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Things change.
Aizawa knows this as much as everyone. The sentence rings true especially to those involved in hero work. Things change, people adapt: it's necessary, unarguable. Either they adjust to their surroundings or they succumb to them. Easy as that.
It is, he supposes, as it has always been. Evolution proves it, and experience certifies it.
Things change, people change. It's as natural as it can be.
Yet, he welcomes the change that follows the USJ debacle with the same good spiritedness he'd welcome the press into his private life.
Hizashi tells him — to the point of exhaustion, really — that he is not at fault for the sudden alterations in his daily life. They are to be expected, accepted even. It's normal, he says, to see yourself differently after a traumatic event.
And apparently, being beaten and broken by a bioengineered monster while trying to save his students does count as a traumatic event.
The phone number for a certified therapist was binned as soon as he'd stepped back into his flat. The useful resources and group therapy websites promptly followed.
Aizawa is not traumatised.
Aizawa is disappointed.
Disappointed in himself, for failing to protect his ward. For letting them witness his demise. For allowing those villains to reduce him in such a pitiful state he ended up being carried to safety by All Might himself. For not recovering well enough, fast enough.
And then, Aizawa is disappointed in himself for matters that are far more private.
These… changes that the attack brought are testimony to his weakness. His inability to leave the past where it belongs, to let go of memories that have no place being this persistent.
The first of these changes violently makes itself known the first time he takes off the bandages from his face. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and he almost throws up at the sight of the scar under his eye.
All in all, he's been lucky that he gets to even see the scar. He's lucky that it's the only visible one, lucky that he can cover all the others — his battered elbow, his crumbled arm, the pulverised remainders of his legs and lower back — under a good couple of layers, his jumpsuit and clothes hiding them from the world.
But everyone who'll as much as glance at him will see that crescent moon-like mark and will know that he has somehow failed to protect himself. That he has been weak.
Maybe he uses too much force washing his face, or presses too hard with the towel or scrubs at his face with excessive strength. Whatever the cause, he emerges from the bathroom with his skin rubbed raw and pink, the scar — objectively small, logically insignificant — not quite reopened but still smarting and sore.
Hizashi is on his feet in a moment, rushing over to cradle his face in his hands, thumb brushing over the mark as he blinks the wetness in his eyes away, lips tight and an expression that is too heavy for Aizawa — Shōta, he's at home and he can just be Shōta — to properly analyse.
It's his first time seeing his face too.
He kisses his cheeks, then his eyelids. Whispers something along the lines of 'beautiful' and 'precious' and 'perfect' and Shōta is disappointed in himself for caring so much about his appearance. For being vain , for needing comfort that he shouldn't be requiring.
“You don't have to say that,” he tells his husband, moving half an inch away from him to give him space. To show him that it's alright — expected, even — if Hizashi doesn't want to see or touch him.
He doesn't let the rawest, most insecure parts of himself become exposed. Doesn't say that he's willing to keep the bandages on, to undergo surgery to get rid of the scar, doesn't allow himself to brokenly whisper 'You can fuck me from the back from now on if you don't want to look at it' because it would be pitiful, humiliating. It would showcase the half of himself he despises the most, and there's little else he fears as much as letting those feelings arise.
He lets Hizashi shush him gently, and lets him pull him closer again.
“I love you,” his husband must be lying as he whispers those words in his ear. “I love you and you're beautiful. Breathtaking. Inspiring.”
Each word sounds like mockery to Shōta.
He's broken. Marked. Unworthy.
The second change he notices is painfully intimate.
Shōta has always loved the feeling of Hizashi's hands on his hair, always loved the way his fingers would somehow end playing with it no matter the occasion. Braiding it on one of their rare nights off, pulling loose strands behind his ear while cuddling on the sofa, even playfully — or not so playfully, which both of them enjoyed immensely on the right occasion — tugging on it during sex, eliciting the sweetest of sounds from him. Hizashi has never hidden his love for Shōta's hair, and Shōta has never hidden his appreciation for it either.
It is the one part of his body he allows himself to be vain over. He may wear old, shapeless clothes and rarely shave — even though he's never been able to grow an actual beard — but the product he puts in his hair has always been of the highest quality. Flower scented shampoo and expensive conditioner, a perfumed cream that he gently massages into his scalp after showering — all of it he has no qualms purchasing, even as the rest of his belongings can be called spartan at the very best.
Now Shōta is frozen on the couch, having lost all tracks of the movie playing on screen, while his husband sweetly runs his fingers on the back of his head, pulling his hair gently as he moves.
It's domestic, familiar. Nothing they haven't done before.
Shōta can't breathe, a phantom hand using his hair as a hold to grind his face into concrete, grabbing it mercilessly and pounding his head down, fingers enormous and a grip too strong for him to break out of.
He thinks he can hear voices from the TV, but they turn into terrified screams and maniacal laughter and you're so cool, Eraserhead and he can't keep himself from heaving, gagging over nothing as he all but jumps away from the couch and Hizashi.
A deathly pallor has taken over his face, replacing the flush from the glass of white wine he'd drank with dinner — Hizashi had picked it, saying it would go well with the fish he'd cooked — and Shōta knows his breathing is dangerously uneven, bordering on hyperventilation as he struggles to chase away the feeling of something grabbing his hair.
He hears his husband call his name, but his eyes are unfocused. There's his living room, the couch he bought with Hizashi when he first moved in, the coffee table with the pictures from their wedding day. But overlapping with that familiar sight there's the plaza from the USJ, the hard ground beneath his face, the sickening feeling of bones crushing and a monstrous creature towering over him.
It's more unsettling than any nightmare he's been having, seeing both things at once. His safe space, his home , and the villains. Asui's terrified face, Midoriya's widening eyes. Hizashi's jacket thrown over the couch, and his elbow decaying under Shigaraki's hold. A reassuring hand reaching for his shoulder — at what point did he even fall to his knees? — and the Nomu above him, destroying his arms and using his hair to move him about as it pleased.
Shōta thinks he's muttering something because even though he can feel his mouth opening, no air makes its way to his burning lungs. The unbearable pressure on his chest doesn't leave way to the equally unbearable aftermath of a panic attack.
Hizashi isn't trying to touch him now, so perhaps he's said something about it — a terrified gasp of 'please, don't, don't touch– don't hurt me' that he's glad he can't remember — but he's knelt next to him, and Shōta can see, beyond the ghosts of his flashback, the horror in his eyes.
He's done that. He's made his husband worry over nothing, a mere touch that they've shared countless times before.
A part of him whimpers at the hysterical thought of 'he'll never want to braid my hair again' and Shōta wants to scream.
At himself for being so weak, at the Nomu for torturing him, at Shigaraki for planning all that and at All Might for not being here. Even at Hizashi, for staying by his side when he could be so much happier far away from Aizawa Shōta and the world of pain he brings upon himself.
He wants to march to Recovery Girl's office and demand that she fix him. Wants to curl into a ball and hide away until everything is alright again.
The attack ends as abruptly as it began, shadows retreating and his living room going back to normal.
Hizashi is still kneeling on the floor next to him, and that can't possibly be doing his knees any favours.
“Your knees,” Shōta manages to croak, surprised to find tears still running down his cheeks. “The floor–”
Hizashi is crying too, he realises, and he shakes his head vehemently. “My knees are fine , Shō.”
My knees are fine, but you aren't .
“I– I don't know what… I'm–” His voice trails off, unsure as to what to say.
Sorry for acting like this? Sorry for making your life harder? Sorry for being a broken shell of the man you fell in love with?
“Stop apologising,” Hizashi cuts him off — oh, he's been talking out loud — with an imploring tone. As if the idea of Shōta apologising over his flashback is physically painful for him. “Stop apologising, Shō, I'm the one– God, I hurt you, I'm so sorry–”
He can't bring himself to move, waiting for Hizashi to gently help him up instead. He takes him to their bedroom, bundles him up with the soft blanket that still smells like laundry detergent and cradles him to his chest, letting him hide his face in the crook of his neck.
Perhaps the sight of his husband overcome with sheer terror, forced to relive his pain, has taken a toll on him, because his hold is tight and his breathing betrays the tears that Shōta is sure are now steadily falling in his hair.
“You didn't hurt me,” he whispers once he finds his voice again, recalling the panicked nonsense Hizashi had said. “It's not your fault, I didn't–”
Hizashi doesn't expect him to finish that sentence, but rather asks as to what exactly had caused the flashback.
“The hair, I– The Nomu grabbed my hair and used it to–”
Shōta doesn't know how to go on. Doesn't want to put those images in his husband's mind, doesn't want them to fuel his nightmares as well. But Hizashi gasps, moves his hand away from the back of his head and lets it rest on his shoulder blade instead.
Don't stop, he wants to cry out. Touch my hair again, show me it doesn't have to hurt.
Stay away, the other half of his brain is yelling. Please don't hurt me too. I can't take it if it's you.
“It's okay,” Hizashi whispers, peppering his head with kisses so light he couldn't possibly mistake them for anything else. “It's okay, you're safe now, I'll protect you.”
Shōta has never needed protection before. Both him and his husband have always been more than able to keep themselves safe.
He knows that Hizashi would likely not manage to overpower the Nomu. Logically, he knows that.
“Thank you,” he hears himself say. “I'm sorry, please, thank you.”
It makes no sense — he's started three different sentences and has ended none of them — but Hizashi understands, holds him closer, lets him sleep.
The third change doesn't announce itself either.
It's almost like his brain wants to catch him off guard, actively working against Aizawa as if he were a separate entity.
They're in bed — warm, soft, safe — and he's laying on his stomach, Hizashi on top of him, laving the skin of his back with soft, languid kisses. Pressing his open mouth over each vertebra, a whisper following the maddening contact.
Mine. Beautiful. My love.
Things that would make Shōta roll his eyes at any other time, but that in this context — loving, familiar, safe — make the warm pooling sensation in his core heat up, sending shivers down his spine.
Somewhere between the teasing sensation of fingers against his rim — infuriating, playfully slow, not enough — and Hizashi finally deciding to move on and give him the actual deal, Shōta notices the pressure on his back.
He's always liked feeling Hizashi's weight over him, has always enjoyed heavy blankets and falling asleep with a cat on top of him. Something about it grounds him, makes his breathing feel less abstract. He doesn't care to explain it, he just enjoys it.
Usually.
Now, he feels the pressure and turns his head — just to check, just to see Hizashi's blissed out expression when he finally bottoms out, as deep inside as he can be, as close as he can get — and instead of his husband he sees a flash of something else.
It's over in a mere instant, the shadow of Shigaraki's monster towering over him again, its weight crumbling Shōta's bones in his lower back and legs.
Not even a second.
He still gasps, frozen in place, before a scream fights its way out of his throat, muffled and choked but still loud and obviously not the good kind of sound Hizashi loves to wring out of him.
He barely has time to bring a hand to his mouth to prevent another accident before his husband pulls out and turns him around, concern and worry so obviously painted on his face.
“Shō, what– what happened, are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
He shakes his head, heart pounding in his chest. He realises with a start that he's utterly terrified, scared out of his mind.
“I– I thought I saw–” Any possible way to confess what he's seen makes embarrassment and shame wrestle in his gut. “But it's you. It's just you, I'm fine. Keep going.”
Hizashi scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Don't give me that bullshit. Talk to me, Shō. Please.”
It's unfair, he thinks, how much he's willing to do for his husband.
“I thought that the pressure– the weight on my back. I turned, and for a moment it looked like the Nomu was still– over me. But I'm fine , I'm alright, we can continue.”
Hizashi looks pained at that, and Shōta can't understand why.
“Shō, you're shaking . And not in a good way. How do you expect me to–”
Oh. So that's what the issue is? Shōta almost chuckles at that — so typical of his husband, being all dramatic over a simple waned erection. Nothing that can't be fixed so Hizashi can have a good time — God knows their schedules are packed enough as it is, they can't afford to waste what little chances they have at intimacy.
He brings a hand down, grabbing Hizashi's cock and softly stroking it with careful, expert touches. They've been together for fifteen years, he knows what his husband likes.
He's beyond confused when instead of leaning into the touch, Hizashi grabs his wrist with a soft sound — something between a sob and a gasp.
“Shō. Shōta, please, breathe .”
That's funny, he thinks. He hadn't even realised his breathing was off until he mentioned it, and now he can't think of anything else. Nothing but the way his lungs seem to be rejecting the mouthfuls of oxygen he's desperately trying to gasp.
Hizashi places the hand he's grabbed on his chest, right over his heart. “Follow my lead,” he whispers, taking long breaths and waiting for Shōta to copy him.
Always, he almost says. I always follow your lead.
Once his vision has cleared — when did it even darken? — Shōta looks up at his husband and finds actual tears in his eyes.
Hizashi seldom cries.
He's been doing a lot more of it lately, though.
“Shō, are you okay? Don't– Don't lie to me.”
He is physically unharmed, if unsatisfied. The panic has worn off, and he figures Hizashi is ready to move back to their previous occupation.
He almost rolls over again, before rethinking his actions and laying on his back. Better to avoid another attack.
“Yeah, I'm good. You can– you know. Go back at it.”
It's been years , and he still finds it near impossible to actually make sense during sex. He's either reduced to sounds — which works for him, since he doesn't have to even think , and also works for Hizashi, since he visibly enjoys his unrestrained reactions — or awkwardly made to talk, tripping over his words like a teenager during his first time.
His husband finds it endearing, while Shōta obviously denies it.
To reinforce his statement — and perhaps to cover for his fumbling attempts at… whatever that stuttering sentence was — he spreads his legs slightly, focusing on his breathing and on Hizashi's body above him.
As long as he doesn't let his thoughts stray, as long as he keeps himself in check, everything's going to be fine.
He doesn't expect Hizashi to recoil from his touch.
“What– what the fuck are you doing?”
Shōta is growing real tired of Hizashi's cryptic manners. If he wants him to beg for it, there are much better ways to make him.
“I told you, I'm good. You can–” His voice shakes, and he's not sure it's only caused by embarrassment. “You can fuck me now.”
His husband doesn't move for a moment, frozen. A horrified expression is taking place in his eyes and really , if he didn't want to have sex with Shōta why even start? They could have been cuddling instead — sparing both of them whatever this rollercoaster of a night-in has been.
“It's okay if you changed your mind,” he tries again. “Or– did you just want me on my stomach? I can turn over.”
He doesn't love the idea, but if it makes Hizashi happy he can endure keeping his eyes closed for a while. And counting his breaths.
Hizashi sobs .
Shōta doesn't quite know what to do — it doesn't help that his husband won't even talk to him — so he awkwardly pats his bicep, trying to be comforting. Maybe he pulled a muscle?
“Shō, what– how can you–” He cuts himself off and Shōta wants to groan. This is getting them nowhere.
“I said I can turn–”
“I know what you said!” Hizashi yells, and now Shōta openly flinches away from him.
“I–”
Hizashi, for his part, looks both apologetic and horrified at himself, moving away from him to give him space. He runs a hand through his hair, and Shōta thinks he seems to be suddenly very tired.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell. I– fuck, I'm really sorry.”
“It's okay,” he tries to reassure him.
“It's not , why can't you stop saying that? It's not okay for me to yell at you like that, it's not okay for you to have a flashback while we're having sex and then expect me to keep going like everything's fine–”
Oh, so that's what the problem is.
“Zashi,” he says, and he's not ashamed to use the nickname to try and calm his husband down. “I'm sorry about the flashback and– and for freaking out after.”
That, if possible, only seems to upset Hizashi even further.
“Babe, babe no–” He chokes out, hugging Shōta close to his chest. “ Don't apologise, please. That wasn't what I was trying to say. God– I can't believe you're apologising over a flashback . I'm doing a piss-poor job of being a good husband, aren't I?”
Shōta positively bristles at that. He won't stand for Hizashi speaking this way of himself — not when it's so blatantly untrue.
“That's not true!”
“Can you even see what the point is?” Now he sounds exasperated.
“Not– I'm not quite sure?”
“Shō, you just had a flashback and a full-blown panic attack while we were having sex, and you tried to convince me to keep going even though you were literally shaking. And somehow you're still convinced that since you're not on the verge of a breakdown, I should simply fuck you and enjoy my afterglow. Can't you see how–” messed up , “–wrong that is?”
It makes sense. Somehow.
God knows Shōta would be beside himself with worry if their places were reversed.
And still, he can't find it within himself to nod.
Hizashi deserves to have a good time. To enjoy sex with his husband, the way he has been doing for half their lives. He deserves — and perhaps this is the crux of the problem — to be with someone who's not broken. Someone who doesn't see ghosts of his past whenever he so happens to feel a pressure on his back, a hand in his hair, a finger over his scar.
Oh.
“Zashi,” he whispers, eyes finding his husband's and looking for solace there. “Zashi, I don't think I'm okay after all.”
They fish the therapist's number from the trash bin. His first appointment is scheduled for Thursday, and Hizashi tearfully holds him after the phone call.
Shōta told him.
Not about the attack — he knows his husband already blames himself for not getting to him soon enough — but about his feelings of self-worth.
Or rather, the lack thereof.
‘Since the attack,’ he recalls himself saying. ‘I keep feeling like I've failed. At protecting my students and myself, at being a good hero, a good teacher, a good husband. I'm– I'm broken and I hate it, I hate seeing Shigaraki and his Nomu wherever I go, I hate panicking over things I used to love. And I hate that you're stuck with this shadow of me, I hate that I can't even give you– sex, because I freak out over nothing!’
The speech was longer, often interrupted by sobs he couldn't keep in.
Not one of his best moments, Shōta thinks.
But Hizashi had hugged him, kissed him, had whispered over and over that he'd done a great job, that he should be proud, that he was safe and so, so good, Shō.
He can't quite bring himself to believe it. To believe that he's willingly set up an appointment with a therapist, that he's spoken openly about his feelings to his husband without feeling like a burden for it.
It's a change.
It's terrifying.
But things change, Hizashi tells him while laying a soft kiss on his forehead. Things change, and people adapt.