Work Text:
As soon as he's walked through the door of his apartment, it's like all the emotions brimming inside his chest this week -- and for the past few years, really -- toggle on.
Off.
On.
Off.
On, on, on.
Too on.
Like a faulty lightbulb.
Exhilaration flares up in bursts of guilt and shame, Shouta folding onto his knees in a mock-squat over the floor. Fingers closing around his throat leave him wheezing for air, the appendages squeezing. Staccato gasps are drawn out of him, before stopping abruptly, as if they were guitar strings cut.
The thought of a guitar evokes Hizashi's image in his head all over again. Spurring another head of giddy nausea as he retches what remains of his soul onto grey tile. Nothing comes out. He hasn't eaten in days.
Lying in his workbag is the result of Hizashi's time and care and effort. A bento, made especially for him. Rice shaped into a large square, topped off with a homemade omelette shaped into a cat, with slices of duck spread around the delicacy. Capped with what Hizashi had affirmed as a mix of tamarind sauce with orange, all because Shouta had spent more than a second relishing the dish from the last restaurant they'd gone to together, the one that Hizashi picked out for him.
After days of working non-stop at the radio station and patrolling elsewhere in Japan, called away for a hero team up, Hizashi had taken the time to...
He feels ill.
Face paling, he lets himself fall into a seiza, pressing his head to the floor in a bow. Tangling his fingers into his bangs, pulling like it's a lifeline.
It's a good thing he hadn't actually vomited, or else his hair would be used as a makeshift mop. Although, now that the more conscious, more aware part of Shouta not currently brewing in a maelstrom of emotions is allowed to think, there wouldn't be a singular difference in his mood if he had.
Between his hair being soaked in the charming result of his stomach acid, or how he feels at the moment, they're the same picture.
Shouta feels significantly worse now that he's right in the middle of the latter.
He wants out. Wants out of whatever online -- offline -- subscription his traitorous body's subscribed to, wants to click on a link and block the sendee without hassle.
Were the result of his torment not sitting so pliantly in the confines of his bag, shadowed only by the sprawl of paperwork tucked neatly into a binder Hizashi had bought for him, Shouta would've taken the chance to opt out and spend the rest of the day moping. Stewing in something delightful. Wrapped one of the pilling blankets he's got tucked away in his sleeping bag on the colder nights around him, closed himself in. Claustrophobia is a thing of the past; has been since he's escaped his lanky, teenage body, molded himself into someone who barely spares a second glance at being closed in. Dealing with one too many pestering quirks involving illusions or corn mazes, or the god forsaken atypical one-trick quirk where their only gimmick was closing the walls in... it had definitely roused him beyond caring, anymore. Call it exposure therapy.
(How noise became second-place to him, like the sun shining on his sunscreen-kissed skin in rays of heat, after Hizashi had come into his life.
There's a reason he's so pale.)
That settles it. The blankets would be nice.
Carnage to his nervous system, yes. Perhaps. To his nerves, too. Somewhat.
But would it reset him and make him anew? A changed man?
Soothe his jitters?
Not that either, he decides. (Though the last thing could work.)
Whatever the case, whatever he chose, it would have to be something leagues better than this.
He lifts his head up. A small, pitiful noise rings out.
For a moment, Shouta doesn't register it coming from him, before realizing the low rasp is the result of his voice buzzing in his throat, tongue lolling in his mouth uselessly. Unbefitting of any pro hero.
However, as soon as he's jangled the keys out of the lock, trudging into his empty flat, he's no Eraserhead.
Eraserhead would be of sound mind.
Keep a cool head.
Remain dignified and quiet.
He wouldn't let something as incessant and illogical as the build up of his affections render him so obtuse.
But then again, hadn't Eraserhead been so sourly named by Hizashi, too?
Taking eleven years to realize the depth of the pit he dug himself into, in hindsight, might've been subterranean enough of a warning.
A hazard sign flashing neon.
In his last attempt at being honest, Shouta wonders whether he should've brought a ruler to measure how far he'd dropped.
He looks back at the bag.
"Itadakimasu," Shouta murmurs. Maybe he should save it for when he's digging into the food, shoveling the clean display of food into his mouth and soiling Hizashi's labour with his saliva, but he finds he doesn't particularly care.
He should call Hizashi.
Just to thank him for the food, of course.