#eraserhead angst

[smallfisheyes]

aizawa is tired of your complaining.

“he said it’s sad! he forgot i had the day off and he had already made plans, so he asked what i was doing. i said i’d probably do something on my own, and he said it’s sad!” you pout, fists left bare on the table. “i don’t think that’s sad! i’m independent.”

“mhmm.” aizawa’s coffee swirls with the rotation of his spoon.

“i felt so happy with him the day before. today, i don’t even know if i like him, but other days i’m so certain.”

“maybe,” aizawa begins, lifting his eyes from his spinning coffee to your confused face, “you shouldn’t have gone on that app in the first place.”

he crosses his leg over his prosthetic from beneath the table. “maybe he’s a waste of your time.”

“i know.” he watches how your fingers intertwine and then untangle, smoothing over your chipped nail polish. he noted the colour earlier: shimmery and pink. “i’ve just been feeling lonely.”

“you’re not alone.”

“but i am. if i wasn’t on the stupid app, no one would want me otherwise.”

aizawa’s coffee slows to a stop. “i highly doubt that.”

“you can’t know that.”

he takes a long sip from his coffee, throat bobbing with each chug. he sets the mug down onto the saucer. aizawa feels your eyes on him, pleading and seeking.

how does he say this?

“i think i know. i’ve known for a while now.”

“what do you know that i don’t?”

“i know people feel relieved when they talk to you. you give yourself away too much. you should at least ask for something back rather than helping whoever calls for help. you’re worth more than that.”

“it’s my job—“

“and it’s in your nature to help. it’s only your job because you want helping others to be your life’s work.”

“okay. thanks?” if he didn’t like spending time with you so much, aizawa would chuck his mug at you. “what does that have to do with me being wanted?”

“it means you’re a good person.”

“being good doesn’t make me sexy.”

aizawa plants both prosthetic and his good foot on the ground. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“i’m a killer now, too.”

“do you really want me to spell it out to you?”

your doe-eye stare is always enough to make him spill.

“being good makes you sexier. you already have a pretty face. the way you run after people, asking them if they’re okay, seeing how you get pouty when something doesn’t go right. of course you’re wanted. everyone with a moral compass except for lowlifes are just too much of a coward to ask you out because of how inherently better you are. how perfect you are.”

your silence is deafening.

“i said too much.”

“aizawa—“

he doesn’t see how your hand reaches for him. he’s too quick, the chair screeching behind him as he gets onto his feet, making a beeline for the next train.

“next time,” he stops, nearly turns around, but he knows his heart wouldn’t be able to handle how wide your eyes are right now, “spend valentine’s day with me, not some stranger on your phone.”

you’re not the only hurt person that sought comfort today.

[lunarlighxt]

aizawa who always thinks of u when his consciousness slips away,, whether it's from sleep or a concussion or blood loss,,

aizawa who will never call or text or come crawling back bc he'll never be good enough for u n it is better this way,,

aizawa who sees that ur getting married to the friend who he knew had liked u when u were still together.

aizawa who does nothing bc heartbreak wasn't worth putting u in danger.

aizawa who dreams of u anyway for the rest of his life.

© lunxrlighxt on tumblr — do not repost or translate without my permission. i do not consent to my works being fed into ai or used for its training. if you do that, i will break my ‘no kill’ rule.

[yourlocalshittywriter]

The Duty of a Hero

Author’s Note: Howdy folks! I’m here with my first proper fic and I really hope that y’all like it! This will be exploring what could’ve happened if the Dabi that Aizawa fought wasn’t one of Twice’s clones. Since this is a fight, I advise the folks that are sensitive to things like that to click off and read another fic. Also, since this story does change scenery and moods a bit, I included some songs that change along with the the stories mood! This is mainly just because I like showing off my music taste and shit. Here’s Part 2!

Songs to Go Along: The Fighter by In This Moment, Acid Bubble by Alice In Chains, The Great Gig In The Sky by Pink Floyd

I felt extremely at peace for once in life. I felt the normal crackling of my joints silence into a warm nothingness. My aching muscles that had been torn to shreds time and time again, the ones that had been strained and stretched beyond the limits of the human body seemed to reform perfectly as they melted into the rest of my numb form. My skin, a forest of calluses, scars, stitches, and open wounds felt as if it was no longer there. I was no longer confined to the space of my body, and instead moved around as freely as water or air. I was a sort of goo, unmoving, stationary, simple, yet free. 

With a quirk as self-destructive as mine, becoming a hero was a sort of death wish. My quirk was known as “pain transfer.” Anytime I made eye contact with a person, I could activate my quirk and subject myself to pain only to have them suffer the pain of the injury for as long as I was looking at them. I could also transfer existing pain to my target. Although I may have had a wicked high pain tolerance and quick recovery period, my humanity was bound to catch up to me eventually. Quirks like mine, “villainous quirks” according to most people, should be kept hidden and the people born with them should go on to live normal lives as ordinary civilians. My parents were among these people. When I told them that I was enrolling in the hero course at UA, I was given the choice to either become a hero and be disowned, or ditch my pipe dream and stay their beloved child. I packed my things that night.

It was a miracle that I passed the entrance exam the next day. I was running on little sleep, the loss of my financial support, and the trauma that came with the realization that your parents didn’t love you anymore because you didn’t live in a way that they approved of. I had trained since my will to become a hero first arrived, a sort of passionate drive that crashed into my life so unexpectedly that the impact nearly gave me whiplash. 

I supposed that that inferno of, what? Spite? No, not spite, something deeper, hotter, and more righteous than spite. Let’s say ardor. This ardor was what drove me to take out as many robots as I could, despite the fact that my quirk was utterly useless in this situation. I took out a decent amount of robots, at least, decent enough to get into the hero course. A lady by the name of Recovery Girl healed me before I went on my way. I thought that I just had a few scrapes and bruises, but apparently I had a broken wrist. Surprisingly, I wasn’t the worst-off there, some poor kid broke both of his arms and one of his legs. 

The time between this moment and when I got into UA seems to have flown by. I came into UA, a semi-blank canvas, and now here I was, bleeding out on the campsite that I planned to spend my summer at with my classmates. Dying feels far less painful than one would assume; you really don’t even realize that you’re dying at first. It’s sort of like that feeling you get after eating a warm meal after starving for so long, sickening at first, but comforting after you grow used to it. It’s like taking a hot bath after spending a day in the snow; it burns at first, but the burning subsides into a comforting numbness. Your senses slowly dull into nothingness but your brain is left to conjure whatever image it pleases. I could have seen dead relatives, met idols, or even pictured an alternate life where my parents still loved me, but I didn’t.

I didn’t want it. Fame, fortune, admiration, acceptance, rebirth, none of it. I wanted none of it. I wanted to live. I wanted to do what I swore to do as soon as I got into UA. I wanted what I signed up for when I packed my bags and left my parents’ house at age fourteen. I wanted what I fought tooth and nail for. I wanted my ambitions and goals fulfilled.

Of course I wanted what I had worked for, that was beyond obvious, however, I also wanted the small things in life. I wanted my afternoon tea with Yaoyorozu, Sato, and Todoroki. I wanted my fashion shows with Aoyama, Ashido, and Hagakure. I wanted my midnight conversations with Shinsou and Tokoyami. I wanted my video game sessions with Kaminari and Sero. I wanted my morning meditation meetings with Shoji, Ojiro, and Koda. I wanted to watch pro-wrestling with Bakugou and Kirishima. I wanted to train with Iida, Uraraka, and Midoriya. I wanted to swim with Asui. I wanted to listen to music with Jiro and Mr. Present Mic. I wanted inappropriate jokes with Ms. Midnight. I wanted to make Mr. Aizawa proud; I wanted to make myself proud. So, with so many incredible things to live for, I opened my eyes, and attempted to move.

Much to my distaste, it turns out that my relief from pain, as well as the disassociation from my body was nothing more than a thin veil that was easily permeated as I rose from near death. The forest was nothing more than a verdant blur, one that was far from easy to navigate. However, all things end eventually, so I decided to run from death and wherever I ended up would be the least of my worries. I sprinted through the disorder and dysfunction, and wound up walking in on my teacher fighting the son of a bitch who had left me to die a lonely death with only the company of insects and whatever plants were to take over my wilting corpse.

As Mr. Aizawa tackled the cremation villain, I rose from the forest, stared at the man in restraints, and activated my quirk. As the pain transferred from me to him, I felt the veil of insensibility slip over me once more. The villain howled out in agony, the very agony that he had inflicted on me only minutes before. 

“Whatever you do, don’t break your gaze Eraserhead!” I chimed as I finally straightened my form, not wanting the hero to see me in such a state, “You’ll just have to trust me on this one!” Mr. Aizawa nodded, keeping a steady gaze on his target.

“Tried to kill me off?” I snarled as I made my way towards the sadistic bastard and beloved teacher holding him in place.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” the captive growled through gritted teeth, still under an amount of pain that would knock-out any average human. He looked beyond pissed that I survived, as if he took offense to the fact that I didn’t appreciate his work. I waltzed over to him, just far enough from Mr. Aizawa, but just close enough to the charred villain. 

“Surprise, I remain,” I cooed, low enough for only the villain to hear. He bared his teeth at me, looking at me as if he were some sort of rabid animal. I wanted to taunt him. I wanted to make fun of the fact that he had been taken down by a high schooler and their teacher, but I knew that it was never good to brag, because Karma would usually come to bite you in the ass for it. 

I stared at the man covered in staples, every blink I took releasing him from the effects of my quirk. Every blink motivated me to continue staring at him, to immobilize him so Mr. Aizawa could use his eye drops or blink, to buy him some time. However, I knew that this game of “pass the villain” could only go on for so long. Something had to be done. Eventually, the patchwork villain would catch both of us off guard and use his quirk, or one of his buddies would come and back him up. Mr. Aizawa and I were miles away from my peers or the rest of the pro-heroes. It was just the two of us up against this villain, and we were growing tired.

Only minutes after the realization had struck me, the villain escaped from Mr. Aizawa’s scarf when the two of us accidentally blinked at the same time. The human crematorium stood before us, and before I could use my quirk to disable him, he shot out a flurry of blue flames my way.

I dodged this attack as Mr. Aizawa ran towards the villain, yelling out the name “Dabi.” Before Mr. Aizawa was able to restrain him, Dabi grabbed the erasure hero and threw him headfirst into a brick wall, effectively knocking him out. I desperately wanted to check on my partner in battle, but I knew that I couldn’t let my guard down, because now Dabi was staring me directly in the eye.

I could attempt to charge at him, but I would be charred to bits, and even if I somehow managed to avoid his flames, I would meet the same fate as Eraserhead, knocked out and at Dabi’s mercy. I was screwed, I had no back up, my teacher was unconscious, and I was face to face with one of Japan’s most notorious criminals. I was dead meat.

That was until I devised a plan, one that would take out the cremation villain for good. One that would end his reign of terror once and for all. However, there was only one downside to this plan, and that was the fact that this plan would result in two casualties, Dabi and me. However, if I went with any other plan, Mr. Aizawa and I were to become the victims while Dabi walked off scot free. 

I was destined to become a martyr.

With that realization, I turned to my teacher who was slowly coming to his senses and gave him a gentle smile,

“Eraserhead, it has truly been a pleasure,” I announced as Dabi’s arrogant gaze turned to one of confusion. As Mr. Aizawa slowly faded back into his previously comatose state before he had time to be confused, I focused my gaze back on the blue-flamed bastard. It was time to end it, to end his rule once and for all.

I reached into my pocket, grabbed a tiny weapon that fit perfectly in my hand, locked eyes with the villain, smirked, and painlessly slit my neck. As Dabi grasped his neck and choked on his unseen blood, which was truly my blood, he fell to his knees.

As I took what I knew were my last steps, I came face to face with the first half to my murder-suicide. He glared at me, an amalgam of agony that felt nothing at all, and snarled.

“I’ll see you in hell, you cunt.”

I laughed, of all the things he could’ve chosen to be his final words, he chose to give into the childish desire to have the last word with me. As his oddly-familiar eyes drained of life, I felt the pain I had so carelessly inflicted upon myself finally hit me like a freight train.

I began to choke as I fell to my knees, similarly to how Dabi had fallen only seconds before. I knew that my time was up soon, I would succumb to my injuries and lose the thing I had fought tooth and nail for only moments before. I looked to the horizon to find the sun casting his loving gaze upon my battered body. It was as if Apollo himself was granting me a warrior’s death, like he knew I had made some kind of a righteous sacrifice that warranted a soothing transition from death to afterlife.

The sunrise was something like I had never seen before. The blues burned brighter than the flames I had defeated minutes before, the yellow pooled around my weary being like an evening gown to a death dance, and the red painted a comforting scene in the clouds, as if to distract me from my own red that painted my body and the ground around me. I smiled my final smile as I walked into the loving embrace of the sun.

My duty as a hero had been fulfilled.

[redriotbaby]

welcome to my pro-heros masterlist!

|Requests: Open | | rules |

|to see where I am with requests, click here|

|a - angst, c- comedy, f- fluff, s- smut| 

|d-drabble, h-headcanon, o-one shot, r-reaction, wip- work in progress|

Aizawa Shouta (Eraserhead)

s/o being scared of thunderstorms (f, h)

coming soon!

Takami Keigo (Hawks) 

coming soon!

Usagiyama Rumi (Mirko)

coming soon!

Updated on February 26, 2021

[erasethedarkness]

“Stay the night. Please.” And “Please dont die you can’t die” with Aizawa please? Lots of feels *braces self*

Ask and you shall receive! The response to “Stay the night. Please” has already been posted under Cross His Heart. I hope that one gave you lots of good and happy feels! 

…because I have a serving of angst for you now.

Summary: The transition of moving into Heights Alliance was supposed to be a fresh start- a new start, without all the old memories and baggage of the past from his apartment. But for Aizawa, it was just another reminder of what was left behind. Even with Yamada there to comfort him, the pain still wracked his body, and he couldn’t control his mind or tears. 

Note: Expect angst. This is the reader insert version of the first one-shot I’ve ever written for my OC, Hatsuki Yamada! You can find the original version on Ao3 here. This f!reader is both Hizashi’s sister and Aizawa’s partner. 

Song Inspiration: Never Forget You - 

Zara Larsson, MNEK

Reader: Female; reference note above.

Words: 2350

‘Cause once upon a time you were my everything…

While it didn’t take Aizawa long to get set up in his room at Heights Alliance, it was still up to him to make his space feel more like home- and that was a challenge he did not rise up to. It was something he tried to do in his last place, but utterly failed at, and as more and more time passed, he forgot what that feeling was even like. In truth, when he was packing up, he struggled with deciding what to take with him. There was so much left in that place he didn’t know how to handle, and by the time the deadline rolled around, he only had the essentials packed, marked, and ready to go.

But maybe that was for the better. No matter how hard he tried to make a place feel like home, all he felt was emptiness. Home wasn’t a couch and TV in the living room- it wasn’t a fully stocked kitchen or bathroom with matching décor. To him, home was the sound of your voice when you said “Welcome back,” or “I missed you!” It was in your arms as you practically jumped on him when he arrived, or even encompassed entirely around you. Home was the light scent of jasmine and rose that stained the pillows from all the times he pinned you down after you spritzed your perfume, and it was the warmth he felt in your hands, your kiss, and your entirety.

Without you, home was simply an impossible place to find. It may as well have turned into a myth by now.

A knock on his door interrupted his ruminations.

“Shouta-kun!” an excited voice called out as the door slid open. He didn’t even have to look- that voice and excitement unmistakably belonged to the Voice Hero. “Aren’t you excited to be neighbors?~” the blond sang with a bright smile, his fingers lacing together under his chin as he fluttered his eyelashes at the 1-A homeroom teacher.

“You’re acting like it’s something new.”

“Well, being this close of neighbors is new! Hey, did you get all unpacked?” Without waiting to be invited in, Yamada brushed past the man he was all too familiar with and stepped into his room. He comically looked around, brows knitted together and a confused scowl on his face. “Eh? Is.. is this it?”

The room was as barren as possible. In the corner opposite of the door was his desk and office set up, and against the wall was a plain wardrobe. Tucked away in the corner adjacent to the door was a simple, small bed that was never meant to be shared, complete with a bedside table. Everything was minimalistically black and white, and there wasn’t anything beyond the bare necessities that he could see. It was almost unsettlingly empty. Hell, even hotel rooms were more welcoming and homier than Aizawa’s.

“…Is there something wrong with this?”

Yamada turned around to see a stare as flat and cold as the man’s voice. Void of animosity, it still lacked the subtle friendliness that he was used to seeing. Really, it was as empty as the room he stood in. Only silence filled the space inside as Aizawa closed the door behind him since it didn’t seem like his new neighbor had any intention of quickly leaving.

“Did you need something, Hizashi?”

“I was gonna ask you to help me with something, but…” The blond sighed, walking over to the bed and taking a seat on it. When he sat down, he noticed the one piece of this room that had any real character and significance: a pair of sunglasses with a white frame and holographic orange lenses- a pair identical to his, save for the optic finish. Aizawa watched him sit down and followed his gaze to the bright accessory, seating himself at his desk after turning the computer chair to face his guest. The silence only seemed to grow until he finally broke it.

“But what?”

Yamada finally tore his eyes from the sunglasses and looked across the room at his friend. “I didn’t expect your room to be so empty,” he admitted, pausing for a moment to evaluate his next words. “…Did you really say goodbye to it all?”

Aizawa’s chest tightened as he closed his eyes with a sigh. Did he really have to say it like that? It was something he was still processing and adjusting to, especially with this being their first day living inside the protection of U.A. Truthfully, he didn’t know how to answer that. Did he really say goodbye to all those things he left behind- that you left behind first? Or had he simply abandoned them and hoped they wouldn’t come back to haunt him?

For the first time in over ten years, his space wasn’t surrounded with traces of you. Here, he wouldn’t turn around and see your favorite stuffed animal on his bed- the one he won for you before ever sharing your first kiss. He wouldn’t glance at an open seat and remember you sitting there, smiling over dinner or engrossed in a book. There wasn’t a single spot in this room that you ever stood, so he wouldn’t look around and remember what it was like to hug you over there or in front of your bedroom window, watching the sunrise together. He wouldn’t have to remember how he used to press you into that spot against the wall between two hanging pictures of you both taken a year apart, and steal your kisses as you laughed and pretended to push him away. Nothing in this room was supposed to remind him of you, save for those sunglasses.

But everything still did.

“Shouta…?”

Yamada’s voice seemed so far off that it couldn’t pull him back. He was already hunched over in his seat, his head bowed and held in his hands as his elbows dug into his thighs. His body trembled as he choked back the gasps that started to shake his chest, palms wet from tears he couldn’t control. I must be so pathetic, he thought to himself, to still be crying over you, (Y/N). Yet, he couldn’t stop. The more his thoughts raced between memories he desperately clung to- memories of your voice, of your scent, and your warmth and smile and every little detail from the curl of your hair to the way you wore your makeup- the deeper he ached and the harder he sobbed.

Aizawa couldn’t stop his memories from taking the inevitable turn for the worst. Always, he was brought back to those scenes that played out in the same exact order without fail. Every detail from those moments was still carved into his mind's’ eye, painfully fresh despite how many years had passed. You gave him that bold, bright, and broad smile that everyone could put their faith in before turning around, your hair catching the air and then falling back against your studded leather jacket. He watched as you ran ahead, your footsteps masterfully silent- the very reason why you had to be the one to go first. Your stealth was second to none- not even to him.

That smile was the painful marker of the end of the good memories.

In a wet and blurry blink of his eyes, he was back in the scene that was the gateway to his own personal hell. That moment- that one moment- when he wasn’t good enough was the one that mattered the most. If he had just considered how his emotions would impact his ability to activate, maintain, and focus on his quirk and the connection between it and the scarf, he would have been prepared. He wouldn’t have fallen short, he wouldn’t have missed, and you would still be here.

But he did.

Aizawa watched as it all replayed through his head again: he threw out the end of the gray scarf- it was on the perfect trajectory to entangle the villain’s legs- and then it came flying back to him. It was so close. It was so fucking close. But, close only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades, and he watched as you disappeared through a portal, unconscious and slung over someone’s shoulder like a bag of sand, leaving your signature sunglasses behind on the ground. Why did he have to blink just then? Why couldn’t he just stare that extra second? By now, he knew why. He blinked because he couldn’t control his emotions at that time; he was so distraught by the sight of you captured and unconscious, being just out of reach, and your brother beaten and left behind- possibly dead- that he couldn’t control himself, and he blinked.

And when he blinked again, sobbing in his empty room, he felt your brother’s hand on his shoulder. As much as he wanted to react- as much as he wanted to stop the memories from flooding his mind and come back to the present reality- he couldn’t. He was long gone again, leaving an emotionally crippled mess in front of Hizashi’s eyes.

After intense and fruitful research into where you could have been taken, and with your brother’s recounts of the villains, they were able to get the upper hand and corner them. He remembered how intensely his heart was beating when they breached the warehouse and raced against time itself, Present Mic right on his heels as they went to save you. As the special forces went in and apprehended the villains, the pro heroes only had one goal in mind: rescue. They found you tied to a chair, chest rising and dropping with small breaths as you hunched forward, out cold. He took out the knife he always had on him to cut his scarf when needed and slashed through the ropes while your brother shook you and gently slapped your cheeks, trying to wake you up, but to no avail. Hizashi caught you as you fell forward when the last of the rope keeping you up gave away, letting your partner take over and pick you up to carry you as they walked out of the warehouse.

Aizawa remembered the indescribable amount of relief he felt as he carried you, feeling your warmth and breaths. He remembered thinking to himself that carrying you like this was practice for carrying you bridal style, silently promising you that the day would come sooner rather than later. Just as he was thinking about spending the rest of his life with you for the first time, he had it all stripped away. These memories pierced through his heart as he sobbed, just barely feeling Hizashi’s hand rubbing his back as the scene continued with no way to stop it.

As soon as they stepped out of the warehouse, everything changed.

Your breathing stopped.

Immediately your body went cold, as if you hadn’t taken a breath in hours- possibly even days. You were stiff, the rigor mortis setting in within seconds instead of the hours it should normally take for someone who just passed away. Your chest stopped lifting and dropping with breaths of dead air, and it was like you were frozen in time. As he felt the changes in your body, he stopped in his tracks, Present Mic pausing a few paces ahead and looking over his shoulder to see what was wrong. He would never forget the expression on Yamada’s face as his eyes lowered to see his sister’s pale body, the vital and vibrant glow of your skin nowhere to be found.

Reliving the memory, Aizawa trembled, clutching his chest as the tears started to sting from how frantically he cried. It was just like that day, when he felt your life slip out of his reach. He dropped to his knees letting go of your legs to pat your cheek as he supported your back with his arm. His heart beat even faster than it did when they broke through the warehouse, the onset of his panic fierce and debilitating.

“(Y/N).” Nothing.

“(Y/N), please.” Your rigid body absorbed his cries and tears, giving him silence and coldness in return. Within seconds, Hizashi was on the other side of you, his hand coming to your back as well as they both began to shake your body, their desperate begging met with deafness.

“(Y/N), please- please, you can’t…” your lover gasped, clutching you tight and holding your head to his chest. “Please don’t die… You can’t die…” The words were sobbed into your hair as he pressed a broken kiss to the top of your head. “Please…  You can’t just… you can’t die, please.” Even though he knew it was impossible- even though he knew it was already too late- Aizawa begged for you. He didn’t care that the medical personnel came over and needed him to let go of you, and not even your brother could tear him away.

The memories always ended that way.

“Shouta, it’s okay…”

Yamada’s voice began to reach him again as the memories began to recede. He could hear himself sob, choking on his breaths, the blackness behind his eyelids taking him back to the dorm room.

“Even with nothing here,” Aizawa gasped, “I can’t stop remembering her, Hizashi.” He lifted his head from hands, finally looking to the man who suffered just as much that day. “Everything- everything- reminds me of her. I can’t… I can’t keep it all anymore.”

The blond took a deep breath and pulled his friend into a hug. He brushed his fingers through the mess of black hair, gently shh’ing him as he rocked them back and forth. Tears immediately bled into his shirt as he offered his shoulder, quietly beginning to cry himself.

They both shared a deep loss that day- one a lover, the other a sister. And even though they shared the bond of brothers, knowing they’d never be in-laws still broke their hearts.

…It’s clear to see that time hasn’t changed a thing.

[smallfisheyes]

aizawa knows when you’re really mad at him, you walk ahead. no handholding. no hand looped around the inside of his elbow or squeezing admirably at his bicep. it’s your back facing him five paces ahead with your arms crossed protectively over yourself that he knows he really, really fucked up.

and he knows why.

you’re leading him downhill towards the park, the one you mentioned you visit when you’re sad or to draw and journal.

he knows it’s for the former.

when you do find a table, and you point at the bench seated across from you rather than beside, he feels his heart leap.

he didn’t mean to hurt you.

“why?”

your arms are crossed. you’re doing a good job of keeping your head high, but he sees how your lips tremble. you’re so shy, so sweet. he wants to hold you, coo sorries and smooth your hair, but he knows it’s the last thing you need.

so he stays stiff like you need him to be.

“why what?” out of context it sounds mean, but his voice almost gets lost to the wind.

“why don’t you want to try long distance?”

[smallfisheyes]

the accordion of the bus is a very unromantic place.

it squishes your foot and creaks with a bored moan and you stumble with the floor of the bus rotating under your feet. often, on your ride home from work, you stand gripping the yellow pole staring at the grey fins of the accordion.

but aizawa has rewritten your perspective.

your forehead is pressed against his. aizawa’s shaggy hair brushes against yours, and all you can see is the lower half of his face. it's a pretty sight: the blurry image of his lips and the beginnings of stubble sprinkling his chin. your hand is wrapped around the yellow pole, the other holding aizawa's.

you do all of this while standing in the bus’s accordion.

it creaks and groans, but aizawa’s hair tickles your cheeks.

"you can hold onto the pole,” you suggest while biting back a watery smile. stubbornly, affectionately, annoyingly, both of aizawa’s hands are on you: one looped around your waist, the other cradling your hand.

he pulls away a moment to properly listen to you. aizawa always looks at you; when you're rambling, when you're walking to the bus stop, and especially when you know he's watching.

"this is okay," is all he says.

so, you stand in the accordion of the bus, foreheads pressed together, both his hands around you and not the safety of the pole. you pull him towards you when the bus brakes; he'd stumble otherwise.

"thank you," he tells you.

you nod, your hair and his shifting under the movement.

you're the very picture of a couple despite being in the accordion of the bus.

what the strangers onboard don't know is that you and aizawa had broken up five hours earlier, but he still holds you, and you still press your heads together.

you didn't want to split, but you did.

"it's the most logical thing," he had told you.

so why does he still hold you?

the walk to your house together will be a long one, and likely the very last.

it is also logical to make this feeling last. to enjoy the last bits of your love together before you part and go no contact.

you will always love aizawa, and aizawa will always love you.

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[smallfisheyes]

wc. 0.9k no pronouns mentioned

shouta has started studying the clouds.

hizashi doesn’t like this new hobby, but he brings him new copies of national geographic all the same. cat magazines have been traded in for cloud studies. magazines have become thick books and even student theses bounded in yellow covers. the one by shouta’s bedside details cloud patterns' relationship to airflow and vapour distribution, paragraphs broken with diagrams he didn’t understand and words he never knew existed.

he searched for answers anyway.

the sky was oboro’s realm, somewhere shouta could only reach for a good second or two. there’s always a moment of pause when something is thrown and reaches its peak. a physics thing. shouta learned about it during a hero workshop.

lately though, there’s been a thing or two that has been keeping his eyes grounded.

“how are you?”

instead of that blinding smile of hizashi’s, you’re at the side of his bed. calmer, sweeter, easier on the eyes. well, not really. if you’re so easy to look at, why does shouta have such a hard time looking at you?

his hospital gown is blue and the hospital issued blankets crinkly and rough. he changed into new linens just before you swung by. he wonders if he still stinks. he really hopes he doesn’t stink.

“i’m alive.”

to that, you frown. shouta doesn’t see, but he knows. “well, i’m happy you’re alive.” there’s an upswing to your voice.

he doesn’t catch the corner of his mouth in time to stop his smile. he simply hums.

shouta would never admit it—never in his head, to hizashi, not out loud—but he likes it when you visit. when you catch him unguarded, he feels his body pull to yours, pulled into your gravity. he feels like a cat and you’re the ray of sun that hits the floor. it’s hard to pull from you. he’s meant to.

then he looks to the cloud magazines, and he's falling again.

“more cloud books?” you shift, rising from the seat you dragged over to sit beside shouta. you reach for one of the magazines on his bedside cart. food untouched except for jelly pouches hizashi brought litter the table. “i didn’t think you’d be so interested in cloud patterns.”

you flip through the pages, pausing at some, flipping faster through others. it creates a blue blur.

you always make it a little easier for him, though. when you visit, you distract, not poke and prod. no, do you need more water? no, do you need your pillows adjusted? no nurse flipping him over because he can’t do it himself, at least for the time being.

shouta never liked the hospital. his privacy was gone, his skin itchy, and people constantly touching him and asking if he’s hungry. you? he feels his body lean towards yours.

“you shouldn’t come,” shouta croaks.

he pulls himself away.

your eyes lift from the pages. shouta is looking at you now. your eyes are wide, lips in a straight line, and he knows he has to correct himself.

“don’t feel obligated to come, i mean.”

“i like visiting you,” you counter.

shouta has to grip his brick of a bed beneath his bedsheets to stop himself from jumping you. you, who’s so kind. you, who should be happy. you, who should leave.

“it smells like piss here.”

a laugh breaks out from the side of his bed. it’s pained. shouta is looking at you again. the blue pages of the magazine crinkle under your grip. your mouth wobbles, eyes downturned. why do you look so hurt?

“you can just tell me to leave,” you insist.

your eyes are watery. your voice box sounds like a screwdriver has been jammed through it, throaty and broken.

“i don’t want you to leave.” shouta speaks in a whisper.

“then what are you saying?” your voice is rising, and so are you out of your chair. you’re still holding the cloud pattern magazine, another mysterious paper bag at the foot of your chair. “that i’m an incompetent hero? that i’m the reason why you’re hurt?”

shouta’s voice goes hard. “that was my decision. your safety over mine.”

“but now you’re hurt!” you’re shaking the magazine now. when your eyes connect with his, frustration is replaced with regret. “now im yelling at you. i’m the worst.”

“that’s not true.”

“i’m sorry aizawa.”

“shouta,” he corrects.

“aizawa.”

“shouta.” please call him by his name.

there is a sad, sad frown on your face. “should i stop visiting?”

“i only want you to visit if you want to, not because you feel like you have to.”

you’re slow to fall back into your seat. your mouth no longer looks weighted with grief. “i like visiting.”

shouta kneads the hospital mattress from under his sheets. he can breathe a little easier now. “then you can visit.”

you’re gripping your wrist. it’s your turn to look at the ground. “do you like it when i visit?”

shouta shifts in his bed. “i do.” he lets you process this for a good second. “maybe more than hizashi.”

your surprised sunny smile casts a wave of shyness through him. “more than hizashi?” you’re at the edge of your seat.

“just kidding.”

“shouta!”

shouta’s chest swells with a golden feeling. maybe he doesn’t need those cloud magazines. maybe he’s allowed to be happy. maybe he’s allowed to have you by his side and lean into your warmth. it feels natural; you and him.

nature has a way of taking over. there’s no reason to fight.

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