couldn't hear him. Even when he wasn't calm enough to read his lips.
It was a long moment of nothing. Of wide eyes staring wildly into Shota's one, of Hizashi's breath coming in pained gasps as he fought to focus. To remember.
Shota's here, Shota's alive, Shota's here
He jolted, heart jumping near painfully at the cool metal of his glasses as his husband carefully slipped them into place, pausing to let Hizashi process before he let his hands move to softly hold his cheeks again.
Warm, calloused, alive.
He took a breath, shaky, blinking hard as his vision finally was able to focus.
"Its okay. I'm here." Shota spoke softly, slowly, giving time for Hizashi to follow each movement of his lips. To trace each word as they were spoken. "I'm here. We're safe. Its okay."
His thumb moved to clean away another tear from his beloved's cheek, watching as realization overtook panic, as the tension slowly began to fade from the hero's posture. His eyes were trained on his lips, watching each word as it was formed.
It was only once the other could finally nod, could acknowledge the words his husband was whispering, that Shota shifted to softly pull blond strands free from Hizashi's grasp, softly pressing his lips to scarred fingers before lifting his gaze again, making sure his lips were once again in view.
"I'll never leave you."
Still spoken softly, slowly, giving time for each word to clearly form on his lips before beginning the next — he wanted to be as clear as possible.
Once upon a time, that couldn't be a promise. It wasn't long ago that every day felt like another chance for them to leave one another. And perhaps, even now, he knew there was always a chance. But if he could promise one thing, it was that he would always do his best to come home.
Hizashi's fingers curled into his shirt again, breath shaking as he struggled to find his tongue, to find his voice through the grip of panic that still sat like lead in his throat.
"Promise..?"
It was almost whispered, hoarse in an active attempt to temper his volume, but the word still brought a soft smile to Shota's lips, curling across his features without hesitation.
"Promise."
Hizashi crumpled, curling into Shota's chest, body laying heavily against the curve of the other's own. Gentle fingers carded through his hair, softly, tracing the long strands of blond, pressing them off of his sweat-soaked neck.
—
For the longest while, they just sat there. Shota breathing, letting his partner feel the rise and fall of his chest, the way his heart vibrated with each beat. Hizashi found himself matching his breathing to Shota's own, following the rise and fall of the other's chest until he could almost think straight again.
Hizashi was the first to shift away, but he had to be — Shota wasn't going to pull away when his husband needed him. His eyes were red from crying, cheeks flushed and stained with tears and snot, as he looked up at the other, lifting his hands.
"Water."
"Okay."
The words were signed calmly between the two before Shota shifted, moving to grab his crutch from where it leaned against the bedside, watching from the corner of his eye as Hizashi shifted to grab his hearing aids.
He moved to stand, bracing himself against the wall as he adjusted the crutch and found his balance, waiting a beat before speaking to ensure the other's aids were in place.
"You don't have to wear—"
"I want to hear you right now."
It had always been something Shota harped on, insisting that Hizashi didn't have to wear his hearing aids, insisting that he didn't mind the combination of lip-reading and JSL that had become their normal within the walls of their home. While the adjustment of Shota's partial blindness had changed some things, the other man had always been insistent that Hizashi not feel pressured to change their routine.
But right now, it wasn't about that.
The mattress creaked as Hizashi shifted off of it, bare feet sliding across the cool floor as he followed his husband to the kitchen, refusing to let the other man leave his sight, even for a moment.
"Plus, I have to hear if someone is hunting me." The attempt at making Shota laugh was hindered by his still-shaking voice, but the sight of his beloved scooping one of their cats off of the floor still brought a smile to his concern-creased face.
"Sota is never the one hunting you, don't frame him like that." He shifted to lean a hip against the counter, reaching to retrieve two glasses, brushing aside a second cat that had… somehow taken residence in the cabinet.
As if agreeing, the cat in Hizashi's arms meowed, nestling into his chest as Hizashi hadn't caused the apartment walls to shake from accidental quirk use not-so-long ago.
"Sota tries, he's just bad at it."
He shifted, moving to nuzzle against Shota's shoulder, smearing half-dried tears into the already dampened fabric of his pajamas.
"I'm sorry, by the way, I—"
"— Hizashi." Shota's voice was soft, but firm, almost scolding. It was a gentle familiarity, a warmth that he had grown accustomed to ages ago. "Nightmares happen, it's okay. We both-"
His nose wrinkled, gaze dropping to the bundle of fur in his arms, teeth catching his own lip.
"You don't break windows when you have nightmares, Shota."
The words hung between them for a beat, dispersed by the breath that passed Aizawa's lips as he shifted, leaning fully against the countertop, moving to pull Hizashi to his chest once again — not a question, a silent demand.
"Your quirk doesn't mean you have to apologize for nightmares, 'Zashi." His voice was soft, even, the words murmured into the other man's hair as he held him.
Silence lingered for a moment, Hizashi searching for a response while Shota moved to lower Sota to the floor, listening as he darted into the shadows, chasing one of his siblings.
"Come on." His lips brushed across the hero's hair again as he shifted, snagging his crutch to re-right himself. "Order food, and we can watch that American show you've been wanting to show me."
Sometimes, talking about things was harder. Sometimes, the moment needed company more than comfort. Companionship, more than answers. Perhaps it was another folly of hero society, that neither of them talked as often as they should — but Shota counted it as a benefit that, at the very least, they understood one another.