Breathe in (Through, Deep, Out)

by mackied

Summary:

Present Mic has just been declared as dead, after four months of searching. Shouta and Nemuri don't know how to deal with the grief.

They're especially out of their element when a certain blonde calls them for help, who isn't exactly postmortem, just post-traumatic.

[I'll return to writing this one day...]

Chapter 1: they don't come with guarantees.

Hizashi Yamada is dead. The commission came to that conclusion three weeks ago, after nearly four months of searching for a sign of life. He’s been missing for a little more than that, but it took weeks of pressuring to get the commission to open an investigation. Finally, they’ve settled on dead without a body to recover, and they’ll bury an open casket tomorrow morning when the sun comes up. The other pros have patrols to get to, and they can’t have some unranked funeral interrupting the shift change. 

Shouta doesn’t want to go. 

The man has bags under his eyes deep enough to carry furniture and a distinct, sticky smell to his clothes that leaves him pinned down to the sheets night after night. His back hurts, his joints hurt, his teeth somehow found a way to ache. His cheek has dehydration lines etched in like wrinkles from where his skin hits the pillows. Shouta Aizawa is…

He’s sick. He doesn’t want to say it like that, but it's true. He’s sick with sadness. It’s not something he’s had to confront before, but right now? Another hiccup, close to gagging as he lies there in a heap on his shitty pull-out couch instead of a bed. It wasn’t this bad when Shirakumo died, and in that incident, Shouta heard the crunch of brain matter on concrete in the distant field of his mind. Here? He’s seen nothing, knows nothing. He didn’t even get to say goodbye. Their last conversation was something stupid--Hizashi inviting him out for their shared lunch break, and getting the response of “no, Yamada, can’t you see I’m busy?” in that same tone that someone uses when they secretly don’t like you all that much, but don’t want to tell you. 

Shouta loved Hizashi. He loved Hizashi more than anything else. God, why was Shouta so mean ? Without the blonde’s presence, Shouta hasn’t had the energy to pretend to be a person. He hasn’t been to work, or to his scheduled patrols. He’s stopped answering his phone when his superiors try to reach him. He’s pushing people away, and he knows it. There’s regrets–of course there’s regrets. When has Shouta ever lived a life without regret? When has Shouta ever lived a life that wasn’t destined to be lonely? 

His phone rings. He doesn’t answer it. They’ve all learned to leave him alone by now, and they won’t try to call him again. But then Shouta’s phone rings again and he nearly throws it across the room, but that would require him actually getting up, which is too much effort for his heart that feels anchored in the center of the sheets. Whoever it is calls for a third, and fourth time, and even then he doesn’t answer. It’s probably a collector, or the landlord, or Nedzu finally telling him that he’s fired. Good riddance. 

But then there’s a hesitant knock on his door, and Shouta speaks for the first time in months . “Who is it?” With the same amount of irritation that he feels. 

The sound of keys in the lock give him enough time to sit up. It’s the only living person with keys to his apartment--Nemuri Kayama. She’s coming for a wellness check. The only person that deserves a wellness check isn’t here. “Aizawa?” She sounds worried, but it's terse and well-contained. She’s always well-contained. “Are you home?” 

Shouta’s head spins with even the smallest motion. Is he drunk? Hungry? Just exhausted and stagnant? Thirsty? Thirsty. He lets out a grunt, a huff, a breath of air to show that there still is life in this dead, musty space that he has to call home. 

Nemuri pads her way, mindfully quiet, into Shouta’s bedroom. She looks…well, she always looks good , but it’s clear that this is hitting her heart. She looks concerned at best, and unkempt at worst. She isn’t her best self. 

“Aizawa.” She sits down next to him on the bed-couch, giving him ample space to stretch out and find his footing. He only nods in greeting, too tired, maybe too crusty to make his mouth move. Nemuri knows that look, of all looks, so she asks him. “How long has it been since you’ve left bed?”

“...Kayama.” That’s his answer. A disappointed, sad, sick you already know kind of answer. “Please.” 

“Point taken.” She sighs, taking in the environment that Aizawa has been living in. It’s not much of a life. “You know, Yamada wouldn’t want you to sulk like this.” 

“Yamada isn’t here to say what he wants.” Shouta raises his voice, but his throat is so dry that it's a sickly, congested rasp. It’s more of a sob. 

Nemuri always had this way of brushing things off like they didn’t bother her, and he’s jealous of that. She wasn’t like Shouta, who had to throw himself into something so he wouldn’t cave in on himself. She could just exist in her grief, and go back to normal. Shouta…Shouta will never be normal again. He wasn’t even normal the first time he lost a friend. 

Shouta doesn’t look at her perfectly composed face when he speaks again. “You don’t know anything about him.” He stares at his dirty feet in the carpet and clenches his toes as if to keep himself grounded in one spot, and not wherever she wants him to get up and party. 

“I know…I know that he was lively.” She’s really trying. She goes to reach for his hair, to brush it out of his face. He flinches back, and she puts her hand in her lap. “He was joyous. He hated anything dull, or drab, or-”

“Depressing?” Shouta scoots further away from her. Her perfume wafts into his face. It smells good, but he doesn’t want anything good anywhere near him. He just wants to go back to bed. “Because I’m allowed to feel depressed that my friend is dead.” 

For once in their relationship, Shouta sees a new feeling on Nemuri’s face. Frustration. Eyebrows pinched down, ungroomed. Unmade. Something she can’t easily brush off with a glass of wine and good company. “You’re allowed to be depressed.” She asks, inching closer to him still. She reaches a hand out, open-palmed and ready to hold  “But you aren’t allowed to just give up.” 

“What other choice do I have?” He’s too dehydrated for tears. His voice cracks, beyond the dryness. It’s pitchy, and weak. Shouta is weak. “He’s gone, Kayama.” 

“We’re not done looking for him.” She insists, reaching for his cracked hand and holding it tight, even if he doesn’t want it. His hair drapes over his face like a curtain, a final attempt at hiding. “Even if the commission is…” 

Then, on top of the frustration, is pure grief. It’s sudden, it’s uncharacteristic, it hurts Shouta to listen to. A broken faucet, squeaky and rusty--Nemuri is like a balloon pushed to its very fullest, and she bursts, splattering plastic in places that are too difficult to clean. She sobs. Snotty and wet with her tears, she’s drowning herself in the salty water. She hides her face in her hands, as if embarrassed to act as this, but not embarrassed enough to stop. 

It's genuine. Shouta doesn’t know how to deal with genuine, but he has the decency left in him to put a hand on her back and trace gentle circles with his thumbs. It surprises him. She’s breathing, scratchy and slow. Her cries are evidence that she’s alive. Shouta has none of this evidence for himself. She pulls him by the hair into her chest, pressing his ear to her heart as she tries to suffocate whatever devil took hold of the only one she’s got left. “He’d want you to- get up Aizawa! Go back to work, go help those kids.” She snivels. A final attempt at convincing her friend to come back. Even if he’s not Hizashi, even if Shouta is quiet and mellow and pissy , he’s still human. He’s grounding. 

“You’re wrong.” He points his finger directly into the fat of her sternum, tone flat and emotionless. He doesn’t have the strength to break down in tears, but his voice is empathy enough. “He’d want me to rest. ”

She sniffs, burying her face in his hair. She takes a sniff, like when you’re holding a newborn baby. He doesn’t smell good, but he smells like home. He smells like him. He smells alive, even if it's musty and sick. He smells like Shouta--unwashed hair, the grime of a stray cat, and a little bit like Hizashi’s cologne. “...Please.” She squeezes him tighter. He can’t breathe, but he’s not sure that he wants to. “This isn’t rest.”

He closes his eyes for just a second. He hasn’t been held in a while, and her begging is convincing him to try. He doesn’t want to admit it, and he absolutely won’t give in, but it's nice to be cared for. To be checked up on. To be loved. He hates himself for wanting these things, when he has so much to be upset about. He hates himself for wanting to be genuine, and not just appease her grief, too. 

The scent of her gets stronger. It’s something that you can’t quite describe with perfume notes, so you have to describe it in feelings. Love. Care. A little bit like silk pillows and the way that cats stretch out in the sunshine. Lilacs, but not the smell of lilacs, just the undeniable purple-blueness of the flower itself. Mothers that worry and fuss too much about their children when they’re sick. Hizashi. Hizashi Yamada. 

Shouta knows what’s happening to him, then. He doesn’t have the heart to be angry, but his hair raises, even though he won’t lift his head. He needs to turn, to find her and cancel her plans, but he stays staring off into space.

“He wants you to get real rest.” She sniffles, wiping her eye and settling her voice. She pets him right behind the ears, trying to soothe him. “So you’re coming back with me.”

“No…” Shouta doesn’t protest any more than that, though. His eyes are already closing.

“Yes…” She kisses him on the top of his head. He doesn’t taste good. She rubs her finger down the slope of his nose, then back up again in time with her quiet hiccups. “Please.”

“Nem…” He sighs, letting out a languid breath that he’s been holding for weeks. She smells even better, after he inhales again. “You can’t kidnap me for…this.”

“I can.” She says, covering his eyes with his other hand. His hair lowers in a mop over his face. “And I will. Now, pretend you’re actually interested in being face-first in my boobs, and go to bed.”

For the first time in weeks, Shouta laughs. It’s more of a chuckle. “Stop…” But the material of her sweater is comfortable. Cotton. It really does smell like flowers. He drifts. It’s the only real rest he’s gotten in months. 

-- 

He wakes up in a bed that isn’t his, in a home that smells more like love than loss, at an hour that he couldn’t place. Sun flutters in through the curtains, and dances across the soft, satin sheets. Shouta immediately recognizes that he’s tainting the soothing atmosphere with his grime, his sweat, his tears, so he sits up. The room is empty of any other life, but there’s a bottle of water on the nightstand, along with a box of crackers and a jelly pouch, all set next to a note that reads: 

 

I’m not sorry for kidnapping you, but you’re a heavy sleeper. The funeral passed. I didn’t think you’d want to go, so I let you sleep. Your sleeping bag is in the washer, feel free to use anything in the bathroom, and get some food in you. I’ll be back after work. Call me when you wake up.

-Nemuri. 

PS: Sushi should be around here somewhere. He likes to hide under the guest bed. 

 

Shouta stretches, and some of his muscles cramp up, lock, twist, but the soothing scent of her in the sheets makes him feel like it doesn’t matter. Nemuri’s home is homier than his. It’s also more expensive. What’s the phrase? Money can’t buy happiness, but it can make you comfortable? Nemuri is the definition of that, Shouta thinks as he sprawls out. Comfortable.

He shakes off the sleep from his eyes to find that his hair is brushed. The rest of him isn’t clean, but his smallest of curls are combed out and frizzy. He reaches over to grab the water from the side of the bed, and screws open the lid. It’s an audible moan when he drains the entire thing, feeling more present in his body than he has in months. Not that he should tell her that, or thank her for her kindness. She doesn’t need the satisfaction of saving him. He cracks his neck, and stands. Her carpet is even soft. How can a woman in grief still have such good furniture? He pads his way out of the room, searching for a bathroom. 

The shower he takes is a blur of relief. He hasn’t showered in…too long, long enough that he should be embarrassed and offer to take Nemuri’s bed sheets to the dry cleaners. All of her soaps are unscented, he notices. He spends a long time looking at each one, long enough for the hot water that was scalding his skin to run out and turn icy cold. He steps out, and finally brushes his teeth as he dries off with one of her more worn-down towels. It’s irrational not to multitask, especially since he’s spent so much time wallowing doing nothing. He gets dressed in the clothes that Nemuri must’ve set out for him on the sink, sweatpants that must be hers and--

A black T-shirt that he recognizes. It’s well loved, clearly, with holes through the sides and stains from various pens and markers on the front. There’s a faded vinyl logo of a band he’s never heard of, peeling in places that make it unrecognizable. Hizashi. This used to be Hizashi’s shirt. He slips it over his head, and it hangs loose on his frame, nearly falling to his gangly knees. 

It feels like a warm hug, without the suffocation. It feels like home. 

He sighs. He missed the funeral.

Chapter 2: Go down on the ship

Shouta isn’t sure how he came to live with Nemuri full-time. It feels like one day he just settled in without a reason to leave. He’d been mentally back and forth with his shithole apartment for a while, anyway. Now he has a proper excuse to leave everything behind in favor of a comfortable bed and a cat to snuggle with. 

It’s been three more weeks. He feels more like a housecat than a person, but at least he’s well-fed.

Nemuri doesn’t mind this arrangement, and she’s done her best to make that clear. She’s non-stop fussing over him, making sure he’s eating and showering and using his voice. Sometimes, that’s all she needs; company. A warm body to share a home with. A sign of life. 

Life goes on. They’re sprawled out on her couch with something mindless playing on the TV. Shouta’s head is in her lap, how she likes it, and he’s scrolling through a delivery app to try and find dinner options. He’s paying, despite how much she wants to argue. It’s the least he could do. 

“I’m starving after work,” She stretches out, feet pushing against the coffee table. “Get someone good.” 

“As if I’d get something bad.” 

The bell rings after twenty minutes, and Shouta goes to the door to grab the bag. Chinese takeout, one of Hizashi’s favorites. 

Shouta doesn’t expect her to be crying when he returns, even though he should. This has become routine for them by now. Seemingly randomly, she’ll just get lost in thought for too long and weep . She’ll cry over something as meaningless as crab cheese wontons , inconsolable for a few minutes until she’s over whatever spell she was under. Shouta doesn’t cry like that. He wishes he could. 

She stands up–” give me a second”-- and uses the excuse of grabbing plates as a way to self regulate. Breathe in. Breathe out. Reach for the chopsticks and not the knives. Wash your hands after wiping your tears on a dish rag. Don’t reach for the wine. 

Though she did reach for the champagne. She just can’t help herself–Hizashi liked champagne! More the price tag of a decent bottle of it, but still. She brings it all back under her arm and pours it in red solo cups to avoid another dish to wash. 

“You trying to get me easy?” Shouta jokes with her. She laughs. She has a beautiful laugh. 

“I’m trying to make things easi er .” 

Hizashi would’ve wanted them to take a little siesta, wind down with something expensive, and relax. In his memory, they’ll go searching for the bottom of the bottle as long as they can manage. Hizashi always found it, regardless of the event that the liquor chaperoned. Liver failure would’ve taken him out if it had the chance to. At least he would’ve gone out smiling, pushing his limits like he always did.Things do get easier the more you push yourself.  

Halfway through the bottle, the both have the genius idea of piling on top of eachother like a pack of sardines. Sloppy, exhausted, confusion slipping over every touch as they press close together. Shouta’s head lays on Nemuri’s chest. Nemuri’s legs intertwined with Shouta’s thighs in one sad hook. Both are topless (when’d that happen?), comfortable in a discomfort that feels more like home. 

Stopping would be the smart choice, but since when has anybody made smart choices? Shouta looks up, face cupped gently between a soft pair, and he smiles. He’s too drunk to smile like a freaky idiot, so it actually looks normal. Normal and gentle and- 

Champagne tastes better from someone else’s mouth. There’s a hint of sickness to it, acidity from the bubbles in the back of both their throats, but it's good. It’s home. It’s- 

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” Nemuri is the first to speak, a soft whisper against Shouta’s teeth. 

“Why not?” He asks. He’s never had an interest in women, but Nemuri is special. Nemuri takes care of him. “I’m clean.”

“Of course that’s what you worry about…” She laughs at him, going in for another kiss. Then one more, each interspersed with– “This is wrong .” 

“Wrong?” Shouta still doesn’t get it, practically speaking into her mouth. “I think he’d like it.” 

Hizashi was always a bit of a voyeur like that. If he were here, he wouldn’t let them back out on a perfectly good alcohol-induced bad decision. He’d be sitting on the coffee table in the middle of the takeout boxes, hollering away like a mad dog, and saying something like “ hey, get it on with! I don’t have all night”. 

“...that’s the wrong part. He should be here to see.” 

“Pervert.” He snorts.” 

“You just said the same thing!” 

Laughter, again. Drunk giggles that are half-hiccups into each other's mouths. Hands that wander, that tickle, that squeeze, that appreciate. 

That ache.  

-- 

 

Gruel. That’s the feeling in Shouta’s stomach when he wakes up–churning oatmeal. The curtains are drawn tight, pure darkness over the entire house, but his head still pounds from the light that flickers in. He’s alone on the couch, clothes missing and a familiar smell to his skin. He sighs. He misses her already. 

The sound of pittering water from the bathroom soothes him, though. She must be showering, which surely he needs right now. Guilt immediately settles in his chest. They should talk about this, about their habits. They’ll both only get hurt like this. He doesn't want that kind of life for her. She doesn't need any more grief. 

He sits up, palming around the couch to find his phone. He should apologize. Buy her flowers. Top off the liquor cabinet. There’s the slightest mrrp and a shuffling of fur against his hand. Great, he’s even upsetting the cat. “Sorry, Sushi…” Just great. His head pounds with his own mortification at the cat seeing this incident, as he gets up to search for a shirt to cover himself up with. 

His phone vibrates on the table, lighting up in a dull glow across the room. Sushi swats at it, as if it's something important. Ugh. Don’t people know to stop calling him by now? It’s early, people have hangovers and post-coital embarrassment.  He lets it go to voicemail, and it vibrates again. And again. And again. And- 

He groans, finally putting some pants on, then a shirt to cover his top half. Sushi meows, and it's somehow scolding and appreciative. He’s a weird cat, like his owner. 

The phone rings again. He’s got a hangover, he’s tired, his body aches, and he doesn’t recognize this number–can it really be that important? He answers it and puts it on speaker. The cat sniffs at the glass.

 It sounds like it's raining wherever the caller is.  Shouta opens his mouth, voice raspy from sleep and stomach acid and fluids that don’t taste all that bad. “What do you want ?” He asks. “It’s early.”  There’s a pause. A shaky breath in, like that greeting wasn’t welcome, but the caller has no other choice. Shouta groans and rolls his eyes, a sudden eagerness to take out his emotions on whatever poor soul decided to bother him. “Hey. You even there, asshole?” 

There’s a sharp hiccup. The voice that comes out of the phone is cracked, dry, and strained from crying. “Sh- Shouchan-?” 

… No .

 “Shou-Shouta-?” The caller calls out again, pneumonic and sticky. “Can you hear me-?” 

Oh no. 

Shouta knows that voice. He never thought he’d hear it again. “Hizashi?”

Chapter 3: leave a boy under

“Yes!” Whispered puffs of air crackle through the already shoddy phone speaker “Yeah- yeah it’s me-” Hizashi’s voice is phlegmy, gulped, but it’s Hizashi’s . He’s- Hizashi is-

Oxygen knocks out of Shouta’s lungs in a punch. He has to catch his breath to respond. “Hizashi…Hizashi-” You’re alive. 

“Shouta.” He’s breathing in wheezes that sound almost like laughs, and there’s a harsh thump as if he’s collapsed to the ground in a heap. “Shouta, hi .” 

“I’m here-” Shouta scrambles to hold the phone so close to his cheek that he can feel the heat radiating off of it. His teeth chatter. “Where…where have you been?” 

“Long story.” Hizashi doesn’t give time for Shouta to dispute. “But- but I need you. I need- Listen! Listen first, questions later-” The heavy relief is now overshadowed by urgency. Popping electricity makes it sound like whatever phone he’s using is fragile, close to combustion, “I-I dunno if they’re looking, or if they’re gonna find me- but- but i need you to come get me-” 

“Where are you?” Everything is moving, but Shouta is still. The words he wants to say, no, needs to say, are stuck in his throat. He needs to get dressed, bang on Nemuri’s door- “I’m coming to get you.” 

“I don’t- I don’t know where i am-” Hizashi coughs, weak and scratchy. So uncharacteristically nervous, no, scared- Hizashi is scared. That sound of fear is enough to have Shouta moving, jumping, disturbing the downstairs neighbors and kicking the cat to get some clothes over his ass. He throws himself into the bathroom door in seconds. “Kayama-” He calls, pounding his fists against the delicate wood. “Kayama, we have to go.” 

The shower turns off and she emerges, barely concealed enough by her towel to look decent. She’s still soaked. Before she can get the words out to ask what he’s freaking out about- “He’s alive, Kayama.”

 “Y-you’re with Nem-?” Hizashi sobs. 

 “He’s alive.” He fiddles with his phone to put it on speaker, his hands shaking as he holds the device out to her. It’s silent on the other end for a second, just the sound of soft breaths and rainfall from the caller’s location, but then there’s a hack. A cough as if someone was startled awake by the knowledge that its their turn to speak.

 “I don’t know how much time I have-” Hizashi grunts as he adjusts his position. “Haven’t used a payphone in years…can you track these things?” 

“Oh my god…” Her skin turns white. “Is that?” 

“Yes, yes, it’s me, it’s Mic-” Hizashi sounds fed up already, annoyed, as if he has the right. Even as weak as he sounds, he still has time for sass. “Can- can we move a little faster, please? I’m fucking freezing-”

 “You’re alive and you’re complaining that you’re cold?!”

“Not the time, Kayama-”

“We were worried sick!” She tosses her towel to the ground, not caring about indecency, and goes to put on her previously dirty garments. “We were worried sick for you, and you’re- you’re cold!?” 

“Well, yeah I’m cold! I just swam halfway ‘cross the fucking ocean, Nem, give me a break.”

“Enough!” Shouta barks, already rushing to grab Nemuri’s car keys. “Hizashi, where are you?” 

“I’m–uhm–” His voice wavers, quivers. “I dunno. It’s–it’s raining, and there’s no people around, I’m at a payphone -Did I say I was at a payphone already? Fuck, not a lot of air in this thing- uhm…” He sounds so little like himself, all stutters and confused glances. Shifty eyes and shaky breaths. “Th’ beach - it’s- I’m covered in sand, dude , it sucks-” It’s a sludge of Japanese and English, a class that Shouta was never too good at anyway. “Fucking hate sand -”

The beach. “Do you know which beach?” The sun is setting. That’ll at least give them a direction.

“Uhhm..” Hizashi hesitates. “It’s dark out here. No- no labels, when I walked up. I think It’s private?” 

So, most likely the east coast. “Are there any other markers, Yamada, anything at all?” Shouta screws his head back right to put on his shoes. This is a mission, no time to grieve. Nemuri grabs her coat, and yanks Shouta by the collar. Their steps are heavy to the front door, and even heavier down the steps to the parking lot. It’s quiet on the other line, save for heavy attempts at relaxing breaths. He’s either thinking or he’s-

“Yamada?”

 Nothing. 

 “Y-Yamada-?” Nemuri unlocks her car, and both slip inside. The engine hums to life.

“Sorry-” Hizashi takes a gulp of air in, nearly choking on it. “Sorry, they’re- I’m-” He sounds so shaky. 

 “Yamada. Any other landmarks, please?” Shouta buckles up. “Anything at all.”

 “Th…” He looks around, the sound of shuffling and turning and shifting of clothes as he searches. “There’s no street lights. Nowhere is open. I passed by a couple…I think these are businesses, but I can’t find anybody.” He wipes his nose, sniffles. “The roads are paved shitty.” 

“He’s in one of the villages.” Shouta corrects. “East coast. Probably private property, but he’s at a payphone, so it's got to have some cell service.” They pull out of the parking lot, and Shouta checks his maps. Somewhere on the east coast, with heavy rainfall, out of the way of civilization. Not a whole lot of searching power. “Do you–can you read any signs, Yamada?”

 “No.” He grunts, further irritated. “No, my glasses broke.” The audio goes a little staticy, rustling in and out with the wind. Hizashi audibly shudders. “I can’t see shit. Fuck its cold-I could go back out, but- but I dunno if I can get up…” 

“I keep towels in here, hon, you’ll be fine.” Nemuri speeds. Good thing the roads are empty, because her nerves are causing her to swerve until they get onto the highway. 

“Yamada, keep talking to me. As long as you can.” It’s a quick cross-reference, and merely a guess, but its the best he has. A town about 50 miles away, only one road in and out. How the fuck did Hizashi get all the way over there? He said something about swimming, didn’t he? 

“Uuuhm…” Hizashi tries to find something to talk about. Anything. Anything at all. “...shitty weather we’re having?”

 “Be serious, Yamada.” Shouta scolds him, lightly. “I might’ve found you.” He tilts the phone to Nemuri. That’s where they’ll start. 

“You say keep talking! That’s all I got, man. I’m freaking out, and that’s all i got-”

“What- what happened to you-?” Nemuri takes a little more initiative, taking the phone and dropping it in the cupholder. Instructions echo from the speaker from the voice assistant. An hour commute, if they follow traffic laws. “Yamada, tell us that.” 

There isn’t an answer. Just a gulp, and a few shaky breaths. “I-I’m not bleeding,”

“Yamada?” She prompts again. “That wasn’t what we asked you, hon.” Even though that’s good news. No blood is good news.

It’s croaky, like he opens and closes his mouth, split between spilling and sealing himself back up. He sobs. 

They’ve never heard him cry before.

“Yamada?”

 “I’m here.” He whimpers. “i-I’m here- I’m- I’m sorry-” 

“Its okay, its okay-” The tension plumes out of the car. “It’s okay. Just…just tell us whatever you can.” 

“I can’t.” 

“What do you mean you can’t?” 

“I mean- I mean-” His voice is rising in pitch, but its off tune, out of key. “I mean I can’t. Just please.” His tears don’t sound how you’d think they would. Quiet, muffled, hidden behind bitten lips and shame.  “Please just come get me.” 

“We’re coming to get you.” Shouta tries to reassure him. “Yamada, we’re coming to get you.” 

“Okay…” He sounds so weak. “Just get here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Notes:

I rewrote this one like four times . My eyeball is twitching. someone spare me greatly.

Chapter 4: wait in the suite

Notes:

:0 i love writing injuries.

(please lmk if there's any tags or tws i should add. im new to ao3s tagging system... descriptions are a little violent).

Hizashi is in and out of consciousness, the phone line staying connected through two   whole hours of hearing Shouta and Nemuri bicker . Minute after minute of half-excused insults, of poor navigational skills, of words Hizashi can’t respond to without getting teary again, all upheld by the sea of quarters stuffed in the slot. He found the coins to pay the fee on his walk up the hill. He collected them, just in case, because his first thought after his system was shocked alive by icy coastal breeze was fuck, I’m super broke .

It’s ironic that was his first fear; not having funds. It’s less about the money itself, and more about the access. He’d already proved to himself that his body was capable, but after the burn in his muscles set in and the wet chill itched into his bones, all he wanted was rideshare. He’d even accept public transit, but there didn’t seem to be any that ran this far out. 

He pushes himself up on his wrists, readjusting the phone in the crook of his neck. The incision on his lower back tore open another centimeter. It was stitched up fine before the escape, but the movement irritated the open skin. No blood, though, the salty water took care of that. Bruises drip down his chest, yellow and purple across his sternum and butterflying out to his ribcage. Every rib is visible, down to the ridges in the bone, and his stomach is visibly distended and sore. There’s another stitch in his side, road scuff on his calves and thighs, and an obvious puffiness to his face from crying. If he wasn’t literally dead for three months, he looks close. He’s gaunt with an almost green pallor. His eyes are sunken in, squinty--the poor man is as blind as a bat right now. His hair is dull and lifeless, downright grey.

But worst of all is the scarring on his neck-- 

“I see him- I see him!” Crackling through the line. Hizashi’s eyes flutter open. Had he fallen asleep? It’s not a smart idea to take a nap right now, but fuck, he’s exhausted ; lightheaded, achey muscles all up his back, his arms, his legs. All he wants is a warm bed and food heartier than gruel. The fantasy of it has his breath pick up, the image of clean clothes, a decent night’s sleep--

But when those two bright yellow headlights pull up to the curb, he wishes he was dead. Eugh. They hurt his eyes. The glass of the payphone is reflective, everything bouncing off himself like a spotlight. He covers his face with his arm. Now isn’t the time to be self-conscious, but he is less than decent. He lost his pants in the swim and his shirt is tattered, torn in patches across his front. He scoots closer to the light, and he hears the water slosh in his lungs. Ew. 

The car barely rolls to a stop before Shouta is clambering out of the vehicle, throwing the booth door open, and picking Hizashi up into his arms. He’s limp like a sack of potatoes, all dead weight.  Every beat of his heart is visible through his arteries. He’s breathing. He’s- 

 “Hey…” Hizashi lifts a weak arm to wrap around Shouta’s shoulder. He closes his eyes again, trying to find purchase on the floor with his bare feet.  “You look like shit.”

Shouta buries his face in the crook of Hizashi’s neck, and inhales, squeezing tighter.. “Takes one to know one…” His voice is a wary croak of disbelief. 

“Are…are you sniffing me?” Hizashi has to ask, blinking his eyes open again. Shouta takes another deep, sniffly inhale. He’s crying silently. There’s a smile on his face. 

“...you smell like shit.” 

That…actually makes Hizashi laugh. It hurts, bad, aggravating every scar and pore and bruise, but he cackles. Chesty, full, smiling even if it hurts. One look at his mouth reveals cracked lips and a few missing teeth in the very back. 

“We need to get you to a hospital.” No time for jokes. Hizashi missed that face--the face Shouta makes when he’s trying to keep any sentimentality buried where nobody can see it. 

“I-’d appreciate it.” He clears his throat, tasting a little blood. No more laughter.

But one step out of the booth has him falling to his knees, shaky, woozy, nauseous. Vertigo as he stares at the little speckles of rocks on the poorly paved roads. “Sorry…” He coughs. “Sorry…shit…”

“Yamada-” Shouta couldn’t catch him in time, dropping to his knees to try and hold him upright. 

Nemuri rushes over with a first aid kit on her hip, picking up Hizashi’s chin to try to get a good look at him. “Baby...’ She coos. Her pet names are always a comfort. Hizashi would like to be babied right now, and never have to do anything particularly difficult or straining again. 

He swallows back bile, shaky on his elbows. Nemuri takes initiative, holding him under the thighs and the back of his head in a bridal carry.  “Aizawa, you drive,” She points, adjusting her grip on his shivering form. “I’ll look him over in the car.” 

Hizashi lets her cradle him in the backseat. He lets her buckle him up. He lets her brush a stray hair behind his ear and kiss his cheek. He watches her grimace at the taste of sand, and climb in right behind him. 

Nemuri fumbles in the back pocket of the seats in front of her, pulling out a sealed bottle of water. It’s room temp, which, to Hizashi, sounds warm. She hands it to him, reaching past the center console to fiddle with the heater and the GPS. “Drink slow, baby, okay?”
Hizashi’s throat feels raw, dry from crying, so he doesn’t have to be told twice. His hands shake as he tries to twist the cap open. It shouldn’t be this difficult. Is he crying again? He needs to save energy. 

“Do you need help?” She pulls back to cup his cheek as Shouta starts the car. Her voice is so comforting, but right now? 
“I’ve got it.” 

It’s a silent drive, save for Hizashi’s quiet sips and Nemuri’s evaluation of his body. He’ll need a hospital, that’s for certain. The water in his lungs is bad, and most of these open wounds will need restitching. He’s obviously malnourished and dehydrated. The nearest hospital is half an hour away, and even then…it’s not the one they need. They need one of the city hospitals, somewhere more familiar, with a higher budget. Somewhere closer to the police, to make statements and cases. Somewhere that can call families, workplaces. Somewhere that can mark Hizashi Yamada as *alive* as quickly as possible. Nemuri and Shouta both wish that they didn’t have to think this way, that it wasn’t checklists and guidelines, but it's easier than keeping up conversation. They’re already scared enough.

“Yamada.” Shouta reaches behind and shoves the other man’s shoulder. Hizashi was slipping in and out of consciousness again, halfway between a drink of water. “You gotta stay awake for us, buddy, okay?”
The blonde grumbles, eyes flicking open. He knows that Shouta’s right, but fuck is he unhappy about it. Starvation scrapes at his stomach lining, and any moment spent awake is another moment in agony. The water isn’t settling any of the acid in his gut, instead making it churn worse with better fuel. It’s like gasoline to an oil spill, any moment and- 

He swallows. Puking in Nemuri’s car would get him kicked out, sick or not. He lies back into her shoulder as she rubs an alcohol pad over his arm, trying to disinfect what she can. It might be too late, and the pain makes him wonder if it's worth it. 

The drive is a blur. Warmth and plush seats cradle his sides, his muscles, and the subtle rocking of the vehicle is lulling him under, then awake, then under again. Eventually, the car jerks into a stop in front of a red, flashing EMERGENCY building. His arms are swung over Shouta and Nemuri’s shoulders, and he limps with their rhythm. The nurses at the front desk look friendly, until they aren’t. Pleasant smiles, comforting gazes, are instantly replaced when they see who exactly is at the front of their vision.  Hizashi waves. Hizashi smiles.  Hizashi proceeds to throw up on the hospital floor, right on the carpet like a sick dog. He apologized profusely. It’s mostly water, but it's an effort to clean up. 

At least it wasn’t in Nemuri’s car. 

It all happens so fast. A gurney is brought out, Hizashi is lowered, gently, and wheeled off to places where his friends can’t follow. Time blurs. Technicians come and go, gentle as they prod and poke him with medical machinery. He recognizes the oxygen tube in his nose, the IV drip for hydration, the quirk suppression cuffs on his wrists, and the feeling of strong pain medication coursing through his veins. He sighs in relief, too high to register all the fear and confusion. 

But he doesn’t like all these hands on him, or the pictures taken of his insides. Even through the drugged out haze, they make him think. They make him remember. He’s sitting in imaging, another flash, another radiation guard over his chest, and his breath stutters. Scared. He wants to scream, to cry, but his voice is snuffed out by the cuffs. He can’t panic, or shout, or beg for his *Nemy* or his *Shouchan* or anybody else. 

They pump him with more medication, hoping to level out his heart rate. Face masks and gloves snap around his ears. Imaging takes hours. They’ve decided to get a read on his form before they ask him questions. 

The hospital halls are filled with confused whispers. Apparently, it was a slow night before they arrived. He can hear all of them, from his lonely little gurney, the questions that the medical team ask Shouta and Nemuri. Every question has the same answer. He called us. We don’t know. 

Eventually, they try to ask Hizashi himself. Curious nurses, a psychological team, a few police officers. Anybody who could know, wants to know. There’s news reporters outside the hospital, begging for entry. Shouta and Nemuri know not to push, because any inquiry has him bug-eyed, staring at places on the walls that nobody else can see. Any cheeriness, any snarky remarks, any *thank-yous* are gone the second What happened? leaves their lips. 

But he’s breathing. He’s fine. The medical team, after 12 hours of constant testing and questioning, come to one simple conclusion: He’s going to be fine. Shaken up, but fine. He’ll stay in the hospital for a few weeks, get his weight up. He’ll hopefully be open to talking by the time he’s ready for release, and by then, it's all endless paperwork. It’s reregistering him in the system, getting his life back. 

But right now, all they care about is where the fuck he went for five whole months. 

Chapter 5: trade something that's good for what's right.

Summary:

we're at the hospital, and Yamada is doing shitty. What's new.

It’s nothing like home. Home, Hizashi wouldn’t be questioned so invasively. Home, he would be allowed his friends. Home, he’d have decorations on the walls and music playing faintly over the speakers. Home, he’d be with his students. Home, he’d be safe. This isn’t safe. His muscles stay taut, tense in the hospital bed with every inquiry thrown at him. There have to be answers here, but he just won’t budge. 

The routine goes a little like this: A nurse would enter, sweet as can be. His nurse, maybe doctor, is dressed in pink scrubs with flowers. She looks like a pediatric physician, and sounds like one too. She brings food, toys, paints, which he’d promptly stare at. He’s thirty, not four. It makes his mind wander, watching as she colors more flowers in crayon on a little sheet. Is this the children’s ward? 

The facility  was mixed-aged.They must’ve had an organization system somewhere to prevent people from intermingling too much, but Hizashi didn’t figure it out while he was trapped. He’s convinced it was all fake, still a method of torture. It hurt worse to watch the babies, just infants dressed in cloth be-

“Yamada?” The nurse-doctor-flower-lady would say, setting down her crayons. Her voice is far too high pitched, and she speaks as if she’s constantly whispering to catch up to her words.  “Are you ready to talk?” 

Hizashi would promptly shake away any distant thoughts in his head, and promptly respond with, “Sure, fine, yeah, ask away,” Even though any question would make him hyperventilate and proceed to go mute for about three hours. He’d tuck his knees to his chest, look around the hospital room for things that weren’t there, for home, and cry silently. 

At least he’s allowed to cry here. The Facility didn’t like it too much if you did. It didn’t seem to like anything. In comparison, the hospital mattress under him is plush, and the lights in the room are bright and inviting. The medical equipment is sanitary and the hospital blankets are full and warm. 

He still doesn’t relax, even when the flower-studded professional leaves the room. 

--

There’s someone crawling in bed with him. Hizashi’s eyes slit open, panic taking its slow ride through his nervous system even as he sleeps. He’s more attentive, more aware. Finally, rest without a nightmare, even if his muscles stay stiff from the positioning. He turns, does a full circle of the room. It’s dark out, much past visiting hours. He can recognize the person next to him by the sound of his breath alone, and Hizashi is innately soothed. 

“Hey.” Shouta, by himself, with a leg swung around Hizashi’s waist and his head tucked under Hizashi’s chin. His ear is as close to his heart as it can get with this angle. Despite the lack of space in the bed, Shouta is careful, avoiding brushing up against any stitching or monitors hooked into Hizashi’s skin. He cuddles in closer, and lightly traces the curve of Hizashi’s nose with his thumb. “I snuck in here.” 

Hizashi’s voice is thick with sleep, but conscious. He tilts his head so Shouta can have more room. “They won’t let you visit the normal way?” 

“No.” Shouta finds his nose against the pulse of Hizashi’s artery, and inhales deeply. It smells chemical. “They keep saying you aren’t fit for visitors yet.” 

Hizashi looks down at himself, laying flat in this hospital bed and still hooked into tubes. Sure, he’s a little high on the painkillers, and he is bursting into tears nearly every day, but he isn’t unfit . He could never be unfit for Shouta or Nemuri. He’s perfectly fine just the way he is. Hizashi is very, very fit. All the time. 

“Kayama is keeping watch.” Shouta continues, barely a whisper. “I just needed a minute with you.”
“When’d you turn into such a sap?” 

“Since I thought you died.” 

There’s the briefest flicker of something in Hizashi’s eyes, and its clear that blondie is overwhelmed. There’s many things etched into Shouta’s sentence, many things that Hizashi picks up on. I love you, I want you home, I’m glad you’re alive, and the aching, grating what happened. 

Hizashi speaks, voice shaky and tears gathering in his eyes again. “They brought me back a lot.” He says, feeling himself slipping again. His throat closes, his breath picks up. “If that’s any comfort.”

His vocal chords won’t strum to say any more. Tears silently roll down his cheeks, pooling near Shouta’s eyes. Not a panic attack, not exactly, but he’s gone again. Staring at the ceiling with a rattle in his chest. It’s safe to cry here, but he stil tries to keep the noise down. 

Shouta’s eyes widen a fraction, storing the information away for later. He knows not to push anymore--the medical team have been trying to get anything from Hizashi for days. This is good news. This might actually be a sign of progress. 

His phone pings in his pocket. A message from Nemuri, curt and to the point. They’re making their nightly rounds again. Shouta would never be caught dead like this, cudding in Hizashi’s bed. Not in a million years, as its sentimental, sneaky for no good reason. Illogical. He should be listening to the medical professionals and giving his friend time to rest. 

But it’s Hizashi. Hizashi has no room to judge, and Shouta needs the rest too. He sits up, glances at the door, and plants a kiss on Hizashi’s forehead. 

Hizashi is left alone again. His skin feels warmer than a second ago. 

--

“No.” It’s gotten worse. His refusal to speak about his torture has evolved. Hizashi is getting thin again, when the medical team had just gotten him back to a healthy weight. He isn’t eating. Instead of zoning out after a session, he starves. IV nutrients can only do so much. 

“Yamada, you have to eat something, please?” The flower-studded nurse is back again, holding a bowl of oatmeal. It looks as it always does, and that’s the problem. Wet, flavorless sludge.
“No.” Hizashi replies. “No, I said I don’t want to.” Any more hospital gruel will make him sick. Sick sick sick. He tucks his knees up, sucking in his stomach to hold his organs in. In in in. The facility will take them out again, they’ll- they- “No, I don’t want that.” 

“Hey,” she kneels to be closer to eye level with him. Not touching him. At least these nurse-doctors don’t touch him. “We can’t force you, but we’d appreciate it if you tried.” 

We can’t force you . Those are Hizashi’s saving words, the only thing keeping his head on right. The facility could force him. The hospital will not. 

“Not right now. Maybe later.” 

-- 

 

Then the screaming started, and they gave up. Pure terror. It’s startling enough when one of your patients lets out a scream in the middle of the night. You can imagine it’s terrifying when that shout can kill. It only happened one time. The flower-studded nurse suffered damage in her left ear. They cuffed Hizashi right after, barely a moment to recover. Quirk suppressents, shoving air out of his lungs and forcing his vocal chords to still. He can’t get a full breath in, and his stomach aches with the force of trying.

Suffocation.  

It’s not like he can talk about it with the cuffs on. He can’t talk at all, so they stop asking. Back to force feeding, imaging, pictures. Back to touches he can’t respond to, and needles that they won’t explain to him. 

Sometimes, if he really tries at the right time or the right pitch, he can force out a word or two in a rasp. Usually, that word is no. It burns his throat to try. It scrapes at his lungs with every breath. It makes him lose sleep, sick, eyes red-rimmed and angry. If he sleeps for too long, he’ll die, he thinks. It’s a thought that he had frequently, in the facility. Any rest was a risk with his quirk suppressed. He prayed to seize up and die in his sleep. 

He forces himself to count the tiles on the ceiling to stay awake, and pushes the call nurse button every five minutes just to be a bother. 

It’s not like the facility. He can be a nuisance. 

-- 

“And you are his…”
“Friends.” Shouta corrects any assumptions before Nemuri gets the chance to argue. 

They can hear Hizashi’s panicked breathing on the other side of his hospital door. They’re sure he can hear them back, even if their conversation is hushed and whispered. Hizashi’s perceptive like that. Hizashi cares when people speak about him when he isn’t in the room. The anxiety medication should fix that and kick in soon, but that isn’t really what anybody wants. 

“Mm…” A younger nurse, dressed in assistant’s clothing, looks down at the clipboard before looking back up. “Well, you’re the only emergency contacts we have listed, so..” 

“He doesn’t have extra family, if that’s what you’re asking.” Nemuri whispers, trying to be mindful of the late hour. The faculty called them in. They’re still dressed for patrol. “We’re the closest to a next-of-kin.” 

“I wasn’t gonna go that far.” The assistant snorts. When he’s greeted with two faces of offense- “I mean, he isn’t dying. We aren’t touch-and-go. You can breathe a little.”
Neither Shouta nor Nemuri breathe a little, unamused. “Then why are we keeping him here?” They both say, in tandem. It’s been weeks. Hizashi should be home. The initial medical reports said he’d be good for outpatient clearance in less than a month. 

The assistant turns to the door and back, shifty eyes and concerned glances. Hizashi’s breath stills, as if he can sense the eyes on him, then stutters. “We aren’t sure if he’s mentally sound enough to leave without-” 

“He’s fine.” Shouta shakes his head. Hizashi is the strongest person Shouta knows. Even if he wanted to say it out loud in a rare moment of protectiveness, Nemuri holds a hand up to silence him. He bristles, and pulls at his capture scarf to get a little more air.  

The assistant takes that as a sign to keep going, looking at the clipboard rather than the visitors. “He still isn’t eating, and we have to sedate him to get him to sleep. We’re trying to get the PTSD diagnosis cleared through insurance so we can talk about outpatient, but right now…” 

“Is it really that difficult?” Nemuri asks, hearing Hizashi’s breath even out again. “You can always give a provisional diagnosis and they can update it on his paperwork later. 

“I shouldn’t say this.” Which is a sign that the assistant should absolutely be saying it to the two people who love Hizashi most. “But we’re worried that his quirk is a liability.” Spoken through gritted teeth, like a bit of hallway gossip. 

“No, he’s not.” Nemuri shakes her head, taking a step forward. Shouta takes a step back, and glances up and down the hallway in defense.

 “Hizashi isn’t a danger to anybody. He’d never hurt anyone.” Shouta all but growls. 

“Usually, we’d agree.” A lie, from this nebulous we . “But he isn’t mentally sound right now. We can’t release him until we’re sure he isn’t a danger to others-” 

“He isn’t a danger to others.”
“Or himself.” 

Himself. That makes both Shouta and Nemuri’s eyes widen a fraction. A new concept. Hizashi hurting himself. The idea of self harm sounds inconceivable. Downright moronic. Hizashi would never hurt himself. He just spent hours sitting in a phone booth, near nude, soaking wet, just to get help. It would’ve been far easier to die than to endure whatever Hizashi had. 

“Accidents can happen.” The assistant continues in the silence. “We have him in quirk suppression cuffs for the safety of himself and the staff-”
“Absolutely not.” Any credibility is out the window, to Nemuri. “Take those off of him. He’ll choke.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of clearance.” The assistant shakes his head. 

“Then get me someone who does.”

-- 

Shouta can’t sneak in again. He tries, of course he tries. The door to Hizashi’s room is locked during visitor hours, and after closure, they have a guard. A man with a bright Security tag on his breast pocket, made of all muscle and no care. The man himself looks mean, too mean to be doing such a shitty job of sending Shouta away. 

“He’s unstable.” The guard says. “He’s currently in…emergency surgery.” 

“They don’t do surgery in the ICU, they take patients to the surgical unit.” Shouta went and checked, even. He’s checked every floor possible. He’s barely gotten any sleep, looking over maps of the hospital. “Try again.” 

“Look, man, they told me I can’t let you or the girl in.” For a hospital security guard, he looks guilty. Too guilty when he’s chest-to-chest with a pro hero who looks like he hasn’t seen the sun in months. 

He tries not to bristle at Nemuri only being referred to as the girl. She’s more than that. She’s always been more than that. “He’s been stable for days.” Not exactly truth, but the guard doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “If he isn’t in there--” He points to the shut door. “Then where is he?”
“Security!” The guard shouts out, in which he promptly remembers that he is security, and tries to push Shouta back by the chest. “Hey, back off. Only warning.” 

Shouta is fast. Nimble. His muscles are still thinned, reflexes weak from his episode, but that doesn’t matter, and he lurches for the door. It’s unlocked, and he punches it open with his shoulder. 

There, Hizashi is lying face up. Immediately, he notices the cuffs still on the other’s wrists, and the lack of motion around his chest. Any fullness to his face is gone, replaced again with that pale, sickly look around his eyes. It takes the wind out of Shouta’s sails. It’s only a fraction of what Hizashi could be feeling. 

The blonde slowly turns his head. He mouths something. 

“Take these off of him.” Shouta demanded, not caring how loud he was being. He’s immediately at Hizashi’s side, fumbling for a hairpin or a pick or something in his pockets to use to break the lock. The guard isn’t built to wrestle a pro hero on the loose, though he doesn’t reach for the gun on his belt. Not once. He merely stands in the doorway, light shining in behind him and illuminating the near grey look in Hizashi’s eyes. 

“I’ll get fired, man, don’t make this difficult-” in a too-loud-hushed-whisper. He barely steps forward. 

Shouta’s hair raises at just the tips, an uncontrollable urge as he slips his fingers under the cuffs. The skin is beyond purple, bruised at Hizashi’s wrists. “What’s really going on here?” He demands. 

The guard speaks something into the walkie talkie on his shoulder, and Shouta has that sinking feeling, knowing that he’s cornered. He apologizes for dropping Hizashi’s hands, and balls his own. Panic in his chest. A primal urge to keep Hizashi safe. 

“The commission put special orders on him.” The guard shuts the door behind him. He locks it. 

“The- the commission ?” Shouta leans in closer, as if he didn’t hear that. He doesn’t drop his fists. “The Hero Public Safety Commission ?”

Hizashi sits up with a start, a sharp intake of air into his lungs. Rattling, sick, filled with fluid, his face lights red with the effort. He gazes owlishly in front of him. 

Shouta lets his guard down to turn, hand going to Hizashi’s sternum. “Hizashi-?” 

He yelps. It’s silent, of course, but the motion is there. The harsh jerk of muscle and the creak of the plastic frame. He swallows, thickly, looking around the room- 

“Hey-” Shouta whispers, hand going to Hizashi’s face, cupping his cheek. “Hey, hey, hey…Yamada, you’re okay. It’s just me, okay?” 

“It was the commission.” He opens his mouth to speak, and even if its merely a rasp, Shouta hears what he’s trying to say, loud and clear. “ The commission did this. ”

Notes:

FINALLY POSTEDDD i promise this fic isn't abandoned. i started a new job since the last chapter and have been really busy... im writing snippets on my break. sorry if its a little choppy.

Notes:

Praying that the AO3 beast doesn't curse me this time and I can finish writing without tragedy. updating as much as i can. ive printed every comment ive ever gotten and posted it to my wall :D

Thaaanks <3 more tags to be added.