Work Text:
Hizashi prided himself on many things.
His sense of fashion was one of them. A style that matched his personality, something he had developed over the years, from high school to now. He had always gravitated toward bold choices: unique hairstyles, loud patterns, and a presence that turned heads. It was his signature. Though lately, he wasn’t sure if he maintained that style because it was still him, or simply because it was all he had left of the person he used to be. Or at least, the person he let others see.
He took pride in his quirk, in his radio show, and in his role at U.A. Teaching English to a bunch of wild, sometimes broken kids; managing school events; bringing energy to every room he entered, whether people found it electrifying or exhausting. He’d heard both. He took pride in both.
What he didn’t take pride in was how he felt underneath it all.
Beneath the fashion, the job titles, the bright voice and bigger smile—beneath the entire persona—there was something fractured. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. He was an adult. Oboro had been dead for years.
So why was it, the moment Kurogiri appeared, the moment he and Shouta had to face their friend’s corpse twisted into that monster, every emotion he thought he’d buried started to claw its way back to the surface? Why was the mask he’d spent years perfecting starting to crack... just because of that?
‘Oboro is dead’, he tells himself whenever his stomach churns, whenever he hears news about the league.
It gets harder.
After days of being haunted by nightmares he’s tried to bury, it wears on him. Still, he tells himself he’s a grown man. Nightmares and unsettling thoughts aren't supposed to shake him. Not anymore. They shouldn’t make him lose sleep, shouldn’t leave him staring at the ceiling long after his alarm went off. Hes seen such gruesome events as a hero, yet somehow memories of his high school time, leave him devastated more than anything else.
So, he keeps going. Keeps teaching. Keeps laughing. Keeps slipping into the loud, flashy persona he’s spent years building, because if he doesn’t, then what’s left?
He clings to it like a lifeline.
Rarely does anyone notice the difference.
Hizashi goes about his day, teaching the kids at U.A. On Monday, he nearly decked a group of reporters outside the gates, again, if it hadn’t been for Aizawa stepping in and pulling him back. On Tuesday, he had a headache so intense he was convinced his skull might split in half. ‘Seriously, how can you not understand a simple structured English sentence?’, he kept thinking. These students were going to send him to an early grave. Heroes needed to have advanced language skills. You never knew when they might be necessary.
Wednesday passed in a blur. Thursday, too.
By the time Friday arrived, his mood hadn’t improved. If anything, he felt more drained. Empty. Unmotivated.
After a few hours of teaching, the bell rang, signaling a longer break. Hizashi slipped out of the classroom and into the hallway, smiling at the passing students like he always did, outwardly cheerful, perfectly in character, until he finally reached the door and stepped outside for some air.
He exhaled, soaking in the brief silence. But it didn’t last.
Soft, steady footsteps approached and stopped beside him.
Aizawa.
The only constant in his life, Hizashi thinks. Aizawa had been around for years—decades—but sometimes Hizashi wonders if it’s simply because he never let go of what they used to have. Of the trio they once were. They’d already lost Oboro. Maybe Aizawa stayed because he refused to lose anyone else.
“Hizashi,” Aizawa said, voice low, steady, but not unkind.
He shifted his weight onto one leg, hands tucked beneath the capture scarf at his neck, gaze steady but unreadable. That was always the thing about Aizawa. You could never tell what he was thinking unless he wanted you to.
‘It’s cold’, Hizashi thought, casting a glance his way. Aizawa, the constant in his life. Or maybe he was the constant in Aizawa’s. A foolish thought. A pathetic one. They were old friends. Colleagues. Nothing more, nothing less.
But still...
“Hizashi,” Aizawa said again, and only then did he realize he’d never answered the first time.
He blinked, breaking out of the fog, and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. A smile, too quick, too forced—pulled at his lips.
“Ah! Sorry, Aizawa! Was just thinkin’ about what to do for my radio show later. You need somethin’, man?”
He finally turned to look at his friend.
And it felt wrong.
Not the words themselves, but the effort it took to say them. The energy it took to sound like himself. It hadn’t felt natural in a long time, and usually—usually—he didn’t fake it in front of Aizawa.
But today, even with him, it felt easier to pretend.
Aizawa raised an eyebrow, staring at him for what felt like hours, though it had only been a few seconds. He exhaled softly, shifting his gaze away from Yamada before letting out a quiet huff.
“You’re acting off.”
It wasn’t a question. It never was, with Aizawa. He had a way of speaking in absolutes, like he could see right through you, like he already knew.
Hizashi held his gaze for a moment longer as a breeze rustled through the trees, catching strands of Aizawa’s hair and lifting them gently. It’s getting long again, he thought absently. Wonder if he’ll ever bother cutting it—or if he still sees it as just another nuisance. He tried to picture him as he was in high school. Couldn’t decide if it felt nostalgic or cruel.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it carried weight. It settled on Hizashi’s shoulders like a coat too heavy to shrug off. Should he lie? Pretend Aizawa was just imagining things? That had never worked before.
“…Hizashi-” Aizawa began again, pulling his hands from the warmth of his scarf, turning his body fully now to face him.
But Hizashi didn’t let him finish.
“I’m fine, Shouta,” the blond said firmly, though the smile he’d worn minutes ago had vanished. His expression was flat now, almost serious. There was a weight to his voice, the kind that clung to every word like static. “I’m fine. Really.”
But even he could hear it. He was trying harder to convince himself than Aizawa.
Aizawa didn’t respond immediately. He stood beside him, silent as the wind stirred around them, rustling branches, shifting hair, carrying the scent of cold earth and distant chalk dust. The world kept moving, but here, between them, time felt paused.
“You don’t always have to be fine.”
It was quiet, almost gruff, but the worry beneath it was impossible to miss. Not from Aizawa. Hizashi almost laughed—worry. He didn’t think the other man would ever spend energy on something like this. Not over him.
“…After seeing that… I’m not fine either, Yamada.”
It slipped out softly, and Hizashi’s breath caught. It was rare, Aizawa admitting something like that. Too rare. And it took every ounce of restraint not to reach out, not to hold on too tightly to something that was never promised.
“I-” Hizashi began, his voice small, barely formed.
But the bell rang, loud and unwelcome, cutting clean through the moment.
He clenched his fist. Looked away. I have to be fine. That’s what he wanted to say. What he always said. Because if he admitted he wasn’t, he didn’t know if he could keep himself together.
Instead, Hizashi inhaled slowly, forcing his hand to relax, easing back into a practiced smile.
“Let’s head back before your kids destroy the classroom.”
He didn’t meet Aizawa’s eyes, didn’t let himself linger too long on the expression he knew would still be there, quiet concern behind tired black irises.
He ignored it.
Ignored the way his chest had tightened, the pulse that skipped traitorously in his throat.
Ignored what he’d never let himself say.
Ignored the feelings he’s never admitted, never wants to admit, breaking through the surface.
Oboro is dead.
He repeats it daily, every time new intel is filed, every time his brain dares to hope otherwise. It’s a quiet ritual now, one that stings less only because it numbs everything else.
The days have started to blur into one awful mess.
Isn’t Aizawa supposed to be the insomniac? The anti-social, grumpy one of the trio duo?
Hizashi hasn’t been sleeping much. He’s tried, of course but lies awake with reasons he doesn’t want to name. Time passes too quickly, and still somehow, he’s losing everything. Losing himself.
Work keeps him going during the week. But when the weekend arrives, when there’s no patrol, no paperwork, no radio show—nothing to distract him from the void chewing at his insides... time stops.
He’s cleaned the entire apartment. Went over assignments twice, redid the closet layout, filed every spare document. Still, the hours don’t move. His body thrums with restless energy that feels like it’ll rupture if left unchecked. What happens when it finally does?
He doesn’t check his phone anymore. Doesn’t expect anyone to reach out. Why would they?
He’s always been the one who gets along with everyone, right? Loud, energetic, friendly Hizashi. But when the doors close and silence falls, he’s always alone. Wondering what they really think of him.
‘Maybe I’m too much.’
Too loud. Too bright.
Shouta jokes, acts annoyed, calls him a pain and Hizashi always brushes it off as banter.
‘It is banter. It has to be.’
But lately, in moments like this, he wonders if Aizawa actually finds him annoying. Childish. Exhausting. If he stays around out of guilt. If he’s only still here because of Oboro– because of fear.
Fear of losing another one.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Hizashi’s thoughts screeched to a halt as he blinked, the microwave's beeping dragging him back to reality.
‘Right. I was making something to eat, wasn’t I?’
He eyed the microwave with blank detachment. Normally, he cooked often, despite his schedule. He’d always emphasized the importance of proper meals, often scolding Aizawa for living off jelly pouches and protein bars like some half-feral cryptid.
But lately, time has lost its structure. With it went his routines, meals skipped, plans forgotten, hobbies abandoned. His carefully built rhythm shattered.
His fist clenched, knuckles whitening.
‘I’m a grown man’, his thoughts bit, sharp and accusatory.
A grown man who can’t maintain a schedule. A grown man who can’t take care of himself. A grown man who’s barely functioning.
‘What a man.’ his thoughts continued to rage.
A failure. A mess. Pathetic.
He was a Pro, and had been for years. He’d seen it all: orphaned children, twisted experiments disguised as scientific progress, victims turned weapons. Villains, scum that deserved every ounce of justice the system could wring from them. In Hizashi’s world, there were no blurred lines.
You're either good or you're evil.
You’re either meant to be a hero or you’re not.
So why is Oboro-
No.
He shook his head violently, hand trembling before it slammed down onto the counter with a sharp thud. The echo lingered in the quiet apartment.
‘Oboro is dead. He died years ago.’
The words felt foreign, like chewing glass.
Still, with the thought stubbornly looping in his mind, he retrieved his late lunch from the microwave. He grabbed a spoon, settled on the couch, and turned on the news, pretending this was just another ordinary afternoon.
As the days blurred into weeks, nothing seemed to change. If anything, things were getting worse—and he knew it. He could see it in the way people started looking through him rather than at him. The way he seemed to take up less and less space.
He still showed up, of course. Taught his classes. Ran his patrols. Hosted his radio show with the same practiced energy. But the replies came slower now, if they came at all. His presence in the teacher’s lounge had all but vanished.
He used to be the noise in that space. The one teasing Aizawa about his caffeine intake, blasting new tracks at Nemuri, laughing too loudly at jokes no one else found funny. Now? He buried himself in paperwork, hiding behind tasks and lesson plans like armor. He only spoke when someone addressed him—and even then, only just enough to pass for okay.
He wondered if Aizawa had noticed. If he’d cared enough to notice. Since their last real conversation, Aizawa hadn’t reached out again.
And maybe that was answer enough.
Hizashi started avoiding the news, too. The press conferences. The rising criticism of hero society. Every time a new headline rolled across the screen, his stomach twisted. Each spotlight on hero failures felt like a personal indictment. Like a voice whispering, You should be doing more.
More patrols. More effort. More something. Whatever he was doing now, it wasn’t enough. It never is.
Another week slipped by in a haze, his mind a constant hum of static, loud enough to drown out thought, but never loud enough to silence it completely.
He was alive. Existing, barely.
Alive, in his apartment. The low murmur of the radio filled the silence, a soft tune playing in the background as Hizashi stood in the center of a room that looked more like a stranger’s than his own. Unwashed dishes, cluttered corners, a stack of unopened mail. He hadn’t cleaned. Hadn’t eaten much either. Not deliberately, he told himself.
Heroes are supposed to take care of themselves. Physical well-being is part of the job. He knows that. He teaches that. It’s not on purpose. He just forgets—gets swept up in work or consumed by the noise in his head. Anything to avoid thinking about him. About Oboro. About the silence on his phone screen when he almost calls Shouta, just to hear his voice. Just to hold onto whatever fragile, unspoken thing exists between them. Something too undefined to reach for, too dangerous to name.
He’s alive. In this apartment.
Oboro isn’t.
The bowl in his hand slipped.
It hit the ground with a sharp, unforgiving crack, porcelain shattering across the kitchen tile. Hizashi didn’t move at first, just gripped the edge of the counter like it might anchor him to the floor. His jaw clenched so tight it hurt. ’ Don’t think. Don’t feel. Don’t—anything.’
His breathing turned shallow. Knuckles white. Hands trembling from pressure he couldn’t ease. Whatever it was inside him—grief, anger, guilt—it clawed at his chest like it wanted out.
One wrong move, and he might shatter too.
Just like the bowl.
The mess on the floor blurred in his vision. He didn’t bend down to clean it. Couldn’t. His legs felt locked in place, like moving would unravel whatever thread was keeping him upright.
He pressed the heel of his palm against his eye, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth.
“Get it together.”
He said it out loud this time, voice hoarse. But it didn’t help. His own voice, usually so full of energy, of noise and presence, sounded hollow now. Quiet. Like it wasn’t even his.
He staggered back from the counter and sank onto the floor, back pressed against the cabinets. Shards of porcelain glinted inches from his feet, but he didn’t care. Didn’t feel much of anything. The worst part wasn’t the grief. It was the absence. Of motivation, of connection, of himself.
He pulled his knees to his chest.
Would anyone notice if he just… stopped showing up?
Nemuri might ask. She always did. She worried more than she let on. But she was busy. Everyone was busy. Shouta-
Hizashi's chest ached at the thought.
He hasn't said anything. Not since that last talk. Not even a message.
Maybe it was pity, the way Shouta had looked at him. Maybe it was guilt. Hizashi had laughed it off at the time, as he always did. Called him a grump, said he was too serious.
But now, alone, on a cold kitchen floor, he didn’t feel like laughing.
His hand reached for his phone before he could stop it. Thumb hovering over Aizawa’s contact.
He didn’t press it.
Didn’t know if he wanted Shouta to answer. Or if it would hurt more if he didn’t. So instead, he put the phone face-down beside him. And sat there, breathing shallow, with only the radio playing softly in the background. Some love song he didn’t know the name of.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered right now.
It took him too long to get back up.
The sunlight outside had faded into shadow, dragging the sky into night, and still—he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t showered. Hadn’t even made it to bed. There was work tomorrow. Patrol. Teaching. Smiling. Talking. Performing.
Eventually, he pushed himself off the cold tile, limbs stiff and movements slow. His eyes drifted downward—to the broken bowl, scattered across the floor like sharp little reminders that he was still here.
He crouched to clean it, hands moving on autopilot. Until something bit into his palm.
He froze.
It wasn’t the pain that stopped him—it was the feeling.
Suddenly, the fog that had numbed him for days cracked, and for a terrifying moment, he was here. He was in his body, grounded, alive. Living. And that scared him more than the numbness ever did. He stood too fast, tossed the shards into the trash with a sharp clatter, and walked to the bathroom like a man walking out of a dream.
The faucet hissed to life, cold water rinsing blood from his skin, the red spiraling down porcelain like something sacred. The cut was shallow. Barely there. Nothing compared to what he’d endured as a hero.
But it felt like something.
And that terrified him, too.
With a sigh, he opened the cabinet and grabbed the first aid kit, wrapping the bandage carelessly around the wound—more out of obligation than concern. Just another task. Another thing to do.
He shut the mirror.
And there he was.
He hadn’t looked in a long time. Had avoided mirrors like they were made of fire. But now, his reflection stared back at him—unforgiving, unfamiliar, unchanged.
Pale. Tired. Hollow-eyed.
Normal.
And that was what broke him.
Because he didn’t feel normal. He felt like something broken just well enough to pass as whole. Like a man stitched together by responsibility and noise.
He gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white.
“You’re pathetic.”
It slipped out before he could stop it.
He wanted to swallow it back. To pretend it hadn’t happened. Because once he started saying these things out loud, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop. Wouldn’t be able to hide it anymore.
And vulnerability like that—it felt disgusting.
He was a Pro Hero. A man. Loud. Strong. Reliable.
Not this.
Not this.
He didn't cry.
He didn’t scream or punch a wall, didn’t tear the mirror from the hinges like he wanted to. He just stood there. Let the shame settle in his chest like lead.
Eventually, he turned away.
He dragged himself through the quiet of his apartment, through the empty living room and the half-unpacked groceries still on the table. Through the silence that used to be filled with his own music, his own voice.
He collapsed onto the bed without changing out of his clothes, face buried in the pillow that still smelled faintly of cedar shampoo—the kind Aizawa used to borrow from him back in high school. The scent had lingered for years. He never bought a different brand.
Sleep didn’t come easy. It never did anymore. But eventually, exhaustion pulled him under.
And then he dreamed.
It was soft, at first.
Oboro’s laugh—loud and full, echoing down the hallway. Shouta beside him, scowling but never really mad, nudging Hizashi with his shoulder as they walked together after class. Hizashi remembered the warmth of it. The way Shouta always walked a little slower so their steps would match.
“I saved you a drink,” Oboro said in the dream, smiling, handing Hizashi a bottle of that terrible strawberry milk he used to love.
“You always save him one,” Shouta muttered under his breath.
Oboro winked. “I’m not the one who stares at his ass every training session.”
“Oboro.”
But Shouta’s ears were red. Hizashi laughed.
It was stupid. Warm. Real.
In the dream, Hizashi reached for them. For both of them. Laughing, talking—three idiots with everything ahead of them. And just for a moment, everything felt whole.
Then the hallway shifted.
Blood on the walls.
A siren. A scream.
He turned to see Oboro, but his face was gone. Just shadow, bone, teeth. His laugh twisted into static.
Shouta was shouting something—his voice distant, panicked, underwater. “Hizashi—!”
But Hizashi couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. He was rooted to the floor as the world bled out around him.
When he woke, it was with a choked breath and aching ribs. The pillow damp beneath his face, the room suffocatingly dark.
He sat up slowly, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. The bandage tugged slightly on his palm, grounding him but not enough.
The dream clung to him like oil.
Oboro’s laugh. Shouta’s flushed ears. The way he used to imagine what it might feel like, just once, to reach out and take what he wanted. A moment. A kiss. Something more than friendship. Something real.
But it was never real.
Shouta never saw him that way. Not really.
And now it was too late to find out.
He sat in the dark for a long time, eyes unfocused, chest tight.
The worst part wasn’t the dream. The worst part was waking up. Because in the dream, they were all still alive. A trio, like it was meant to be. Happy, just living life like they were supposed to.
And for a moment… he’d almost believed it.
He tried to catch his breath, sweat cooling on his skin, clinging to the sheets like guilt. Slowly, his eyes drifted toward the digital clock blinking on the nightstand.
5:03 AM.
He should get up.
He should shower, force down breakfast, get dressed for patrol, show up to class with that obnoxiously bright smile and “YO YO YO!” like nothing's wrong. He’s done it before—played the part so well no one noticed the cracks in the paint.
He should.
So why can’t he move?
His limbs felt like concrete, heavy with something he couldn’t name. His lungs still burned from the dream—or maybe from the hollow in his chest that had started feeling permanent. He stared at the ceiling like it might give him an answer, but all it gave him was silence. The kind that filled your ears after someone screams.
He rolled onto his side, burying his face into the pillow. It smelled like him—faint, fading, but still there. That same cedar scent he used to tease Shouta about. Said it made him smell like a lumberjack. Shouta would roll his eyes, but he never switched brands.
He shut his own eyes, breathing in slowly. As if doing so would bring him back. As if that scent could carry him to a version of the world where Oboro wasn’t dead and Aizawa didn’t look at him with eyes that said “I care” but never lips that confirmed it.
He cares. But not enough.
Not in the way Hizashi wants him to. Not the way he's ached for all these years.
The worst part? He would’ve been happy with scraps. A moment. A look. A kiss in the dark they’d never talk about again.
But even that never came.
He stayed like that for a long time, until the light began creeping through the blinds. When the clock hit 5:48, he finally sat up, slow, mechanical.
His feet touched the floor like they were foreign objects. His body moved on autopilot.
Shower. Clothes. Hair in a bun. Glasses on.
He skipped breakfast.
He left the apartment without saying goodbye to anyone, like he had someone to say it to.
Outside, the city began to stir. Sirens in the distance. The hum of early trains. The world moved, unaware, uncaring.
Yet his day passed as it always did, on the surface, at least. He cracked his usual jokes, exaggerated his movements just enough to make the students laugh, and flashed his trademark grin that had long since lost its roots in joy. Every word he spoke felt like it came from someone else’s mouth. Every gesture carefully placed, rehearsed. Inside, he was running on nothing but fumes and habit, barely able to remember what it felt like to be genuine. Still, he pushed through the lessons, took attendance, scolded Denki for nearly electrocuting himself again, all while pretending the skin on his back wasn’t crawling.
Because it was.
He’d felt it from the moment he stepped into the staff room. That weighted stare, sharp and unwavering, that followed him through the corridors, lingered too long in the corners of classrooms, and pierced through the thin mask he was desperately trying to hold up. Shouta. He didn’t need to look to confirm it, he could feel it. Always could. Aizawa’s gaze had a way of slicing through the noise of the world, landing right where it hurt the most.
There was something terrifying about being seen. Really seen.
And Shouta always saw him. Even when Hizashi was good at hiding, especially when he was pretending. He hated how much he longed for that, and yet, how much it left him exposed.
When Shouta looked at him like that—quiet and intense, like he was reading pages Hizashi never meant to write—it made him want to disappear. It made him want to scream. It made him want to crumble and just ask, ‘Why didn’t you ask me if I was okay weeks ago? Why did you let me fall this far?’
But he didn’t.
Instead, he turned away each time their eyes almost met. He talked louder, smiled wider, cracked a joke to a student who wasn’t even listening. Anything to keep from being vulnerable. Anything to avoid the confrontation he’d been silently begging for. He didn’t know if he wanted Shouta to grab him by the shoulders and demand the truth or if he just wanted him to sit quietly and stay. Just stay.
He’d spent so many nights turning over memories like pebbles in his hand. The way Shouta used to sit close to him in high school, shoulder-to-shoulder in silence while Hizashi filled the air with words. The way Oboro used to call them “an old married couple” and Hizashi would laugh but part of him hoped.
The little things that didn’t mean much to anyone else: the way Shouta always brought Hizashi coffee, with just the right amount of milk and honey, muttering of how insulting his taste is, the way he adjusted Hizashis collar when it was crooked, the rare times he said Hizashi’s name instead of his callsign. Every small, quiet gesture twisted into something almost tender. And every time, Hizashi let himself believe—maybe. Just maybe.
But Shouta had never crossed the line. Never said anything. Never stopped him from falling apart.
And now? Now it was too late to hope. Because if he let those feelings fester, if he let them rise up now when he was already teetering so close to the edge, they’d devour him whole. So he shoved them down, just like everything else. Let Aizawa look. Let him see. Hizashi wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of breaking.
Not out loud, at least.
But he could feel the breaking. It trembled in his hands when no one was looking. It echoed in the empty hallways when he walked alone. It haunted his dreams and filled the space in his apartment as if Oboro was truly there, laughing in the lonely space that Shouta never steps into anymore these days.
He thought about going to him. About knocking on his door and falling apart right there on the floor, voice shaking and finally saying it—I can’t do this alone anymore. I can’t carry all this and pretend it doesn’t hurt. I miss him. I miss you. I miss whatever we could have been.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stayed in the staff room until his paperwork was finished, eyes locked on the papers, ignoring the heavy weight of Shouta’s gaze. He left without saying goodbye.
At least—that’s what he intended to do.
His hand had barely grazed the cold metal of the door handle when the chair behind him scraped across the floor. The sound was subtle, but to Hizashi, it may as well have been an explosion. He didn’t have time to turn before a hand settled on his shoulder—firm, warm, familiar. And devastating. His breath hitched in his throat. The weight of that single touch made his entire body go still. Paralyzed. A thousand thoughts surged through him, none coherent. Was this panic? Was this something else? Was this the stupid, traitorous part of him that still ached every time Shouta so much as looked his way?
“Hizashi. Stay,” Shouta said, his voice low, dry—but softened around the edges in a way Hizashi hadn’t heard in a long time. “Let’s talk.”
It was always like that with him. Rough, clipped, but threaded with something gentle. Something that made everything worse. Something that made Hizashi’s ribs ache.
He couldn’t turn around. Couldn’t face him. Not like this. Not with his mask cracked halfway down the middle, barely holding on. His fingers tightened around the door handle, knuckles paling. Why now? Why after weeks of silence, weeks of pretending he didn’t notice Hizashi fading out at the edges?
And yet… that hand. That voice. That invitation. It felt like a single step toward something Hizashi didn’t dare name.
His mouth was dry. The saliva collecting at the back of his throat refused to go down, his breath was shallow and grating, like his own body was rejecting the moment. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Only a shallow breath, tight and quick. He couldn’t even look at him. If he did, he might unravel right here in the doorway, with no audience but the man who could destroy him with one kind word.
“You look like shit,” Shouta added after a pause, quieter, almost… mournful.
That did it. Hizashi let out a sharp, humorless laugh—barely more than a breath. “Gee, thanks. Real charmer, you.”
“I mean it.” Shouta’s voice didn’t shift. “You haven’t been sleeping. You’ve dropped weight. You’ve been screwing up patrol reports. I know you think you’re hiding it, but you’re not.”
He sees me.
Of course he did. Of course. Shouta always saw him. That was the problem. Hizashi’s carefully constructed mask never lasted long under that gaze. It stripped him bare, down to every ache, every grief, every secret he buried beneath a loud laugh and a flick of blond hair.
“I’m fine,” Hizashi said, voice low, brittle. A reflex more than a statement. “You don’t need to-”
“I do.” Shouta cut in, sharp now. That same old stubbornness undercut with something deeper. Something that made Hizashi flinch.
He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to stand here in the ruins of what used to be simple, in the silence that now buzzed between them like static. He wanted to scream at him. Why didn’t you talk to me sooner? Why did you let me fall apart in front of you? But the words wouldn’t come. Too vulnerable. Too raw.
And maybe what terrified him the most… was how much he wanted to stay.
Not for the talk. Not for some heart-to-heart that might tear him apart further.
But because it was Shouta. Because part of him still ached for the man who used to sit beside him in silence, letting Hizashi ramble just to fill the air, letting him exist without needing to perform.
And somewhere deep in that ache was the truth he kept locked down harder than anything else:
He was still in love with him. Pathetically. Quietly. Always.
And right now… Shouta might’ve just figured that out.
“Let’s talk, Yamada.”
The words weren’t sharp or stern—they were careful, spoken like Aizawa was handling glass that had already cracked. His hand lingered for a second longer on Hizashi’s shoulder before falling away. The absence of it made Hizashi’s skin prickle with cold, like stepping out into a sudden gust of winter wind. He didn’t realize how much he’d leaned into that warmth until it vanished.
Aizawa’s voice dipped softer still. “Privately.”
There were a thousand ways Hizashi could say no. He could scoff, wave it off, turn it into a joke like he always did. Claim he had reports to finish. Claim he had somewhere else to be. Claim he was fine. But none of those lies ever worked on Shouta, not in high school, not during the worst of their early hero years, and especially not now.
Aizawa had this maddening ability to know when to pull back and when to push forward. For weeks now, he’d given Hizashi distance, as if waiting for him to come back to himself. But now? Now that Hizashi had clearly come undone? There was no space left to give.
And Hizashi knew—he knew—that once Shouta set his mind to something, he’d follow it through to the bitter end. Even if that meant dragging Hizashi through hell just to get him to talk.
So he nodded. A small, jerky thing. Wordless. A surrender.
The walk to Aizawa’s apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that wrapped around Hizashi like a heavy coat, suffocating him. No music. No chatter. Just the sound of their footsteps echoing on the pavement. He couldn’t even bring himself to fill the silence, not with the thoughts crowding his head, loud, suffocating, bitter.
He glanced at Aizawa from the corner of his eye more times than he cared to admit. There was something painful about the way Shouta walked, shoulders hunched like the weight of the world lived there, hands stuffed in his pockets like he could somehow shield himself from this conversation too. Hizashi had known that posture since they were teenagers. He’d loved it since they were teenagers, though he’d never said a word.
He remembered once, back in their second year, walking behind Aizawa in the rain, umbrella forgotten, watching how Shouta’s hair stuck to his jaw and how his fingers twitched at his sides like he was holding something invisible. He always looked like he was carrying something too big for his body. Hizashi remembered wanting to carry it for him. Even just a little. Even if it meant being crushed too.
But now? Shouta looked heavier than ever. And Hizashi? Hizashi had become a burden, not a relief.
By the time they reached the apartment, Hizashi almost turned back. But Shouta unlocked the door before he could say anything, wordlessly stepping inside and leaving it open behind him. That was enough of an invitation.
The place was… minimal. Stark, really. Everything neat, sparse. The couch was worn but clean. A few framed photos faced inward on a shelf. Hizashi didn’t dare look too long at them. A quiet meow echoed from the hallway as sushi, the cat, trotted in, brushing against Shouta’s legs before darting toward Hizashi. Its been long since Hizashi has been inside Aizawas apartment, yet nothing had changed.
He crouched instinctively, letting it rub against his hand. “Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice raspier than he expected. “Still the only one in this house who likes noise, huh?”
Aizawa didn’t comment. He just moved to the kitchen area, poured a glass of water, while making some tea at the same time , placing it silently on the table before sitting down.
“Come here,” he said.
And Hizashi did. Like a moth to flame. Like a man walking to the gallows with no protest.
He didn’t touch the water. Didn’t speak. Just sat, eyes on the hardwood floor, hands folded too tightly in his lap.
“You’ve been off for weeks,” Shouta said finally. “You know I don’t care how good your act is. I see through it.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Hizashi muttered before he could stop himself. His voice cracked like glass under pressure.
Aizawa looked at him then, not angry. Just tired. “I always see through you.”
And that—God, that—was the worst part. That Aizawa knew him down to the marrow. Knew every fake grin. Knew when Hizashi was trying to distract himself. Knew when his silences weren’t peaceful but screaming. Knew that the moment he’d started avoiding eye contact in the teachers’ lounge, something had snapped inside him.
“What do you want from me, Shouta?” Hizashi whispered. “A confession? You want me to say I’ve been falling apart? That I’ve been sleeping three hours a night and pretending everything’s fine because if I stop smiling for even a second I might fucking shatter?”
Silence.
He looked up—regretted it instantly.
Aizawa was staring at him like he’d been punched in the gut. And for once, he didn’t look tired. He looked… hurt.
“I just want you to let me in,” he said. Quiet. Raw. “You let everyone see the version of you that’s bright and loud and okay. You never let anyone see what’s underneath.”
“Because they don’t want to,” Hizashi snapped. “They don’t care. Barely anyone has ever stayed long enough to see that version, and even when they did, I fell so hard that I pulled them down with me.”
“I stay,” Aizawa said, his voice rising for the first time. “I’ve always stayed. Ice never fallen because of you.”
And that—....Hizashi couldn’t breathe.
He looked away, blinking hard. His throat burned.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he confessed, voice cracking. “I didn’t want you to think I was weak. Less of a fucking man.”
“I’ve seen every version of you,” Shouta said. “And I still—” He stopped himself. Looked down at his hands. Then up again. “And I’m still here.”
That last line splintered something in Hizashi’s chest.
Maybe later, he’d cry.
But for now, he just whispered, “I missed you,” like it was a sin to say it.
And Shouta—quiet, careful, infuriatingly perceptive—just reached out and put his hand over Hizashi’s.
“Then let me stay.”
Hizashi wanted nothing more than to collapse into the comfort of this moment, to lean back into the rare softness Shouta was offering, to let himself be seen and not immediately build walls in response. But it felt cruel. Cruel to accept warmth under false pretenses. Because the truth, the whole truth; had claws, and it was buried deep in his chest, ripping him apart from the inside out.
He kept telling himself this was about Oboro. About loss. About the ache of what they'd never get back. But it wasn’t just grief. That was the safe explanation. The one he could repeat like a prayer whenever his hands started to shake.
But the dreams… the ones that left him cold and breathless at night? They weren’t just of Oboro. They were of both of them, laughter echoing in empty hallways, a hand brushing his in passing, the softness in Shouta’s eyes that only ever seemed to appear when he thought Hizashi wasn’t looking.
It wasn’t grief that made his voice catch in his throat every time Shouta got too close. It was fear. Of everything he’d buried. Of feeling too much.
“I…” Hizashi began, voice low and dry, his fingers gripping the hem of his sleeve. “It’s not just about Oboro. It never was.”
He didn’t look up, but he could feel Aizawa’s gaze land on him. That still, heavy kind of attention Shouta reserved only for things that mattered. It made Hizashi's throat burn.
“I keep thinking about the past. About us. The three of us,” Hizashi continued. “What we had… what we could’ve had. I keep—” He paused, breath trembling. “I keep wondering how things would’ve looked if I’d just said something. Back then.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. It wasn’t judgment. It wasn’t rejection. Just… silence. Still. Watching. Waiting.
“You’re not saying something now, either,” Aizawa said finally, voice calm but pointed. His movements were deceptively casual, but Hizashi knew better. He always knew better with Shouta. The man could teach a class with a broken rib and make it look effortless, but he couldn't hide concern. Not from Hizashi.
“Maybe because I’m scared I’ll ruin everything,” Hizashi admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because this… this friendship—it’s the one thing I’ve had that’s survived everything else. Losing you would…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.
Shouta didn’t say anything at first. He sat down in the armchair across from Hizashi, curling his legs under himself like he always did at home, eyes sharp and unreadable as they flicked over Hizashi’s face.
“You haven’t lost me,” he said. Not a promise, not a reassurance, just a fact. Firm and unshaken.
“But you’re pulling,” Hizashi choked out before he could stop himself. “You always pull away when I get like this, and then you show up when I’m too far gone. And it’s not fair. You look at me like you see right through me, but you don’t say anything. And I-” He looked away, ashamed of the tremble in his voice. “I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter.”
He could feel it, everything crashing up against the back of his teeth. All the years he spent trying not to want more. Trying not to need more. Trying to survive on scraps of attention, on shared patrols, on casual gestures that meant everything to him and probably nothing to Shouta.
Aizawa stared for a long moment. Then, finally, he spoke—quietly.
“I’ve always seen you, Hizashi. Even when you were trying not to be seen.” His voice held no edge, only that rare, unbearable softness. “And if I pull back… it’s not because I don’t care.”
Hizashi looked up, throat raw.
“Then why?”
A pause. A breath.
“Because I was afraid,” Aizawa said simply. “That if I reached too far, you’d shut the door for good.”
And Hizashi, who had always been the loudest man in the room, suddenly found himself speechless.
"...I care about you."
The words came out quieter than Hizashi expected, like they cost Shouta something to say aloud. Aizawa rubbed the back of his neck, fingers lingering there for a moment too long, an unspoken tell Hizashi knew all too well. A rare flicker of nervousness. Vulnerability.
“More than you think,” Aizawa added, just barely above a whisper. His eyes dropped for the briefest moment, as if the weight of what he’d said forced him to look away. But then they were back—steady, dark, and so damn earnest. “And that scares me.”
It landed like a stone in Hizashi’s chest. His breath hitched. His heart stuttered. He’d imagined Shouta saying those words more times than he cared to admit—but in daydreams, it was always easier. Cleaner. Without the guilt, the fear, the timing so horribly off-kilter.
And still, hearing them now? It hurt.
Because it wasn’t the kind of confession meant to start something. It was the kind meant to hold something back.
Hizashi could see it in his eyes, that hesitation, the history behind them. Shouta had always been like this. Stoic, careful, steady… until he wasn’t. Until something cracked through the armor. Oboro had noticed it all the way back then. He’d tease Shouta relentlessly about the way he hovered around Hizashi, how he never missed a chance to sit beside him, how he always listened when Hizashi rambled, even when no one else could keep up.
And Shouta would brush it off, call it nothing, say it was just Oboro being ridiculous. But Hizashi remembered now—he remembered the way Shouta’s lips had twitched into the ghost of a smile whenever Hizashi laughed too hard. The way his gaze softened in moments Hizashi wasn’t supposed to notice.
It had always been there. Always.
And yet here they were, grown men, tired heroes, trying to hold their broken pieces together in the silence of an apartment that smelled faintly of cat fur and tea. They’d both spent years pretending this wasn’t real. Hizashi buried it in laughter and noise. Aizawa in silence and avoidance.
Now it was between them. And it was too late. Or too soon. Or maybe just the wrong moment entirely.
“We’re both messed up,” Hizashi said quietly, almost smiling, though there was no joy in it. “Aren’t we?”
Aizawa didn’t argue. He didn’t have to. The truth hung heavy between them.
They were both flawed in ways that didn’t always fit together cleanly. Aizawa’s instinct to retreat. Hizashi’s tendency to perform instead of process. The way they tiptoed around each other, waiting for one to push when the other pulled. Even now, after everything, it had taken weeks for Aizawa to reach out. And Hizashi… Hizashi still hadn’t said what he really wanted to.
Maybe they weren’t meant to figure this out now. Not when Hizashi’s skin was still raw from whatever storm had been brewing inside him. Not when the ache of losing Oboro still lingered like phantom pain. Not when neither of them was ready for what more would actually mean.
Aizawa exhaled slowly, almost like he was reading Hizashi’s mind.
“Right now… you need a friend.” His voice was low, steady, even if it trembled ever so slightly. “Not anything else. And I’m okay with that.”
Hizashi didn’t respond right away. Just sat there, staring into the steam curling off his untouched tea. He wanted to scream. To ask why now. To say it wasn’t fair. But instead, he nodded, just once.
“Okay,” he whispered.
But deep down, they both knew it wasn’t over. Not really. Not forever.
There would be another moment. Another time. When the grief wasn’t so fresh, and the silence between them didn’t feel so sharp.
And maybe then… they’d stop being cowards.
It was quiet after that. Not the kind of silence that aches, but one that wraps around you like a blanket. Hizashi stayed the night without needing to ask, and Aizawa didn’t offer out loud. He just… made space. The way he always did when it mattered.
They didn’t talk about what had been said. Didn’t talk about what hadn’t. The TV played some old rerun neither of them really watched, flickering shadows across the empty walls of Aizawa’s apartment. Sushi curled up at their feet, purring softly, reminding him that this space had aways felt more like home than Hizashis own walls. Maybe because Shouta is right next to him.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak. He just breathed. And Aizawa let him.
He let Hizashi slump against him, head resting on his shoulder, the warmth between them subtle but grounding. No questions. No pushing. Just presence.
It was strange how something so simple could feel so much like healing.
The burden didn’t vanish, but it loosened its grip. The ache didn’t leave, but it dulled at the edges. And though Hizashi hadn’t said a single word about what had been unraveling inside him these past weeks, for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was carrying it alone.
He appreciated that. The way Aizawa knew when to pull, when to pause. The way their silence said everything they couldn’t.
When sleep came, it was easy. Hizashi, curled into the couch beside the man he had spent so many years loving from a distance, let his guard fall without even realizing it. The weight of unsaid things settled into the background. There’d be time. Or maybe there wouldn’t. But right now, this? It was enough.
He didn’t dream of falling, or of Oboro’s voice calling out from the void. No nightmares. Just quiet. Just warmth.
And beside him, Aizawa, who rarely slept well, whose mind rarely ever slowed—dreamed, too. Of laughter. Of light. Of things that never got the chance to bloom, but maybe still could.
They should’ve had this moment years ago. Maybe Aizawa should’ve seen through the jokes sooner. Maybe Hizashi should’ve opened his mouth before the grief drowned him.
But now mattered more than then.
Now, they are here. Not as lovers. Not quite. But as something more than friends. A connection made in loss, in loyalty, a friend with a heart too big for this world , all resulting in years of almosts and maybes.
And for the first time in weeks, in months, maybe longer—
they both slept through the night.
Together.