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fizzypunks · 4 years

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Bad Timing

fandom: My Hero Academia/ Boku No Hero Academia word count: 5k rating: T (cannon description of violence) summary: Shouta has to handle the aftermath of the Nomu attack, and Hizashi has very bad (or good) timing

ship: earsermic

AO3

note: best viewed on Archive bc it keeps the formatting like itallics!

___

The day was finally at its end – the sun set in slats across the teachers lounge, and it was 3:55, when most people were leaving or gathering their lives up in a rush to get home. They’d all already left, urgently trying to beat traffic and make their way to whatever Friday plans they had in store.

Aizawa didn’t have Friday plans – instead of unceremoniously rushing to get home for the weekend, or go drinking to relieve stress, he was instead sitting on the couch. He didn’t have lessons or binders around him, having freed one hand to take out his phone and flip through his lessons that Hizashi kindly spent the time uploading for him.

The screen was bright and blaring and bled color into color into color – it was hard to look at for too long, but it was the only compromise he could make with his body when it came to improvised lesson plans. He’d type it up, with his one hand, a letter at a time, while his body healed enough for him to do better.

This is what it is, no use complaining. Just get it done.

The ache in his eyes he could deal with – he’d be disappointed in himself if he wasn’t used to it at his age, and he’d made peace with the eye strain and pain and dryness and anything else that was unpleasant about his quirk. His body, however, was a new story. It ached in a way he never experienced in his life, deep to the bone and then, maybe, even deeper – not a movement existed that didn’t somehow remind him of his body, his mortality, and it’s still a wonder he even survived.

He stopped asking questions like how a long time ago, though, and he didn’t dare start now. All it did was drive him into crazy circles of what ifs , dead ending in worse case scenarios that were a half inch away from coming to be…

This new burn, this new hurt – it conjured with it the same image – or maybe it was muscle memory – of painful blood splatter in his eyesight. With it came a reel of other horrifics images and feelings and sensations that might have been if…

It doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant...

When he told his class that it didn’t matter that he was teaching, he meant it. It wasn’t what he wanted, but since when did he ever get what he wanted? It’s hero work, and educational duties don’t take a break just because he broke ; they never permitted a break because he wanted and wished.

He broke. Plain, simple – no explanation necessary. That’s a world he’s unfortunate enough to live in, so he grits his teeth and bears it.

It’s all Shouta can do. Bear it, heal as best he can, move on – think about it less and less until it’s just another frame on the wall of memories that like to bug him at night, those few rare ones that let him rest and dream.

Bear it. It didn’t kill you, so bear it.

Still, in the middle of the day, after teaching and improvising and making himself stand upright like he didn’t want to bury himself in sheets, it was a weird sensation. Living through something that almost took his life in the most violent, frightening way possible, all for his kids. He didn’t think this time around, with the mending and the processing and the eventual moving on, would feel so…

Off? Like a buzz on his skin, like time was shifted just a second ahead and he was playing catch up. He didn’t know the right words, couldn’t even explain to himself the things that he was feeling. He finally settled calling it weird. Whatever that meant.

He’d dealt with trauma before, too – but this breed of unease was new, even to him and his seasoned career.

The room was silent, but it felt louder than ever, and his screen had timed out when he realized he’d been staring dryly into it without doing anything.

He refreshed the screen with his thumb, lights bright and vivid again like a train at the end of a tunnel.

He’s stopped regretting his choices, he’s stopped wallowing because after two or three close calls with death, it gets a bit old – but god does he want to wallow now . Now that his body was broken and every movement felt like shattered glass in a windshield, disturbed with every movement but, at least, mercilessly, held together by…

What?

Sheer force of will – he was certain that’s what it was. It wasn’t desire or hope, it wasn’t any positive or cheerful motto – he had time for those later, for now…

He groaned, the weight of his eyes and body finally coaxing a response from him that wasn’t dead. Responses that were complete opposites from that which he always told his peers when they stopped him in the halls or at the end of lectures.

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“It doesn’t matter, now if you wouldn’t mind, I have a class to teach.”

It’s placating, it’s time-buying – other heroes know the drill, so they don’t argue with him too much – they just insist, and hope, that he listens enough to at least rest . He always wanted to sleep, right? He had that stupid sleep disorder that always begs for him to rest his head for just a moment, so why not indulge it now?

He blinked against it – he really did need to sleep, but the screen in his shaking fingers showed that he had plans to finalize, and a fresh round of essay to grade that needed to be graded by the next day.

So much was behind as is – the last essay, the last score for ethics lecture to be dealt out, a new plan for the upcoming week that adjusts for his kids and the stress they just underwent – no, hero work doesn’t forgive very much, and Aizawa would never tell them that he was giving them a break, but he was going to do exactly that and take off a few quizzes to lighten the load…

Shouta leaned back against the sofa, and it wasn’t too soft and without structure, that it actually did do some good for him. He tilted his head back, too, and felt brief relief in the way his head didn’t feel like lobbing off like a hammer to the side of a statue’s temple.

He sighed, and leaned into it, the slightest bit of relief he was able to find.

The one think he was grateful for was that today was better than the beginning of the week. He had a long way to go, but thankfully some of the bandages could be taken off yesterday and today was his first day of being able to fully see – his face was freed, his shoulders lightened and only wrapped with a few white wraps – but it was still a struggle with his arms, his hands – the most damaged parts of his body that were trudging along…

This is unbearable .

But he will bear it.

But, right now, he will not bear it well. Like he broke under the hand of the Nomu, he was breaking again now and nothing was capable of stopping that.

He took in a deep breath, and held it just because it felt good to feel so full. He held it and waited.

This is going to be interesting.

His breath was waning, it’s time slowly slipping by, expiring.

This is going to hurt.

His lungs were wrapped around empty air.

Bad .

He still didn’t let go, even when it ached. He didn’t know if he wanted to, but the red-blackness of his eyelids and the sting in him was a comfortable pain he knew he could release, if he wanted.

Then, finally, he did want, and he let go, shoulders slumping with a harsh exhale.

He opened his eyes to a slit, and saw the sun spots on the ceiling had grown longer. Golden, mingling, patient – he’d stared at them so many times before, grown bored of them between grading and impatience, but now they were a comfort.

Familiar monotony and boredom. It seems that being bored was not always a bad thing, after all.

Early in his career, this might have killed his spirit. His spirit, however, was put back together so many times, and damaged so cruelly and spitefully, that he at least felt some sort of partial happiness knowing it wasn’t possible to batter his spirit any more. It was impossible.

It’s reached its limit years ago, what’s a new bruise on top of the rest?

A sound like shuffling, quiet but distinct, came from behind him – clothes rustling, a distinct stiff sound, all quietly entering from behind; and it was intentional movement, Shouta knew.

His instincts never dulled, even under mountains of bandages. “Hizashi. What are you still doing here?”

His laugh – the one he would never admit to loving so deeply– was soft behind him, closer this time. “Gee, how’d ya know it was me ?”

Shouta wished he could shrug, and instead returned his eyes back to their resting state and closed them lightly. “ Gee , how’d you learn to be quiet? Or, at least, try to be.”

Soft brushing, padding of feet, the ridiculous squeak of leather – Hizashi walked around the couch and when Shouta felt the dip in the seat beside him, a little too close to him, he chuckled. “It’s hard to be, man – you know I’m stuck with my costume! On the clock, I’m Present Mic!”

“I was talking about your mouth, but sure – that too.”

Another laugh came, and it was just as warm and full and bright. Shouta guarded his expression at the sound, because it was too pleasant and he hurt too much to not indulge the pleasant things whenever they did come.

But Mic isn’t Hizashi, and he’s more quiet now, between the two of them. Like he was in hours after sparring through out their friendships and careers, like lazy drawls in the morning when they passed each other, one waking up and one going to bed after a patrol. Quiet and in tune, in a way so few really understood.

That was the part of Hizashi that no one really gets to see – the way he knew silence and patience that would put his hero and radio personality at odds if the public really got to see it. He was calm and reserved and knew which silences and calms to lean into, which ones to sit with, which ones were the important ones...

He knew it right now, which was why he wasn’t on the limits of his own energy, like a battery fed into itself – a never ending feed that could go forever, Shouta thought time and time again. And his comfort in his quirk made it all too easy to emote and exaggerate and be too much for Shouta at times.

Fragile times, like when his mind was barely glued to the body that was just as fractured and splintering around the edges as his spirit.

“My, you think so lowly of me, Shouta.”

“Just being logical. You’re louder more often than not, after all,” he said, and they both knew it was a joking lie. It’s the closest Shouta gets to a joke, anyways.

The silence returned, and Shouta felt the burning questions in the warm body beside him – too close and yet, not really close enough – within arms length, but not within arms...

But Hizashi is never one for mincing words or running from questions. “How you doing, Shou?”

Shouta grunted. “Fine.”

“No, no, no, no – I’ve heard you say that all week and, well, it’s crazy to think you’d be okay! I want to know how you’re doing. ”

“Hizashi, do me a favor. Be polite and just take the answer.”

“No,” and the response was so fast, and sounded so bratty, Shouta was tempted to open his eyes and tilt his head to the right – to see if he was as close as he thought he was, if his hair was falling, if he’d taken off his orange tints and was looking at him with those stupid pup eyes.

He didn’t, though.

“What do you want me to say?” He finally said, quietly – maybe Hizashi wouldn’t hear him if he spoke quietly enough. “Obviously, I’m not fine.”

“I know that, and –”

“And it doesn’t matter. So, with that in mind,” and he did open his eyes this time – they stung fresh again, and he blinked, and he turned his head just slightly enough to change his eyes' direction. They stayed fixed in the ceiling, on the honey the sun was spilling, and he said, “I’m fine.”

“Come on, Shou... “

“It’s just…”

Hizashi sighed. “Could you… at least try to take time off or stop studies or something ? I can’t stand – “ and here he goes, he was too emotional –

So annoying.

His voice always shook when he was sad, when he was pretending like he wasn’t going to cry.

So sweet.

“ – I can’t stand this. ”

You and me both.

It never really did any good to cut off Hizashi, and Shouta hates doing it any way. So he didn’t even attempt it. He knew he needed to say what he was saying, to be heard and unburden himself of the fears living in him. He didn’t really have the chance before, and it wasn’t fair to take it from him now. Shouta didn’t have the energy to deny him any of that, anyway, so his eyes shifted to the crease in the ceiling, the border between it and the wall, and just listened.

“Shouta, you were almost killed – it’s… it’s so bad, this time – I’ve patched you up so many times and there wasn’t anything I could have ever done about this , and I want you to stop trying to ignore it. You don’t have to be a hero all the time.”

Shouta couldn’t help the scoff, and it stopped Hizashi for just a moment. “Of course I do.”

He was so bitter, he could taste it like the lingering flavor of cold coffee.

“You literally don’t –”

“Hizashi… I don’t have the energy for this.”

“That’s my point , Shouta! You can’t –”

“Can’t do my job? Give me a better argument next time, Hizashi.”

For whatever reason, that was enough to shut him up. Shouta didn’t want to, but his headache was too strong and his friend’s concern was too soft and he was just a broken vase – hairline cracks that got too big too fast and now shattered at the foundation – unable to hold onto any of it let any of it fill him, so why even try to touch it?

Hizashi does a lot of things loudly, even when he tries not to – it’s a side effect of being the Voice Hero, a natural course of events that would, rationally, lead him to be a vocal and expressive person. He’s sniffling and trying to stop it, trying to reel himself in, and Shouta sighs again, because the Voice Hero shouldn’t be trying to reel himself in at all.

This isn’t what he wanted.

He truthfully didn’t want to be in this position at all, but he’d remembered that he never wanted to spend his time wishing , so he didn’t wish – he couldn’t fix that, or the way Hizashi was hurting for him. But, he could fix…

Whatever this was.

“Hizashi.”

The sniffling stopped for a second, enough for it to be masked in a, “... what, Shouta?”

“Thank you.”

“Hmmph.”

Pouting?

“Don’t do that.”

“Hmmph!”

Pure annoyance drove him to open his eyes, and tilt his head, and level his eyes against his best friend because pouting was so fucking stupid. His eyes widened, though, when he finally met Hizashi’s gaze for the first time that day.

The first thing was that he wasn’t fully in his costume. His speakers were missing, and his hair was fallen to his shoulders in gell-stiff half-mast, finally succumbing to gravity in a way Shouta was certain was due to a hair brush and messily tucked into a hair tie. His tinted glasses were gone, leaving nothing between their eyes as they locked.

He’d hung up his hero costume for the day, and maybe it made sense that he wasn’t talking like Present Mic any more – not as loud, not as joking, just intentions and and heart.

He was half way between the two – between persona and him, and he looked so soft…

But his eyes, his eyes that stare so deeply and knew Shouta so intimately over the years their lives had been intertwined – they were wet and silently overflowing, and Shouta was certain the embarrassment of crying was what was so freely tinting his cheeks. It was a brush of pink over pale, high cheekbones, under crescent eyes that leaked streaks down to his jaw, his chin.

He, however, still had the mind to pout – not that Shouta had anything to say, not with the sudden, brand new pain of his heart aching at seeing his friend like this.

Shouta’s eyes softened, his annoyance gone like dye down a river.

Hizashi, however, wasn’t a coward, and held his gaze because he wanted Shouta to know what he was doing to him.

And all in the glowing sunlight…

Stop...

“Hizashi…”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t try to stop me or tell me I’m wrong or that I’m crying too much or whatever .”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, because he had the mind to say something and that was the brilliant thing he thought of. His shame was hot and fast and his eyes shifted to the side, just off from Hizashi in the best possible way he could manage to face the other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

“Well, congrats, because I feel bad.”

Shouta knitted his brow in anger. “You’re an idiot.”

Don’t make me feel worse.

“What th–”

You always make me feel worse.

“If you’re spending all your tears on me, then yeah. You are.”

Because you’re so good.

Hizashi was crying and clearly upset – anyone could see that – and yet he still decided to furrow his eyebrows and look confused and stupefied all at once. “ Wind it back a few seconds for me, Shou.”

Shouta raised an eyebrow.

“Say that again,” he prompted, shifting to face Shouta even more completely. He leaned forward on his knees, on his elbows as he wiped away the tears.

“I said you’re an idiot.”

“You’re my best friend.”

Friend .

“And?”

“Not even you believe yourself, do you? I’ve seen you cry for me, too.”

Shouta turned his eyes down. That’s different . That’s more than he can ever really explain, and what’s even more, it’s more than he wants to explain. Those words turn into sentences that turn into feelings that can’t be taken back, and he’ll never make the mistake of falling down that slope. So he looked away, anything to feel less guilty and like shit, and shook his head.

Maybe some honesty wouldn’t hurt. “What would you have me do, then? I don’t have options.”

Hizashi saw him dodge the question, the scenario he’d painted – he scooted closer and Shouta felt too alive with envy, wishing there were no barriers, be them white casts and mental blocks, that kept him from bridging the last of that tiny gap.

“I’d have you sleep. I’d have you stay home. I’d have you trust that the faculty, your peers, your friends , could handle you being out for a bit.”

The logic is there…

Still… “No, I need to stay here. My students are back, and I owe them –”

“It would be a week. You’d have your casts off in a week –”

“Who told you that? If Recovery Girl –”

“It’s common knowledge, Shou, I just guessed . But that’s not the point – the point is that I’m right .”

Where does this conversation end? He doesn’t want to say it, he doesn’t want to open himself up again, and he doesn’t want Hizashi to be crying like this. Crying, because of him.

He sighs again. “It’s…”

He clears his throat again. “It’s easier this way. For me.”

Hizashi had already been close, but now he was right beside him, the knee he was folded over now just against his leg. Personal space had never really been a thing for him, and now proved to be no different. His big watery eyes stayed trained on his calculated, intentionally flat ones.

He’s also always been good at picking apart his words to find the realities beneath them. “Distractions, right?”

Shouta didn’t want to admit to it, but he nodded anyway, eyes falling until they settled on Hizashi’s clavicle. His exposed, open clavicle, and he yearns even more to be able to be closer than this. Take comfort in closeness that was 16 years in the making, but never really actualized. Never, really, fully realized , either...

“Yeah… distractions.”

“Say, if I wanted to come over and make dinner and show you baby animal photos, would you let me?”

Shouta blinked, and Hizashi smiled – he looked too pretty, glowing from his tears, and Shouta hates thinking that.

“Don–”

“They’re baby foxes .”

Shouta looked down, and grew pink – it’s pathetic how easily he could be bought, and he wasn’t ever really going to say no to time with his best friend. Even now, he’s always finding himself saying yes to the colorful, often too-loud man.

Hizashi seemed to realize that he’d won, the way his eyebrows stopped dipping, stopped taking such a sad shape. “At least let me do this, Shou – if you’re gonna bring your mummy self into school and yell at kids and threaten expulsion, then let me make stir fry and udon for you.”

Shouta smiled, small, hesitant, but not quite of his own intention; finally breaking – in a different way than he’s used to. “Fine. Just to be clear, it’s only because I want food.”

“ Suuure , that’s the reason.”

And before he could say anything back, Hizashi did that thing that makes his heart weak – the thing he always does when he’s leaning in like this, and it’s too emotional for his own comfort zone, and things are charged with a restless, aching energy. He reached out his left hand and rested it over Shouta’s open one. His phone was already falling from his bruised fingers, so he pushed it down to his lap and held onto the half of his hand that was exposed.

He wants to ask why he does it sometimes, but doesn’t think that now is the time to ask it. Time, place, his broken body, everything was wrong – so he just let himself enjoy the affection, while he can bask in it with legitimate cause.

Then Hizashi had to ruin it. He grinned, a little too proud. “Nervous?”

Shouta tensed, and his body yelled at the pressure in his arms, in his torso. “Excuse me?”

Hizashi laughed a bit, and he was a little flush – from the crying. “You’re a biiiiiit pink. Like, blushing. Like, actually, you’re very –”

“Shut up.”

“You act like any teensy-tiny bit of affection is like poison, Shou – it’s okay if you–”

“I take it back, actually, you can’t come over.”

“Awwww, come on, I just –”

“I mean it, I’ll order from the corner market.”

“Now that you told me how you’ve been feeding yourself, I’m definitely coming over. God, I swear, you should know how to take care of yourself by now, it’s like you hate trying to –”

“Hizashi –”

He stood, really fast, smiling dumb and bright as he stood infront of Shouta. “Now come on! Up! Let’s go to your apartment!”

He offered a hand, but Shouta shook his head. “I can get up fine –”

Hizashi leaned forward, and it was an awkward placement, the way he was balanced, but he took the phone from his lap and tucked it into his pocket before his hand rested just on the side of Shouta’s shoulder. He urged with his eyes as much as with the slight tug at his waist. “Come on!”

Shouta looked down and nodded, a feeling of warmth overcoming him yet again. He heard moreso than saw Hizashi smile, felt him beaming at him at letting him help him up, and then the hand on his shoulder shifted, to the spot of his ribs just above the bandaging.

“Can I pull here?”

“Yeah…”

And he did and it really fucking hurt, little splinters under his skin all over again. He pulled air sharply between his teeth, and let Hizashi hook his elbow around him to stop the recoil.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“It’s –” Deep breath, relax eyes – bear it . “It’s fine.”

It’s not fine, but it’s bearable, so he releases some of the tension he know is sewn into his arms. He opens his eyes, and Hizashi is so close it’s almost startling. His arm still was around him, under his arm, like a brace. Warm, pleasant pressure, pleasant heat...

“I’m fine,” he breathes again, because for once, Hizashi doesn’t have anything to say. He just stares.

“Hey… um…”

“Hizashi…?”

When Hizashi spoke it was quiet, in a way that betrayed his confident words. “Shou… this is not good timing, but…”

This time it was Shouta’s turn for his voice to stop working, and he didn’t have anything to say – all too aware of the soft sound of breathing between them, the way his eyes were overwhelming like never before.

He had nothing to counter him or force him back or make him leave. He just waited, eyes at half mast because that was the only way he could handle Hizashi looking at him like that . Like he always did, with care and adoration, and it just made him sick.

“I almost lost you, and I don’t want to regret not kissing you any more… for years, Shouta, years .”

Shouta deserved a medal for surviving the whiplash of their conversation, from the joking to the serious to the trivial to the important… he couldn’t move much, but he wasn’t sure if that was his body or his anxious nerves speaking, so he just looked down at his lips.

“Tell me it’s okay,” Hizashi said, close but far enough for comfort. Far enough for respect , for hurting and aching Shouta to say yes or no and only then either bridge the gap or depart. His hand was delicate on his side and his finger tips were light, brushing, too much. “Tell me if you want…”

The timing was so awful – Shouta just wanted to move, to take him in right there, to stop him from talking and pull him into himself so harshly and violently that they might become one. Close was never close enough…

“I…”

Hizashi’s free hand came up to his cheek, holding him there gently. His thumb brushed under his scar, over the hot skin that he was certain was an embarrassing shade of pink…

Don’t fuck with me.

“Tell me, Shou…”

He was wiping away a tear, and Shou crumbled at the touch. “Y– yes.”

A sharp breath, then again, louder, stronger, “ Yes. Yes, Hizashi–”

Hizashi wasted no time, and pressed himself closer, and Shouta wasn’t surprised to taste salt on his lips because he’d spent too much time crying, too.

“I’m – not going to change –” Shouta said between breath and kiss, shaking from the anger of just wanting to hold Hizashi and being un able to. “I’m – still a hero – I’m still –”

– Kiss –

“ – still going to work, and – get hurt – and –”

Hizashi retreated, lips hovering for just a moment. “I know, I know –”

Shouta’s breath is heavy, laden with desires and 15 year old feelings and guilt, and doesn’t know where this is supposed to go. He’ll hurt Hizashi like this, he just knows he will – is it wise to let him do this, knowing what, inevitably, is going to happen. He huffs out his nose, trying to find a way to be delicate.

He’s never known how to be delicate, and he just wishes that right now, he could somehow discover the secrets to not breaking his friend’s hearts. “I’m – is this a good idea?”

“Of course –”

“No, I mean it – is it rational , when I’m just – just –”

Hizashi’s hands are at work again, one holding him up, one wiping away tears from a scar.

“I’ll hurt you – I’ll hurt you and it’s inevitable and I can’t –”

“ Shouta ,” and his voice was loud, and commanding, and energized – his quirk at its lowest state.

It worked though – Shouta had no idea how worked up he’d become, how his weaknesses were seeping through like never before; he was broken in so many ways right now and they were all on display, so humiliatingly on display, that he couldn’t even keep himself calm.

Hizashi kissed him again, slower this time because he, shockingly, knew how to slow down. How to be rational when others weren’t.

His lips moved to the side of his mouth, then to his cheek, to his ear – “How long, Shouta?”

“What – do you mean?”

“It’s been fifteen years for me… fifteen years. I was in school looking at you. I was at graduation, looking at you. I shared our first apartment, and was looking at you. I’ve been teaching – and I’ve been looking at you…”

How romantic…

“How long has it been?” He said.

It was too good to be true. It was too sad to be true. They’d put this off for so long, and it took a violent, bloody incident to bring Hizashi to him like this. He’d had his chances too, but he’d always shied away from them because it wasn’t fair.

He’d die a hero one day, and Hizashi didn’t deserve that .

Shouta leaned into the feeling of Hizashi’s lips against his cheek, his ear, and told him what he’d never spoken out loud before. “I… fifteen years. Fifteen years, Hizashi…”

“ God,” and he’s crying now.

Shouta doesn’t want to admit to the few stray tears decorating his eyelashes like spiders on webs, so he doesn’t – he just leans into the soft, awkward embrace from his best friend, and lets him cry because they’ve both been idiots.

The sunlight was long against the walls, and the halls of U.A were quiet, and Shouta, for all the breaking he’s done, has finally found a way to put some of the pieces back together.

#my fic #bnha fic #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #aizawa #hizashi #erasermic #long post #fic length: medium #oneshot

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