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Bamboo Lillies

Pairing: Shota Aizawa x Hizashi Yamada

Rating: Mature Summary: After a decades-long friendship, Shota Aizawa realizes he is in love with his best friend Hizashi Yamada and develops a rare form of Hanahaki Disease. Warnings: Hanahaki Disease, Aizawa Shota has Hanahaki Disease, Major character death, Angst, no happy ending, Hurt No Comfort, Unrequited Love, Body Horror Word Count: 7336

A/N: this is both my first oneshot and also my first time writing in present tense. it is…weird to say the least but i thought id give it a shot. cant be a writer if i never push myself out of my comfort zone. maybe the next one will be in first person…probably not…idk

hope you enjoy but i really hurt myself with this one so...apologies in advance

Today is the day. Today is the day that I, Shota Aizawa, tell the man that I love how I feel.

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Shota retches, spitting bile and waxy petals into the toilet. He sits up and rests his head against the cool fiberglass of the tub, breathing heavily. His abs contract again, and he lunges for the toilet, heaving up more petals, bile, and blood.

𖥸

Shota took gasping breaths between the coughs that rattled his bones. He’d had this cough for what felt like weeks. He figured it was some sort of lasting viral infection or some reaction to the falling leaves. Whatever it was, it needed to go away. He coughed again and felt the lump in his throat dislodge. Shota pulled his hand away from his mouth. A single flower petal sat in his palm. Pale pink and tinged with blood.

𖥸

“I’m sick of this shit," Shota groans. He dabs his mouth with a towel and takes greedy sips of water from the sink to get the lingering taste off his tongue.

Shota hardly recognizes himself when he looks at his reflection in the mirror. His cheeks sink in on themselves, and the bags under his eyes are so pronounced he might as well be skin and bones. His already pale complexion is almost translucent, highlighting the severity of his condition. Hanahaki disease. Once thought to be fictional, but if the aftermath of that morning expulsions was anything to go by, it is very real and very inconvenient,

Shota can handle the coughing and the chest pain; even the flower petals are manageable as long as he gets rid of them quickly enough, but the vomiting he cannot stand. No one likes to vomit, but Shota hates it, always has. It interrupts his teaching and leaves him out of commission until he can steady the pounding in his heart and head. Extremely inconvenient.

Once he is calm enough, Shota finishes getting ready for work. He pours himself a large cup of coffee, grabs a fruit pouch, and sets off. The new faculty housing is off in the far corner of the UA campus, surrounded by a privacy wall. This time of year, the maples in the courtyard are losing their leaves, and the ground is covered in a layer of fiery red foliage.

The autumn air is especially cool this morning, and Shota buries his chin further into his scarf. Even though he doesn't use his capture weapon nearly as often anymore, he still wears it every day. It grounds him, gives him a sense of normalcy in this new world. The campus looks pretty much the same as before the war, though much larger. Student and faculty housing on the west side, refugee housing on the east, training grounds in the north, and rising high in the center of it all, UA Academy, now spanning kindergarten through high school, even offering collegiate-level courses for business and general studies students.

A lot had to change after the war, and UA picked up the slack wherever it could—employing anyone who could work and schooling those who wished to learn. It became a hub for efforts to rebuild society after All For One worked so hard to destroy it. It took a full year for the campus to be functional, stunting the education of countless students, but no one seemed to mind. So much had happened, and most were grateful they still had somewhere to belong, his students most of all.

Though he'll never say it, Shota will always be proud of his homeroom kids. They'd faced the inconceivable at just 15 and came out the other side better heroes than he could ever have wished to be. And although the world looks the same, even the air feels different. Alive with the understanding that they have to be better, have to try harder, so that the unthinkable doesn't happen again. Shota looks up at the looming school building, memories flooding through him. His chest aches, and this time it isn't because of the hidden illness.

Despite the early hour, the campus was bustling. Students of all ages walk the halls, some talking in groups, others with their faces in books or phones. That, at least, hasn’t changed. He walks into the teacher’s lounge and sits at his station. He pushes his chair back and stretches out his right leg, massaging the area below his knee. Cold weather always made the junction of his prosthetic ache, the dull pain radiating up from the amputation point throughout his leg. Phantom pains rarely plagued him anymore, but the feeling of cold metal on sensitive skin would likely never become tolerable.

As teachers gather around, performing their morning duties in preparation for a full day of teaching, Shota sits in silence. He doesn’t engage much anymore, having pulled back since getting sick. No one bothered him. He likes it that way. The unmistakable sound of Hizashi’s voice carries over the ambient noise. He is lounging on a couch with Snipe and Vulture—a new addition to the faculty—and talking about his plans for a weekend of drunken escapades and hookups. He is bragging about this "dime" he’d seen a few weeks prior and how they've been texting ever since. Hizashi's eyes capture Shota's attention. The green irises sparkle in the fluorescent lighting of the breakroom, brightening up the already ecstatic expression of his best friend. Hizashi does a celebratory dance.

The sight sends pain ricocheting through Shota's body, a cough threatening to surface. It's the same dance he'd seen the Voice Hero do months prior, the day that everything changed, the day he realized he was in love.

Hizashi had been complaining for a week straight that his students were not grasping the concepts he'd been teaching, and he was at his wits' end. To soothe his best friend, Shota suggested a test. Have them self-study and see how it goes. Good news came after school on a Tuesday. All of Hizashi's students passed the test. The man exploded up from his seat on the same couch and did the dorkiest dance Shota'd ever seen. He shook his head, laughter gently rumbling in his chest. "You're an idiot," he said. His chest warmed with affection, a mostly alien feeling, but with it came a cough. He hasn't been the same since. That realization. That he loves his best friend of over 15 years spelled the beginning of the end for Shota Aizawa.

Now, here he sits, trying his hardest to focus on the open inbox in front of him and not on the animated blond telling yet another story of a late-night hook-up. Shota knows deep down that he'll never be the object of Hizashi's desire. Where Shota is a romantic at heart, choosing to show his affection through meaningful actions and quiet displays of care, Hizashi shows his affection through passionate nights filled with booze, weed, and sex. His desire burns hot and quick, never lasting through to see the light of the next day. He'd been like that since they graduated high school, and Shota had come to terms with that quickly.

Soon, the first bell rings, and Shota gathers up his things. Homeroom would be starting soon, and he would rather not be late. He makes his way through the halls of the school, choosing to take the stairs up to his room rather than the elevator. Would it aggravate his cough? Yes. But Hizashi always takes the elevator, and Shota can't handle being in proximity to him right now. His cologne, his aftershave, his hair gel, his body wash, all mixed into an intoxicating citrusy vanilla smell that never failed to send Shota into a lovestruck spiral. And today of all days, he can't trust himself to behave.

By the time he makes it to his homeroom, Shota is wheezing and heaving, struggling to get a full breath. He digs around in the pocket of his hero costume, another remnant of his old profession that he can't quite bring himself to leave behind, and pulls out an inhaler. Taking several puffs, Shota covers his mouth with a hand, forcing the medication into his lungs. It takes a minute to work, and Shota cannot help but notice the concerned glances from passersby and his students, who are now filing into the classroom. Eventually, he feels better.

He knew from the second he figured out what ailed him that he wouldn't be able to hide it forever. Hanahaki Disease had only two cures, an experimental yet supposedly successful surgery and requited love. He's all but given up hope that Hizashi will return his feelings, but the surgery isn't an option. It came with an unignorable side effect. If he got the surgery, he would forget all about Hizashi. 15 years of memories gone. It isn't an option. So, Shota has been managing his symptoms as best he can, but it hasn't been enough to keep the concern at bay.

When Shota walks into the classroom, there's a bottle of water on his desk. It's ice cold and sweating, a layer of frost dusting the plastic label. Next to it is a single cough drop, and the box of tissues that had made its home on Shota's desk since he got sick is now full again. He takes greedy sips from the water bottle and pops the cough drop in his mouth. He knows who is behind this. Momo made the bottle, and Shoto chilled it. Tenya always carries a first-aid kit with just about everything you could imagine, and Kyoka suffers from seasonal allergies and keeps tissues on her person. Though he does not show his gratitude, he feels it and hopes his students can see the relief on his face, even as they pretend to pay attention elsewhere.

"Alright, let's get started," Shota says, his voice raspy and strained. "It's Thursday, which means you all have to report to your agencies tonight. This is the last week you'll be going before finals and winter break, so make sure you've gotten your hours for the trimester."

Ochaco raises her hand from her spot in the back of the classroom. Shota nods in acknowledgement.

"Will we be able to go to our agencies over break?" she asks.

"That is up to your agency. Remember that you take your licensing exam in March, and there is paperwork you all need to file that's due mid-January. As long as that gets done, I couldn't care less about what you do over break."

And he meant it. They will only be kids for a few more short months, then they will all be professional heroes, putting their lives on the line for civilians. But Shota knows better than most that these kids love what they are doing, and it will never be a job to them.

A few more students ask questions, and Shota defaults to Tenya to answer most of them. He has taken charge of homeroom since they returned to school as second years, taking a lot of stuff off Shota's plate.

The feeling starts in the pit of his stomach. A gurgling that Shota knows all too well. The cough drop still in his mouth tastes sour as his salivary glands go into overdrive, preparing for the inevitable. He knows he has just a few minutes to make it down the hallway to the bathroom. Enormous strides take him to the door, but his head swims with the effort. The room is spinning; his inner ear struggles to combat the vertigo that has overtaken him. He knows it's too late.

Thanking himself for having the foresight to add several trash cans around the room, Shota grapples for the nearest one. In this moment, he feels weak. He is weak. His students were never meant to see him like this. Pale with sunken, bloodshot eyes. He lost most of his muscle mass, both from the illness and his new physical limitations, so now his once towering figure is slumped and fragile. Embarrassment joins the nausea as Shota throws up into the trash can.

He can feel his students' eyes on him. The room is silent except for his retching. No one moves. This is the first time he can’t make it to the bathroom. The moment stretches out forever for him. He knows better than to try to write this off as food poisoning. His kids are too smart; they'll see through that lie in a second. Maybe he could blame it on the inhaler. He hadn't eaten breakfast that morning; the only thing in his stomach was water and coffee. And, well, flowers.

As soon as the nausea passes, Shota rights himself and, without a word, exits the room. In the faculty bathroom down the hall, he disposes of the evidence of his disease and rinses out his mouth in the sink. He'd do anything for a cough drop now if only to chase away the tang of bile. And while he isn't proud of it, he waits. Waits until the bell rings, signaling the end of homeroom. Waits for the tardy bell. Then waits an extra five minutes before returning to his classroom.

On his desk is a single bottle with a cork stopper and a note scribbled on a sticky note.

For the nausea - Ochaco

Ginger, undoubtedly. He'd read online weeks ago that ginger shots helped with nausea. He takes it and shudders at the taste, but the lingering rolling in his stomach stops almost instantly. Ochaco has come a long way with her quirk and is rarely plagued by the vertigo she used to experience, but she occasionally needs these ginger shots to quell the queasiness.

Shota settles into his desk chair and opens his email to continue the monotonous task of clearing his inbox, but the shame is starting to settle in. What is he doing? Neglecting his own health, and for what reason? Today, he feels worse than he has since he got sick. As much as he wants to ignore it, his body isn't moving he way he wishes it would. Every step is heavy. His movements are slow, and each breath is labored. The echoes of Recovery Girl's lecture bounce around in his head.

𖥸

Shota was standing a ways away from his students, and the sun was beating down on his head. It was uncharacteristically warm for early November, and the humidity was making it hard to breathe. But on top of the weather and his recent self-diagnosis, Shota was having a terrible day. Today was November 8th, also known as his birthday. He turned 34 years old today. 34 years of living, and he never felt worse. Everything hurt: his head, his back, his leg. You name it, and it was bothering him. And that morning, he'd thrown up for the first time in years: petals and the remnants of his dinner from the night before. Now, with the heat and exertion of demonstrating an albeit dumbed-down version of the training exercise the kids were doing, Shota felt like shit.

It happened before he even realized. One second, he was listening to the musings of the former number one hero next to him, and the next, his vision went black, and he was lying prone on the ground surrounded by his students.

He'd fainted. There was no other explanation. He wished for nothing more than to brush it off and return to observing training, but when he got up, it happened again, and that time he woke up in Recovery Girl's office.

Her face was stern, brows furrowed, and lips pursed, but there was a glint in her eyes that betrayed her concern.

"Shota Aizawa. You have Hanahaki Disease."

"Well, so much for getting straight to the point." Shota retorted, propping himself up on an elbow to get a better look at the short hero.

"How long have you known?" She was now pacing around the room, gathering a bunch of medical supplies, none of which Shota could name.

"About two weeks, I guess."

"And what have you done to help yourself?" Though she continued moving about the room, her tone suggested she knew he hadn't done anything about it.

Shota floundered for a minute, knowing he'd been caught. He landed on saying, "I can handle it myself."

"No, you cannot, and you know that." She stopped moving now to look directly at him, her wise eyes peering damn near into his soul. "This is a serious condition, Shota. Not one you can deal with without medical intervention." She placed the various items on the bed next to him before continuing her lecture. "I'm assuming your feelings aren't returned, and that's why this hasn't cleared up."

There was no escaping this confession. He, in fact, hadn't told Hizashi of his feelings. How could he, knowing already what the result would be? He was better off dealing with this alone, managing his symptoms and staving off the inevitable. Apparently, his silence was enough of an answer.

"You foolish, prideful man. This is not something you can deal with on your own. I suggest you buck up and confess to this person, and if your feelings aren't returned, there might still be time for you to get the surgery."

Shota knew all about the surgery. Not only did they go in and remove the plant, roots and all, but the process also removed any memories of the person you loved.

"I-I," Shota's voice broke in a rare show of vulnerability. "I can't lose him."

"I know, but we can't lose you. This school needs you." If Recovery Girl took note of the pronouns, she didn't say a word. Instead, she placed a gentle hand atop his and reached another to his face. He hadn't realized it, but he was crying. Gently, she lifted his head, so he was looking right at her—his vulnerability on full display. "It's going to be hard at first, but once you are out of the procedure, it will be like this never happened."

His body shook as he tried his hardest to keep the sobs at bay. How had his life turned into this mess? One leg, one eye, and suffering from this silly disease. He couldn't bear to lose his memories of Hizashi. Until his dying breath, he wanted to remember his dazzling smile and emerald green eyes. His gravity-defying hair and larger-than-life personality. Hizashi was Shota's reason for living, and as it would seem, eventually would be his reason for dying.

𖥸

If Shota cried again, sitting at his desk, answering emails, that is only for him and the dust bunnies in the corner of the room to know.

The rest of the day passes smoothly, but beneath the air of calm that Shota spent years perfecting, an inner turmoil rages. He can feel his body failing him. He can feel the racing of his heart and hear the rattle in his chest. He no longer has a choice.

Shota finds Hizashi in the teacher's lounge after school. Every Thursday, without fail, Hizashi sets himself up in the lounge to write the script for his radio show, Put Your Hands Up Radio, the next day. Shota has never known his best friend to be more meticulous about anything. The show is planned down to the second. Every song he will play, every joke he will tell, exactly when he will open up the floor for callers, and what his weekly Top 3 songs are. His dedication knows no bounds. It is one of many things Shota grew to love about him.

As he walks across the room, Shota's heart is pounding. The nerve he spent the whole day working up was as fragile as an eggshell, and one wrong move would send him running out of the room. It has to be now. He won't get another chance.

Hizashi has changed out of his hero costume, and his hair now cascades down his back in long blond strands. His headphones are on, and he is bopping his head to a silent soundtrack. It isn't until Shota takes a seat in front of him that he raises his head, flashing the most show-stopping smile he can muster.

"Zawa, my man! Didn't expect to see you today, don't you usually go with Kirishima to Fat Gum's agency on Thursdays?"

"Normally, yes, but Fat Gum and Suneater are on a mission this week, so Kirishima is going to Best Jeanist's with Bakugo."

"Oh, that's nice. Those two have been together for, what, about 6 months now? Who knew Bakugo was gay?"

"Wasn't all that surprising to me. Kirishima was more of a shock. I thought he had a crush on Ashido for the longest time."

Shota feels his resolve waning. He needs to do this now, or he never will.

"Well, I'm here for a reason." Shota takes in a deep breath. "There is something I need to tell you, Hizashi."

"Whoa, full first name? Am I in trouble?"

Shota weakly chuckles but shakes his head.

"I have been—" He is interrupted by a hacking cough that has him doubling over in pain. He coughs for a minute, but mercifully nothing comes up. "Sorry about that."

Worry is evident on Hizashi's face. Like his other colleagues, Hizashi has noticed Shota's steady decline and has questioned him about it several times. Each time, he wrote it off as asthma due to an upper respiratory infection. Shota doesn't know if anyone believes him.

"I—fuck I didn't really think this through, to be honest, but just let me say what I need to say."

In the split second before the words leave his mouth, Shota is taken back in time. Back to the day he first met Hizashi Yamada.

It was the spring before his second year at U.A. He found out just a week ago that he had been accepted into the hero course and would be joining Class 2-A at the start of the following semester. He was beyond ecstatic. He'd worked so hard over the last year to build up his skills to retake the entrance exam. Though his quirk was still useless against the bots, his hand-to-hand had improved significantly, and with the addition of the capture weapon he'd taught himself to use, he breezed through it.

His friend Oboro was the first to congratulate him. He'd called him after seeing his name on the class roster and invited Shota out to a Korean barbecue place to celebrate. He told him he was bringing a friend along. Normally, Shota would shy away from meeting someone new, but not even his introversion could dampen his good mood. So, here he was, standing outside the restaurant, getting ready to celebrate his crowning achievement in life.

He opened the restaurant doors and was greeted by the smell of smoke and meat, and his mouth began to water almost immediately. The sound of his name being called pulled his attention to a booth in the far back of the restaurant. He could see Oboro's smiling face and blue hair from where he stood, and the faintest wisps of blond hair sitting across from him. When he got into view of the stranger, his heart stopped.

Shota had known for about three years at this point that he was bisexual. After he found himself struggling to decide if he was more attracted to Katniss Everdeen or Peeta Mallark when he saw Hunger Games for the first time, the realization wasn't far behind. The idea of liking men never bothered him, especially not after his parents divorced when he was eight and his dad went on to marry another man years later. But his bisexuality was nothing more than a concept up until this point. He'd drool and fawn over celebrities or musicians, but never had he found himself attracted to anyone he knew, man or otherwise.

The boy sitting across from Oboro was nothing like the celebrities he liked. Somehow, he was better. He had coiffed blond hair. His green eyes were half hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, and when he caught sight of Shota, he smiled. The smile is what caught Shota off guard. It was the most genuine smile he'd ever seen.

"Hizashi Yamada, it's nice to meet you, Aizawa. Oboro's told me all about you. I'm so excited that you're joining the hero course next semester." The boy, whom Shota now knew was named Hizashi, held out his hand.

Tentatively, Shota shook it. "Shota Aizawa."

And in that moment. The second their hands touched, a dull pain bloomed in Shota's chest. That same pain has now intensified. Over 15 years later, and only now has he realized, it'd been love at first sight. It took Shota 15 years to realize his feelings, and in just a matter of weeks, due to this god-forsaken disease, he was confessing.

"I love you."

He doesn't look up at the man across from him as he says it, afraid of what look he might be met with. He continues talking.

"I think I have loved you for a long time, but I only realized it recently. You mean more to me than I can begin to put into words, so I'll leave it at that."

It certainly isn't as eloquent as confessions often are in the romance novels Shota reads, but it was out there. And boy does he wish he could take it back, because when Shota looks up, finally finding the bravery to take a peek at his best friend's face, his heart breaks.

Hizashi looks positively horrified—a stomach-churning mixture of confusion, regret, and guilt. His brows knit together, and he exhales shakily, the kind of preparation someone does when they’re about to hurt someone they care about, even though they don’t want to. And it's all Shota can do not to run out of the room that second.

From where he sits, Hizashi leans forward to place a hand on Shota's. His face has softened considerably; one could consider it warm, but there's a sadness in his eyes that dims their usual glow.

"Shota, I'm flattered, and you know I love you."

Here it comes.

"Just, not like that."

And if a broken heart can break further, Shota's just did. He tries his best not to let the disappointment show on his face, steeling his muscles into neutrality. How did he ever convince himself to do something as foolish as this? The pain in his chest worsens, tightening and squeezing at his heart.

"I understand" is all Shota can bring himself to say.

Gently, he pulls his hand out from beneath Hizashi's and folds it into his lap.

"Can I ask how long?" Hizashi's voice is tentative. Shota thinks it's the quietest he's ever been.

Shota takes a deep, shuddering breath before he answers. "The entire time I've known you. Though I only realized it a few weeks ago."

Shota's skin is starting to crawl. An uncomfortable tingling starting from his chest and spreading out to his extremities. He gets the sudden urge to run.

"Oh Shota, I—" Hizashi shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize. I should be apologizing." Shota stands abruptly from his chair. He's going to be sick. "I'm sorry for putting you in this position."

He walks out of the room and straight to the bathroom, where he proceeds to vomit into the toilet. Full petals and a concerning amount of blood are the expulsions this time. His chest feels tight, and his eyes burned, but he does not cry. He refuses to cry.

It takes Shota thirty minutes to walk home. He has to stop every few feet to cough into a handkerchief, disposing of the flowers as discreetly as he can. He vomits two more times, and by the time he makes it to his dorm, he is using the rest of his strength just to stay upright.

He stumbles through his door and barely remembers to shut it before he makes his way to his bedroom with unstable steps. Though his stomach contracts again, he only heaves with nothing resulting from it. He doesn't quite make it to his bed, sitting at his desk and attempting to catch his breath. Not even his inhaler helps.

In his mind, against his will, his life plays out in front of him. Things that were, things that are, and things that could have been. The hero he once was, putting his life on the line for his friends and students. The teacher he is, still sacrificing time and energy to ensure his kids are prepared for life after graduation. The lover he could have been, giving everything he has left for his partner and learning how to be a man, not a hero or teacher.

He decides to write down everything he is feeling. He grabs a couple of pieces of scratch paper and his favorite pen and writes. He writes until he can't anymore, when he can no longer grip his pen through the shaking of his hands, when he can no longer see the paper through the tears in his eyes.

It's then that Shota stands on shaky legs and takes the handful of steps to his bed. He doesn't even bother to pull back the covers. He tells himself it's because he doesn't need to, but he knows it's because he doesn't have the energy. Once his back hits the mattress, Shota is overcome with a sense of…relief. The pain is borderline unbearable, but the only thing he can do is close his eyes.

Behind his eyelids, though he knows it's supposed to be dark, Shota can see a pair of emerald green eyes, a button nose, and a small moustache sat atop a dazzling smile. The mouth is moving, speaking the three words Shota can now only dream of hearing. The image brings him warmth, brings him solace. The rest of the man's body comes into view, and he is wearing a tuxedo and a rose boutonniere. His hair falls over his shoulders and has a subtle curl to it.

The pain in his chest dissipates, the tingling turning to numbness, the rise and fall of his chest turning shallow before slowing to a stop. And despite it all, Shota smiles.

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Have you guys seen Aizawa?” Hizashi asks as he walks into the teacher’s lounge.

It’s 8:05. Homeroom starts in ten minutes. He hasn’t seen the man once all morning. The various headshakes and murmured “no idea"s tell him Shota hasn’t shown up for work at all. Panic threatens to rise, but Hizashi forces himself to breathe. If Shota is struggling to drag himself in today, that’s understandable.

He’ll turn up, Hizashi reassures himself as he leaves the lounge and strides toward the elevator.

Though Shota lingers in his mind all morning, it isn’t until lunch that Hizashi lets the worry settle in his bones. After class, Ashido approaches him with a nervous, pinched expression.

“Present Mic… Mr. Aizawa isn’t here today. He threw up in class yesterday. Is—is he okay?”

Hizashi’s heart sinks. Everyone—staff and students alike—knew Shota had been sick for a long while, and true to form, he kept showing up regardless. But throwing up in class? That was far beyond anything Hizashi ever imagined Shota allowing anyone to see.

“He’s just under the weather,” Hizashi replies, injecting as much brightness into his voice as he can manage. “I’ll go check on him during lunch, but he’ll probably just turn me away. You know how he is.” He’s not assurance the cheer lands.

Once the last student leaves his room, Hizashi practically bolts from the school. He’s worried. Shota has never been good at handling his emotions. After Oboro died, Shota disappeared completely. Weeks of silence turned into months, and once they graduated, months slipped into years. He shut himself off, dedicating everything he had to hero work. They went nearly three years without talking. If Hizashi hadn’t been assigned that mission by his agency… he’s not sure they would have ever reconnected at all.

Reaching the faculty residence, Hizashi scrambles to punch in his code and takes the stairs two at a time up to the third floor. He counts doors until he reaches 305—Shota’s apartment. But something’s wrong.

Something green is scattered around the doorframe. Tiny bits of it peek from under the door and around the hinges. Hizashi fumbles with his key ring, fingers trembling as he searches for his emergency key. When he finds it, he shoves it into the lock, twists, and throws the door open.

He stops dead.

He had expected the bare-bones neatness of Shota’s apartment and maybe a rumpled blanket on the couch where he often fell asleep. Instead, the floor, walls, and every surface are covered in flowers.

He barely recognizes the varieties, but their colors range from deep purple to bright red to soft white. Vines threaded with small purple blossoms crawl up the walls and dangle from the ceiling. Bundles of red and white blooms cluster across the floor and the dining table. They look as though they sprouted straight out of the wood and plaster, but on closer inspection, they’re all connected by one massive, tangled network of vines.

As Hizashi moves deeper inside, the floral overgrowth thickens, becoming a physical barrier he has to push through. The wild, otherworldly sight nudges a thought into his mind: a quirk. Maybe a bouquet altered by a quirk gone out of control. The hallway to Shota’s bedroom is overtaken entirely. Hizashi steps over small bushes, brushing past drooping blossoms as he approaches the half-open door.

He pushes. The door resists hard. It takes his full strength to force it open enough to enter. And then his world stops.

Shota is lying on the bed, a bundle of red and white flowers resting on his chest—except, as Hizashi gets closer, he realizes they aren’t resting at all. The stems disappear into Shota’s shirt, threading down, vanishing into his still body as though they’re growing from him.

Hizashi is at the bedside before he even registers moving. He reaches out with shaking hands, pushing aside a few blossoms—blossoms that tug slightly, disturbingly, as if they’re anchored deep within Shota—and presses trembling fingers against his neck. No pulse.

Every bit of first aid training he’s ever had vanishes. He can only stare, mind refusing to understand. It’s impossible. Any moment now, Shota will gasp awake, eyes shooting open, ripping the flowers free like this is some terrible nightmare playing a trick on him. But nothing happens.

Hizashi doesn’t know how long he stands there, waiting for the impossible. When he finally drags his gaze away from Shota’s too-peaceful face, he follows the vines spilling off the bed; thick ones, braided together, snaking across the floor and out through the doorway. They’re the same vines that overran the apartment.

All of them lead back here. All of them lead back to him.

A flash of white catches his eye beneath the bouquet blooming from Shota’s chest. Carefully—terrified of tearing something alive—Hizashi lifts the flowers and uncovers a folded piece of paper. With shaking hands, he unfolds it and begins to read.

𖥸

To be read after my passing

Today was the day. The day that I, Shouta Aizawa, finally told the man I love how I feel. It is also my last day on this earth.

I like to believe I’ve lived a life I can be proud of. I’ve accomplished things I once only dreamed of. I’ve fought against insurmountable odds to bring about a future stronger than any before it. I’ve stood beside invaluable allies against formidable foes. And I’ve lived long enough to see the fruits of our labor begin to blossom.

But despite it all, my time has come to an end.

To My Students:

Keep training. Keep striving to be better than you were yesterday. You’ve faced the unthinkable at such a young age, and yet you’ve proven that being a hero is about far more than power. It’s about resilience, heart, and the will to keep moving forward. Keep making me proud.

To My Colleagues:

Though I won’t be here to shepherd the next generation into the world, I know you will continue to guide and support them as they chase their dreams. They’re in capable hands.

To Nemuri:

I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me most. Your sacrifice wasn’t in vain. So many strong, brilliant young women have followed in your footsteps—paving new paths and breaking down barriers I didn’t even know existed until you befriended me. I think you’d be proud to see what’s become of the world you helped shape.

To Oboro:

My friend… we meet again at last. I was never one to believe in an afterlife or any kind of grand plan. Even more so because you didn’t get the kind of “life after death” that people like to talk about. Your body was stolen. Twisted. Reconstructed into something meant to serve villains. The person we knew became the Nomu known as Kurogiri. A tool of the very darkness we once fought against. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just.

But you, Oboro, live on, not in that body, but in us. You live on in the way I teach my students. In the way I saved civilians. In the way I try, every day, to be a better friend, a better teacher, a better man. Your light never disappeared; it found new ways to burn. And if there’s any proof that we leave pieces of ourselves behind in others, it’s you.

To Hizashi — the man I love:

If you had told me all those years ago that I’d grow to love you in a way I’d never loved anyone before, I would’ve laughed in your face.

It doesn’t take a genius to see we’re polar opposites. You shine where I linger in the shadows. You speak to the world with unfiltered honesty, while I let silence carry my meaning. You embrace emotion openly; I hold mine close. Where I observe, you act. Where I hesitate, you leap.

And yet, despite those differences—or maybe because of them—you became someone I can’t imagine my life without. Opposites attract, they say. I think we proved them right. You’ve helped me in ways that took me years to understand. You are selfishly selfless, stubbornly gentle, and confidently vulnerable. You’re annoyingly attentive and frustratingly polite. And those are exactly the reasons I love you.

I didn’t realize it at first—anyone who knows me knows I’m not the sentimental type—but I think it was love at first sight. Whether it was your smile or the way you said my name, like you'd already known me for years. I fell in love but was too ignorant to realize it.

In the years since, my love has festered in the form of this hidden disease. Hanahaki. A cruel fate to anyone unlucky enough to experience it. But despite the grave reality I face, I am happy. I am happy because I got the chance to love you.

Hizashi Yamada, I love you.

I love you in the morning, when I read your late-night epiphany texts. I love you in the afternoon, when you give me the rundown of your day. I love you in the evening, when we’re at the bar or grading papers side by side. I love you at night, when I think of all those times on patrol when I’d encountered a villain I knew you’d find hilarious. I love you when I’m awake, watching the way you light up your students’ lives. And I love you when I’m asleep, dreaming of a world where the four of us are together again.

Hizashi, if you’re reading this, then I’m gone. But know this: It’s my dying wish for you to be happy. Never stop being the man that you are. The three Dumbmigos are now one, but the stupidity has only multiplied. Lead a life you can look back on and be proud of. I know I did.

Love, Shota

𖥸

Tears cloud his eyes and fall helplessly onto the crumpled paper, mixing with the dried ones left behind. Hizashi falls to his knees. The room around him is transformed into a jungle of flowers, yet all he can see is the visage of his friend. Stoic. Peaceful, almost. A gentler version of the expression he wore daily. Shouta Aizawa. The man that he loves.

A/N: please like, comment, and reblog they rly help fanfic writers get out work out there :).

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