Chapter Text
Mic trudged up the staircase to his apartment building, a bandaged hand cradling his injured side. The wet leather of his pants creaked as he finally reached his floor and his boots squeaked as he paused as the landing, looking down his hallway drearily. He was exhausted, up down and all around. It's had been a long day; a draining, grueling, exhausting day.
He started towards his door, the hand not clutching the bloody gash on his waist fumbling in his pockets for his keys. They clattered to the floor with the sound of metal on concrete, a metallic jingle he would've brushed off if not for the events that had taken place that day. He leaned his head against the door with a thud, ignoring the pain in his legs and his hips and his waist and the fact blood was dripping down his side.
He was so, so, so tired today. His glasses smushed uncomfortably against his face; they were broken and could probably fall apart if he put anymore pressure on them, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He was so tired. The students had been preparing for midterms and they were all stressed—understandably so, he was the same when he was their age.
The staff room had been comfortably calm, filled with the sound of idle chatter and clacking of keyboards, the sound of the espresso machine and pens against paper. The silence was usually filled by him or Nemuri, both if they were feeling especially good that day— which was everyday, make no mistake. But, these last few days had been rough, school-wise and hero-wise. The staff was tired, the students were tired, hell, even he was tired, and that was a difficult feat. Or better put, he was off of his medication, which was making him tired. Something something about the manufacturing company being corrupt.
But, it was no big deal; it was nothing he couldn't handle, he's dealt with worse before! So he went into patrol thinking it would be good for him to get out any manic energy that could potentially build up, even though he knew he couldn't stop it if even if he knew his episodes. He went into patrol. He did. And then he saw Aizawa and excitedly walked with him, chatting away as they scanned the areas for any potential trouble or threat in the night. Shota was more of a night hero, but he still could catch up to him when their schedules aligned!
He was delighted to be near a friend after a few hard, stressful days at school, and Nemuri was at home already since her agency let her off early.
Hizashi sighed, shaky and uneven, and reached down to pick up his keys.
He winced, his back ached and his side flared in pain as he picked them up. Shit, that was a bad idea. His gloves were caked in grime and felt too tight against his palm, his finger fumbling for his key and twisting it in the lock.
The cool air of his apartment rushed over him, the smell of sickly sweet lemons and dry smoke wafting from his kitchen. He burned his toast this morning, that might be the cause of the smell. He had lemon muffins in his fridge. The sounded good right now. Really good. Yamada toed off his shoes and shut the door behind him with increasingly clumsy movements.
The kitchen was clean save for the plate in the sink and a bottle of… whiskey on his counter. He felt the small, warm body of his cat brush against his ankle, trilling against his foot. His shoulders sagged as Puddles jumped up on the counter and headbutted his hand, scratching behind her ears and patting her head as she meowed at him.
"Hi Puddles," He cooed. "Where's Muffin? Is he hiding again?" She meowed in response, tailing twirling around his wrist and hopping down from the counter and scampering down the hall. His eyes gravitated towards the whiskey again. He didn't need a drink at all, he just needed a shower. The ache in his side was numb now, mild but uncomfortable. That wasn't a good sign.
He dragged his feet to his bathroom, rifling through his emergency kit to get what he needed. Antiseptic, alcohol, gauze, bandages. He let his jacket drop to the floor and shucked off his shirt. The same things as always. He sat on the side of his bathtub and turned on the water. His hearing aids gave back interference from the noise. He grabbed a rag and stuffed it in his mouth, gritting his teeth as he soaked a cotton pad with antiseptic and pressed it to the wound.
His vision was starting to blur, maybe from the pain or the exhaustion. He wasn't sure. Lately he'd been thinking about Aizawa and how he dealt with this stuff so often; he could really use his help! The guy had always been distant and almost abrasive, but that was just apart of him. He didn't mean to hurt people with his words or brush them off, it was just a byproduct of his personality.
Today, Aizawa had enough of Hizashi's attitude, his sunny demeanor and attempts to brighten the mood with too much energy— energy he didn't have— had gotten on his last nerve and he snapped at him. A villain had caught him off guard, slashing his side and made him stumble, which forced Aizawa to capture with his scarf and with a little too much force, knock him to the ground. It was clear there was built up anger, and Aizawa didn't even bother to call for backup, just dropped him off at the police precinct and dragged Mic to the side to properly scold him.
"You couldn't shut your mouth for a second and it nearly cost you," Eraserhead had snarled. "Does it never cross your mind to try to pay attention, to do more than run your mouth and help?!"
Yamada was speechless for once— ironic— mouth opening and closing as one of his longest friends berated him in a fit of anger. It was because he was scared, Yamada told himself. He didn't want to lose him. He was yelling because he didn't know how else to communicate. Hizashi could understand that.
He yelled, he screamed, he shut down, he put on a brave face and pushed down anything that could hurt him. Shota just gave out tough love. It was just how he showed affection. How he showed he cared. But when was the last time he actually said it out loud? The gentleness, the empathy, the man behind the abrasive mask the only person to ever see that side was dead, and had been dead for years. And Aizawa couldn’t move on from it.
Hizashi chalked it up to stress, the rise in crime in the night and the pressure of being a hometown teacher. But how long did he have to endure his own friend's callousness? Without saying anything? Aizawa's temper had bubbled over today, not like it was his fault, Hizashi had failed at being a good hero today.
How long could he make excuses for him? He's been doing this for 13 years, he needed to get a grip.
It didn’t matter.
Fixing himself up was easy. He's done it a hundred times by himself. It was easier to do it by himself. It always was, wasn't Yamada?
He was done before it even registered. He was too tired to eat. He was dizzy, but maybe that was from the blood loss. He stumbled into his room, hair still disgusting from not washing it. It was bound to be greasy and stiff and full of grime by tomorrow and the thought made his stomach ache; he was too tired to wake up and wash it tomorrow. He was too tired to even do it now. Tired. Tired. Tired. Always tired.
He shucked off his pants and landed in a heap on his bed, curled uncomfortably on the edge. He didn't feel like washing his sheets, or showering, so if he made himself as small as possible he could maybe spare himself the time wasted.
He was tired. But it all went away when he was in bed. He sighed and pulled out his phone.
4:36AM.
And he had to be up in an hour.
…
He was going to call off of work. Report sick to UA, report injured to his agency, turn off his phone and die sleep for as long as he wanted. He needed a break. Maybe permanently for a good, long while.
He shot a quick text to Nezu, or was it Kayama? He didn't have his glasses on, but he doesn't remember taking them off. No big deal. Or, he didn't care enough about it at the moment. He was so drained. Tired. He didn't remember taking off his hearing aids, nor did he remember his cats jumping onto his bed and curling up next to him, purring loudly. Their vibrations told him they were more than content. He didnt remember opening his messages and staring blankly at Aizawa's chats.
The fuzzy glow of his phone revealed blue messages, all of his texts unanswered, hardly even a reaction to his existence. It wasn't like Aizawa talked to him outside of work and the occasional conversation about how he was doing—the one thing he held on to with this friendship, like a measly rope that had rubbed his palms raw trying to grab him, or maybe trying to climb a tree that had already been cut down. Neither made sense in his muddled mind and he didn't try to make them either.
He felt his eyes slip closed with a sigh, his hand going limp. It was dark and slightly uncomfortable, but it made him savor the comfort he did get. The feeling was familiar but he didn't dwell on it.
He was passed out before it hit 5:00.