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Night had already fallen when Hizashi received the call.
It was one of the rare nights when he wasn’t busy, the only thing occupying him being the movie he was half-paying attention to filling his living room with light and sound. His phone jingled from between the couch cushions, and he glanced at it with disinterest, not expecting anyone to be calling him this late.
But when he read the caller id, his veins turned to ice.
His thumb slid across the screen and he brought the phone to his ear in cold dread. A desk worker informed Hizashi that Shōta had recently been admitted to Hosu General Hospital after a fight with a villain had gone south. She gave brief details on his condition, which was stable for the moment, but Hizashi was hardly even listening. Shōta. The world in front of him became muffled and desaturated as the reality sunk in. Shōta was injured and hospitalized, and Hizashi hadn’t even known what was going on.
The woman hung up and Hizashi was left sitting on the couch, trying to steady his breathing and slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He switched off the television and the world was plunged into darkness.
~~~
The ride to Hosu General wasn’t long, but it felt like an eternity until Hizashi could park his car outside and step under the amber street lights. His whole body felt tense, a frozen weight in the pit of his stomach that spread through his entire body and invaded his bloodstream. He could only think of Shōta, lying on a bed somewhere in a crowded ward, dead to the world… Anxious as he was, Hizashi refused to think of him remaining that way.
They’d been taught to prepare for this at U.A. They’d all been warned that the life of a hero was a routinely dangerous one, and that injury, death and loss were the harsh realities every pro was forced to confront, even early in their careers. But Hizashi was 23 years old, and he retained that youthful sense of invulnerability. As he was led through the hospital, under those too-bright, sickly yellow lights, surrounded by the sick and dying, he felt it waning. It was all but gone when the nurse opened the door to a small room on the third floor, and Hizashi saw Shōta, unconscious and suffering from several facial lacerations.
(At least he wasn’t hooked up to a million machines, the optimistic part of him noted.)
His heart twisted at the sight, and Hizashi sunk into a nearby chair as the nurse explained that Shōta was the victim of an attack by a villain with a quirk that put people to sleep for a limited amount of time. The doctors estimated that, at maximum strength, a person could be unconscious for twelve hours. Hizashi released a sigh at that, immensely relieved that Shōta was going to be okay.
The nurse seemed pained in her expression as he expressed his assuagement so passionately. She hesitantly informed him that yes, there was a fair likelihood that he’d be just fine, but given the villain’s own testimony, there was a 50/50 chance that affected individuals woke up at all.
Hizashi had to ask her to repeat herself.
Yes, it seemed that the villain was gifted with an exceptionally dangerous quirk. Sending victims into a coma-like state was only half the story. On top of being incredibly effective at immobilizing them, it was a simple matter of time before a person’s ultimate fate was determined. Wake up or die. A 50/50 split. Just like flipping a coin, Hizashi thought, his stomach roiling in horror and fear. What kind of quirk allowed someone to treat life and death so flippantly?
He asked the nurse how long it had been since Shōta had been admitted. He didn’t say it outright, but if 12 hours was the time limit, he needed to know how much longer Shōta would be resting in the limbo between life and death. She seemed to read between his words and said that, accounting for the time it took to transport him to the hospital and determine the diagnosis as well as try and manually end the coma, Shōta had around nine hours left. This was also considering how long it had taken for the villain to be found and apprehended, as Shōta would never have been taken in at all were it not for a bystander noticing the commotion. Hizashi reasoned that his injuries hadn’t been sustained while he was awake.
He breathed deeply. Nine hours. It seemed like a long time, but if each second brought him closer to the possible event of Shōta’s death, those hours, Hizashi knew, would be gone in the blink of an eye.
He dropped his gaze back to the man on the bed. He had a black eye, Hizashi noticed. He rested his chin on his hands and made a low, sad sound, caught up in just how fragile Shōta looked. He longed to brush his bangs away where they fell in front of his eyes. The nurse quietly dismissed herself, and the door shut with a click, leaving Hizashi to contemplate the delicate nature of life. If Shōta made it out of this, he’d never take the time they spent together for granted ever again.
If. Hizashi covered his face with a hand, wishing, willing with all of him that this wasn’t happening, that he was anywhere else. He already missed Shōta. He’d give anything to just be able to talk to him, to tell him he was sorry. He cringed with guilt as he remembered that their last parting words hadn’t been the kindest; that was what made this situation all the worse.
He barely remembered what they’d argued about. Hizashi thought it had something to do with a recent brush with death, a risky encounter that could have ended awfully. He vaguely recalled Shōta being angry with him, telling him that his reliance on his powerful quirk was making him reckless. Hizashi thought he’d taken offense to what he perceived as condescension, saying he could look after himself perfectly fine. Things had gotten heated between them.
That was days ago. Hizashi was kicking himself now. He realized that what he’d taken as Shōta patronizing him was his way of expressing concern, that it was a symptom of his worrying over Hizashi. He knew that now, because he felt that same flash of irritation, looking over Shōta, wondering why he’d have to get himself into such a mess. The terribly irony of it all was not lost on him.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, watching the rise and fall of Shōta’s abdomen, trying to swallow his guilt and restlessness. He didn’t know until he checked his phone. 40 minutes. About 8 hours remaining. 8 hours until he could leave this purgatory, his arm wrapped around Shōta’s shoulders… or alone.
It occurred to Hizashi to text Nemuri, Tensei, and some others. He knew they’d want to know what was going on.
Hizashi removed his leather jacket and draped it over the arms of his chair in an attempt to make himself more comfortable. It didn’t work. How could it, when this was the situation heroes had nightmares of? He was frustrated, so frustrated, that all he could do was sit here and wait for the verdict. He tapped his foot. He got up and walked around to stretch his legs. He checked his phone four times a minute. He turned on the television, and then turned it off. There was nothing, nothing to do but wait.
The nurse poked her head through the door to offer Hizashi a cup of water. He declined. She moved to shut the door again, but right before the door mechanism could slide into place, she stopped, a sentence on the tip of her tongue.
“You know…” she started, and Hizashi glanced up from where he was hunched over. “Sometimes it helps to talk to patients who are unconscious. Even if they can’t understand you, there’s a chance they can still hear your voice. It’s comforting to know that someone’s there.” She paused. “Just something to think about.”
“A-” Hizashi coughed, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Ah. Thanks for letting me know.” She hummed and closed the door, leaving Hizashi to lick his lips and think. Talk, huh? That was one thing he knew he could do. It might help cure his restlessness, and fill the suffocating silence that was starting to get to him. And, who knows? Maybe Shōta would know he was there, somewhere, though Hizashi seriously doubted he’d understand or remember any of his rambling.
So, he talked. Hizashi spoke of anything and everything that came to his mind, which, when all was said and done, was a hell of a lot. He told Shōta about everything that Midnight had said to him about her students, about the movie he had been watching, about that hilarious caller he’d had on his show last week. He talked about his fans (he loved them, but they could be rather… eccentric, at times), the new restaurant that had opened up in the mall last month, how a recent tabloid had used the most unflattering picture of him in their article and his extended family’s relentless, annoying questioning over when he was going to settle down already. He tried out some of the stupidest, worst knock-knock jokes he could possibly think of and asked for Shōta’s opinion on his impressions of their old teachers. He ranted for maybe half an hour on the new album from his favorite band, his vocabulary filled to the brim with musical jargon, and lamented having to hear the same damn pop songs over and over again for his radio show.
The hours went by quick, as Hizashi had predicted. The sky behind the curtain was an inky fish bowl filled with stars. He knew it wouldn’t be long until the rays of daybreak pierced the sea’s horizon, their yellow glare a warning beacon for Shōta’s time running out.
In the moments between his stories and ringing laughter, when Hizashi paused to take a sip of water or think of what to say next, he felt that sense of limited time crawling down his back.
“—and do you remember the time we had to babysit his little brother? We took him out to the park and he just—he just completely took off! We were chasing after him for hours… I was so afraid we’d have to call Mrs. Iida and tell her we’d lost her four-year-old son when we got all turned around in that one neighborhood. And then—” Hizashi swiveled around in the chair at the sound of the door and saw Nemuri standing in the doorway, still in her hero outfit, looking worried and disheveled.
“Sorry, I was on duty when you texted. I would’ve been here earlier,” she breathed, eyes darting to Shōta and back to Hizashi.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said amicably, still jovial from his talk with the unconscious Shōta. “I’ve been keeping occupied.”
“If you say so.” She set her bag down and began dragging a chair to sit next to Hizashi. “You said there was a 50/50 chance he’ll wake up in like, 5 hours?” She whispered the words as if they were sensitive information.
Hizashi winced, his smile fading. Somehow, the reality felt so much more real when someone else said it. And it’d been several hours since he’d been reminded of it—it still felt like a punch to the gut, hearing it a second time. “Yeah.” He exhaled. “Yeah.” He swallowed, willing his throat not to close up.
Nemuri sat and put a gentle hand onto his. She said nothing, only closing her eyes for a brief moment. Then she looked at Hizashi, patted his arm, and smiled as if to say “It’s okay,” even though they both knew it wasn’t. At least things felt a little better with her here.
“So, what have you been doing?”
“Oh well, I was just telling Shōta about…” Hizashi jumped right back into his tale, including the both of them in the conversation. He rambled for a while longer before jumping right on to the next subject, Nemuri chiming in this time. The room was filled with the both of their laughter. It was fuller, warmer with her around, and Hizashi could rely on Nemuri to pick up the thread of the discussion when he needed a break. When it was only him, it was a little harder to stave off the loneliness and anxiety that was his default emotional state in this situation. But talking and interacting with Nemuri was helping. It really was.
Things went on like that for a while, and for a moment, it was almost as if everything was normal and they were just having a friendly chat while Shōta napped in a hospital bed. But it wasn’t, and he wasn’t, and when Nemuri finally stood up and gathered her things, Hizashi wanted to cling to the skin-tight fabric of her uniform and beg her to stay.
But she was a schoolteacher who had work early next morning. Much as it pained her to leave, and it did, incredibly so, Nemuri wasn’t like Shōta, who could just power through several all-nighters in a row like it was nothing. She’d already been there until—Hizashi checked the time—three a.m, and he could see the creases of exhaustion starting to seep through her makeup. Her voice was a bit hoarse from talking for so long. She’d put in the time already. So Hizashi didn’t protest when she said her goodbyes, to him and Shōta (the latter, not un-tearful) and left the two of them alone once again.
He held onto his phone. It felt so heavy in his hand, when Hizashi thought of the call he’d have to make in a few hours, informing Nemuri of the outcome.
For the first time in his life, Hizashi struggled to find his voice. He’d been fine hours ago, when it was just him and Shōta, but Nemuri’s departure left him much lonelier than before. The room was quiet without her banter. Her emotional response had dampened his mood, as well.
He could feel the lump in his throat again. Perhaps it was that which made it difficult to speak.
He longed for human contact. Really, one human in particular, although Hizashi knew he wasn’t much of a fan. He scooted his chair a few inches closer to the bed, the noise of it scraping against the linoleum deafening in the silence. Hizashi’s hand found its way onto Shōta’s wrist. He frowned at the injuries across his face. Couldn’t they spare someone’s healing quirk for a few minutes? Someone like Recovery Girl could take care of it easily.
Hizashi distracted himself with other thoughts for a little while, and before long, he was putting those thoughts into words. His meandering conversation resumed, but with a different edge to it. He was quieter, more subdued, in the way that no one ever saw him save for his closest friends. Hizashi had dropped his showman’s affectation, instead quietly relating the plot of an interesting book he read once in his best “storyteller’s voice.” As he spoke of twists and turns, of hardships and triumphs, Hizashi wondered if he was wasting his time, or if Shōta was at all enjoying hearing him speak, somewhere in there. Was he only bouncing his own voice off the walls, or was his murmuring reaching Shōta’s subconscious, on any level? He could only speculate. But he didn’t stop.
When he’d reached the end of the story, Hizashi stopped and thought very carefully. Well, what the hell. He wasn’t the greatest singer, but it wasn’t like Shōta was really going to hear it. His voice was soft as could be; he knew there were patients sleeping in the rooms nearby, but he was honestly running out of material. As best as he could, Hizashi went through the verses of a couple of recent hits, and some old ones, too.
“I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind, that I put down in words…”
The lyrics were in English, but Hizashi hoped, irrationally, that their meaning could reach Shōta, wherever he was right now.
“How wonderful life is, while you’re in the world.”
He blinked. Where did the moisture in his eyes come from?
“Hm.” The blackness outside had shifted to a navy blue, and Hizashi checked the time once again. Five a.m. That meant—Hizashi realized with a jolt—that meant there was only an hour to go. Hizashi almost wanted to scream. Where had the time gone? He felt the panic rise in his chest again.
He tried to relax. He couldn’t squander this time. After all, this very well may be the last few moments he’d ever get with Shōta.
Hizashi reeled at that. How the hell could that be? They were still young. How the hell could that be? This couldn’t be it. It wouldn’t. Hizashi couldn’t bear it. He wouldn’t.
There was so much he’d never gotten to say, never gotten to do… It was crashing upon him now. A flip of a coin, and it was all over, right here, right now.
He sat back down and tried to get his breathing under control. The future wasn’t set in stone, after all. Shōta had just as good a chance of being absolutely fine as he did being not fine. Hizashi tried to convince himself that the glass was half full.
His side was pressed against the edge of the bed. It was cold in here, he realized. Hizashi pulled on his jacket, but the leather was too cool against his skin. He shivered, and wondered if Shōta’s hand was as warm as his wrist. Could he—should he—entwine their fingers together, if only for a moment? If this might be his last chance, Hizashi didn’t see why not.
His chair was facing more towards the end of the bed now. If he wanted to see Shōta’s face, and he did, Hizashi was required to turn his whole head to the side and view him in profile. Hizashi smiled weakly. Even with his face all messed up, Shōta was… breathtaking. That was the word.
Hizashi blinked slowly. That weighed on his mind. It was no secret to himself that he loved Shōta, and not in the way best friends normally did. It pained him to say, but he’d always held the sneaking suspicion that he liked Shōta more than Shōta liked him, in more ways than one. That was evident now, when just sitting here next to him stirred up those feelings. He mattered, so much, and it was all Hizashi could do not to say it aloud.
Would he leave it unsaid forever…? That had been the plan, but now that “forever” was potentially around the corner, Hizashi found it sitting on the tip of his tongue.
Maybe, just maybe, he deserved to air it out. Before he couldn’t. There was no risk involved, as Shōta couldn’t hear him. Hizashi supposed that made it kind of pointless, but the silence had grown too thick, anyway. Shōta deserved a comforting sound if these were to be his last moments, assuming he knew Hizashi was talking at all.
“Shōta,” Hizashi’s voice was quieter than it had been all night.
He paused. Had he lost his voice again? All he’d managed was “Shōta” and already Hizashi was struggling. He coughed.
“Shōta, I—” I love you? Too direct. He admonished himself, wondering why he was tripping over his words when he was practically talking to himself.
He gulped. If Shōta had been awake, he imagined the skepticism and judgement he’d be receiving right now.
“...how is it possible for you to be intimidating, you’re not even awake,” Hizashi laughed softly.
He sighed and began again. “You’d better come out of this. Everyone’d miss you.” He clicked his tongue. “You deny it, but you’re really important, you know.” Silence. “To, um. To me.” Hizashi’s face was warm. Why was this so hard?
Another pause, and then, “Hey Shō… do you remember, way back when, you asked me if I’d thought about dating, and I said I had my eye on someone? And then you asked me about it again, a couple months later, and I said they hadn’t been interested? Well…” He forced the nonchalance into his tone. “I… I was actually talking about you, heh.” He smiled wryly at the memory.
“I, um. I liked you. A lot.” Hizashi squeezed the hand he’d been holding. “Still do.”
“Dunno if that does anything for ya. Probably not.”
He actually did feel a bit better saying it aloud.
A shaky sigh. “Maybe I love you.”
~~~
Hizashi should have been exhausted at that point, but he was more awake than he’d ever been in his life. He was checking his phone every minute, growing more and more restless and panicked by the second. The sky was pink.
He looked at the time and his stomach dropped.
6 a.m.
Time’s up.
Well. There was no way to determine the exact minute, all the more to Hizashi’s chagrin. It meant he had to sit there in suspense for far, far longer than was merciful. He timed Shōta’s breaths, matching the rise and fall of his own chest with them. If ever they slowed to a stop, Hizashi wasn’t entirely certain his wouldn’t follow suit.
So what followed could aptly be described as the worst twenty minutes of Hizashi’s life.
Five minutes past six, he had to break his gaze from Shōta’s hospital gown and bring his hands to his face. This pressure was going to tear him apart, he was sure of it. He pressed both hands over his mouth as his shoulders shook. He felt so tense he could crack into pieces. Hizashi’s face was wet and burning, but he forced himself to keep watching, waiting for Shōta to open his eyes. The only noise that escaped him was a wet gasp once he felt too suffocated from holding back sobs.
Ten minutes in and Hizashi wanted to tear the damn curtains down, but he didn’t want to see any more of the sun than he had to. Instead, he stood up so fast the chair screeched and his knee banged against the hard metal of the bedside, causing him to curse loudly. The sun had risen and shone furiously through the hospital window as if taunting Hizashi while he was on the verge of a panic attack. He longed to return to the peace of the night. The curtains were pulled shut.
When it was a quarter past six, the nurse came back. She took one look at Hizashi, sympathy clear in her eyes, and instructed him to call if anything happened. He agreed numbly, not breaking his focus on Shōta or his continuing life signs. When she left, he permitted himself to sink his head into his hands again.
Twenty minutes were gone. Hizashi wiped his face and mumbled something about being dehydrated. He lifted his head to look at Shōta, who remained asleep, and wondered if this whole 50/50 thing was a hoax, if this torture would never end and he’d be kept in suspense for as long as the universe failed to show any mercy towards him.
He got the chair as close as he could again. He was sure it was going to be any second now.
A hand on a hand. “Shōta…” Hizashi took another deep breath in a series of deep breaths. “Listen, if it wasn’t clear enough before… I love you. That’s all.” And both of them were still.
Hizashi’s timing wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough. About a minute later, Shōta exhaled, and his chest did not rise. Hizashi stared, eyes wide, wondering if this was it. If this part of him would stay in the room forever.
Then, Shōta’s eyes fluttered open.
“Hizashi,” he whispered, airy and breathless and disbelieving, before Hizashi had even the chance to breathe. When he did, it came in as a gasp.
“Shōta!” Hizashi didn’t know if he’d ever feel this amount of sheer relief ever again. He laughed, or tried to, but it turned into a sob at the end. He coughed in an attempt to cover it up. “You’re—” Hizashi stopped himself. Shōta probably had no idea what was even going on. Before he got emotional, Hizashi should provide some explanation. “You, um. You got hit with a quirk. If you didn’t wake up within 12 hours, you’d have… You wouldn’t have woken up.”
Hizashi expected shock, confusion, anger even. He didn’t expect Shōta to blink at him and say, “I know.”
That should have been the first red flag, but Hizashi dismissed it. Perhaps it wasn’t so unusual that he would know without being told, after all.
The next few minutes went by blessedly quickly. Shōta got his remaining injuries healed up and, sooner rather than later, the two were on their way to the hospital parking lot. Hizashi basked in the warmth of the morning, the day plunged into a new light (hah) now that Shōta really was by his side. And hey, he even got to confess his crush on him, without getting explicitly rejected.
(That was cheating, he knew. He hadn’t confessed, and Shōta had been physically incapable of responding in any fashion.)
He was rambling again, he knew, but it was because he was overjoyed beyond belief and not because he needed to fill the silence. Besides, it was only by talking so much did he realize what they had to catch up on. He found himself reiterating some of his earlier points, and was mystified when Shōta only responded with a raised eyebrow.
In fact, looking back, Shōta looked like he’d had something else he wanted to say ever since they’d had their first conversation once he’d woken up. But Hizashi, oblivious and blinded by his own elation, didn’t notice until they were in the car, driving home.
Hizashi was describing Nemuri’s visit and the show they were both talking about when Shōta stopped him.
“Hizashi,” he breathed, and he tried to identify the emotion. Tired? Exasperated? Or… nervous? That would be odd… but Hizashi had known Shōta long enough to know when he sounded nervous, and his tone could fit that description. “Hizashi, I heard you.”
If he could have slammed on the brakes without getting a fender bender, he would have.
He went over all he’d talked about with Nemuri and Shōta, and was hit with sudden embarrassment. “...how much are we talking, exactly? Like, could you just make out our general voices, or—”
“All of it.” Oh. “I could understand everything that you were saying.” Oh.
Oh, no.
What had he been thinking. “I love you”?!
“S—yeah, okay, alright,” Hizashi said, desperately trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. His heart was pounding. It was still hitting him. “Listen, I am so sorry.”
“For… for what?” Shōta’s voice was soft and uncharacteristically uncertain.
He was really going to make Hizashi say it, wasn’t he. “For—okay, I don’t know about you, but if I was in your situation, I would feel extremely awkward about my best friend unloading his weird secret crush onto me. As I was fucking dying.”
Shōta didn’t have anything to say to that. Oh, man oh man. He may be alive and well, but that didn’t mean Hizashi could bear to look him in the eyes right now. Instead, he buried his face in the steering wheel. Oh, god. He’d sung to him.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Pay attention to the road.” Right. Hizashi looked up and ahead of him, expecting Shōta to simply let go once he had. But… he didn’t.
Hizashi looked over questioningly, and Shōta quickly withdrew his hand, suddenly becoming very interested in looking out the window. Hizashi said nothing, only continuing to wallow in his own shame and embarrassment.
After a time, Shōta spoke again, so quiet Hizashi almost didn’t catch the words. “It was alright.”
Hizashi was confused. “What was?” What was he referring to? The coma? Or…
Now Shōta was looking aside at him, irritated. “You—” He huffed. “The—” Hizashi was so lost.
“When you said… that you liked me.”
“I—wait, really?” He couldn’t control the disbelief in his tone. Shōta couldn’t be saying what he thought he was saying.
“Hizashi, I—” He cut himself off. Hizashi looked over; Shōta was staring at his lap, averting his eyes. “I’m not good at this.”
Hizashi’s eyes widened. Shōta wasn’t nervous; he was flustered. Was this happening? “Are you trying to say..."
“Hizashi, when you squeezed my hand, I wanted… to squeeze back,” he continued, voice still soft. “But I couldn’t. When you said, ‘You’re important to me,’ I wanted to say, ‘You’re important, too,’ but I couldn’t. When you said…” His voice broke off, and Hizashi was a bit shocked by the emotion there.
“When you said, ‘I love you,” I wanted to say…”
Hizashi’s heart was melting.
“I wanted to say, “I love you, too,” His voice trailed off.
“Shōta…” Hizashi was starting to feel the pinpricks of guilt as he imagined himself in Shōta’s place, hearing and feeling but unable to express.
“But I couldn’t. And… and I had no idea if I ever would.” The last part was so soft it was practically a whisper. Hizashi realized, belatedly, that Shōta was valiantly fighting the urge to cry.
“I was right there…”
Hizashi was processing so many things at once right now, but first and foremost, he needed to deal with the man in the passenger seat, and by “deal with” he meant “give a hug, right now, immediately.” He located a convenience store and pulled into the parking lot as fast as was legal.
To his (very dull at this point; he’d had too many life-changing experiences today) surprise, Shōta was leaning into him as soon as he’d unbuckled his seatbelt. It was kind of awkward since he had to lean across the compartment between the seats, but it didn’t stop Hizashi from putting his arms around Shōta. He buried his face into his shoulder without a sound, save for a silent, shuddering sob. It was so easy to forget that a hero like Shōta couldn’t always be as tough as he seemed. Hizashi just rubbed his back and tried not to get emotional himself.
“I was right there, and I couldn’t do anything.” His voice was quiet and muffled, but Hizashi understood.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had no idea…” He felt so guilty for how Shōta felt right now. “If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“Hizashi.” At last, Shōta took his face from his shoulder. “Don’t be.” He sighed. “Please, don’t be.” A pause, and then he snorted. “I had to have a near death experience for either of us to talk. Don’t take that away.”
Hizashi smiled at him. “Okay, you’ve got a point.”
Shōta sighed as if trying to release years of tension. He closed his eyes and leaned against Hizashi, snaking his arms around his midsection.
“I’m tired. Can we go to your place?”
“You’re tired? After being in a coma?”
“I was practically awake the entire time!”
“So being unconscious doesn’t count as being asleep?”
“You need a shower, anyway.”
“Wow, love you too.”
Shōta was mysteriously quiet at that.