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     Hizashi left his dinner supplies sitting out on the counter when he got the phone call from a nearby hospital that was, apparently, holding Shōta. He pulled on the first pair of shoes he saw and sent rapid fire texts to his Ma to be sure the cats were taken care of as his hands shook against the steering wheel. He listened to the radio on the way over for the sake of news as the hospital had only told him Shōta was injured and not conscious. The news was only boasting about All Might’s victory against some group of villains, and when no mention of a hero in goggles, of Eraserhead, of a Mr. Aizawa was heard he turned it off to allow silence to ring deadly in his ears. Hizashi gripped his wheel so hard it ached in his knuckles and pinched his skin with his wedding band.

  He barely managed to park his car as he rushed toward the entrance, the slip on shoes he wore were a touch too tight and his hair was half out of the bun he’d tossed it into. He was lucky he was even wearing his glasses and, from the way the front desk stared at him, they knew already. “Aizawa Hizashi,” He blurted to the startled man behind the computer. “Please, my husband,” The man cut him off with a nod then stood wordlessly, moving around the desk to lead Hizashi down the hall.

  Hizashi stood trembling in the doorway at the sight of Shōta lying in the hospital bed. He wouldn’t have believed it was his husband if the nurse had not dropped him off here in a private section of the hospital, seemingly secluded for heroes as it lacked nameplates and charts. He was ushered inside and the door was slid shut but he did not move. A mass of damp black hair haloed around the man in bed, breathing steadily in time with a machine behind him. The blanket covered up to his chest and everything else was bandages. The keys slipping from his palm startled Hizashi badly enough that he abandoned them to wobble forward. His legs trembled and his knees knocked, but he eventually made it to the bed. Shōta was sleeping soundly, most likely due to the painkillers the IV was feeding him, and the way his hair lie told Hizashi someone had washed it.

  He could not bring himself to touch his husband and instead gripped the scratchy blanket with all the force his quaking muscles could muster as his eyes blurred, then his face became wet. He sucked down air and brought his eyes to the beeping of the monitor behind him, activating his quirk and focusing on the noise that brought him comfort and unease at the same time. Hizashi yearned to touch his husband, to press his ear against his chest and hear the heartbeat. But making the monitor louder as he removed his glasses and pressed his forehead to the blankets was close enough. Hizashi took another breath and let himself cry.

     Nemuri frowned from the doorway as she came with the blankets Hizashi had requested of her. From what the civilian’s Ma had told her, she had come to their house as soon as she could to the stink of meat left out and room temperature broth sitting stagnant in a nearby pot, though their two old cats were still fine on food and water. Nemuri brought the blankets to Shōta’s hospital bed and carefully began stripping off the starched, pale blue blanket to rest the soft set onto her longtime friend. Hizashi looked like a wreck, she thought. She turned to him and spoke calmly.

  “Honey, you have to go home. It’s been three days, you can’t live here.” Hizashi did not respond, only held his palms out enough to feel the heat radiating off Shōta’s skin through the thin hospital gown. “They’ll call when he actually wakes up.” Hizashi pulled his hands away and wrapped his own arms tight around himself. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair awfully flat, bent at odd angles from being held in a ponytail for too long while the ends were frizzed from being pulled on. “I want to be here. I don't want a phone call.” He spoke soft and tired, his body somehow curled to fit into the small chair Nemuri knew he’d been sleeping in.

  “Why don’t you let me stay here?” She asked gingerly as she brought a hand to cradle the side of his face. Hizashi responded as she worried he might and tipped into the contact, skin clammy and the circles under his eyes deep. Hizashi’s eyebrows drew in tight and his eyes squeezed shut while his shaking hands gripped his wrinkled shirt. “I was so scared this would happen after the first time he got hurt. I was so scared and now -- now,” His voice pitched off as a sob wracked his chest. Nemuri bent to sweep him into a tight hug, one that was returned desperately.

  Tensei stayed only long enough to visit Shōta himself. It was too hard to see his friend this way, he thought, too hard to see such a powerful hero brought down and injured. He knew from Tenya's accounts that his best friend had fought to keep the students safe -- that only brought him so much comfort as he drove his friend’s dispirited husband to his own home. He did not want to leave the poor man alone as Tensei knew the civilian was too unused to the worse end of injuries heroes risked so often. He turned on soft music and when Hizashi fell asleep, carried the man inside.

  When Hizashi awoke, he woke in a generous guest room with a pair of clothes lying next to him. They were clearly pulled from his own wardrobe by his Mom, he was sure, from the way they were clearly for comfort. He made a mental note to thank his mothers endlessly for both taking care of his and Shōta’s cats and home when he felt okay enough to do so. Attached to the comfortable guest room was a bathroom stocked full of untouched body washes and shampoos. It was hard to drag himself from the bed to the shower, and even harder to wash himself, but the motivation in mind was Nemuri’s soft reminder that she would phone him.

  Hizashi was eating dinner and managing to feel a little more like a real person on the fourth day when not Nemuri, but a hero he did not personally know was the one who called Tensei. The two were up quickly, though Tensei demanded Hizashi put on a real outfit and shoes before they could go. Hizashi did not argue, though he burned with want to do so. He instead followed what the man told him to do, hands sweating as he pulled his soft hair into a ponytail and dressed in the outfit Tensei had recently washed.

  After the tense car ride of Tensei filling the quiet with talk of anything he could think of, the two made their way to the hospital room Hizashi knew every miserable corner of. Tensei left him with a heavy, reassuring hand on his shoulder. The civilian stepped through with his hands clutching his fresh shirt and eyes already damp. The mass of bandages that his husband had become was sitting up in bed and watching outside the window to the boring, plain view of the dark parking lot. Hizashi felt as if he were witnessing Shōta lying injured in this room for the first time as a sound from deep in his core clawed out of his throat and snapped Shōta’s attention to him. He abandoned the door to cross the small room with two strides, sitting so heavily the chair he'd occupied for days scraped and squeaked. He tucked his face deep into his own palms. He still could not bear touching Shōta.

  “Hizashi,” Shōta spoke quietly, deep voice raspy with disuse as he was lucid and aware for the first time in what felt like years to his aching body. He swallowed as his husband cried, his casted arms shifting uselessly in the slings around his neck. “Hizashi, you can touch me.” The civilian shook his head and sent his ponytail swaying as his tears leaked from behind his fingers. Shōta settled deeper onto the stack of pillows he requested Nemuri stuff behind his body and shuffled his sore legs. “Please?”

  Hizashi sniffed and scrubbed at his face before he stood and tenderly, carefully lowered himself onto the creaking hospital bed. He wrapped his arms around Shōta and rested back until they lie together against the pillows. Shōta rested his head on Hizashi’s chest as his husband slowly carded one hand through his tangled hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so scared to hurt you worse, I..” Shōta hummed and turned his face upward to gaze at how exhausted his husband looked. It made his chest ache worse than any injury he had endured.

  “Shh.” He said simply as his eyes drooped shut. “I’m alive.” Hizashi sniffled, hiccuped, and nodded. “I know. I love you.” Shōta cracked one eye open to watch Hizashi slump and shut his own eyes after pushing his glasses up into his hair to press his forehead to his own head. “I love you too. I’m not going anywhere, Sunshine.” Hizashi choked and twisted his fingers into Shōta’s hair, tucking his face in deeper and pressing a kiss to his skull. “I know.”