Chapter Text
“What are you thinking about?” Shouta’s low morning voice was like music to his ears. Hizashi was already starting to smile as his eyes slid open. Blinking slowly, he found Shouta’s dark gaze and met it with his own, softening at the warm expression he found.
“Hmm?” He hummed, his head propped on his hand as he laid across from his husband. Everything was a little foggy, in that way that let him know he must have fallen asleep leaning against his hand. He didn't remember waking up in the first place, something Shouta seemed to be realizing by the way he rolled his eyes.
“I keep telling you that three jobs is too much on your plate,” his husband murmured, a hand reaching out to caress his cheek. Hizashi leant into the touch unconsciously, even as he gave a playful glare.
“It is not! I’m doing just fine, I love my jobs, and falling asleep again in the e—morning isn't proof of anything, my Starlight.” Hizashi shot back, hoping Shouta didn't notice him stumbling over his words when he said ‘morning.’ For some reason, he'd been about to say ‘evening,’ but it was obviously morning if they were still lying in bed. His brows furrowed for a moment, but quickly he brushed the thought away.
“And yet you can't stay awake, Sunshine,” Shouta finally pulled his hand away. Hizashi inhaled sharply when he felt a sharp sting by his eyebrow, attempting to bring his hand up to feel his face, but his limbs felt too heavy — it was like wading through mud.
“Are you wearing your ring, Shou? I think you scratched me.” He murmured in confusion. He noticed his blinks growing slower, his lips pursing. “Maybe you're right about needing some sleep,” he managed when he got no response. He tried to drag his eyes back open to discover why his husband wasn't answering him, but he felt the lull of sleep dragging him under.
“Why’s it so cold. . ?” He managed, slumping against his pillow, which did not feel as comfortable as he remembered. “Should turn the heat up. . .”
Hizashi was almost asleep again when he heard his name being called and he frowned.
“ — Mic! Present Mic!”
Shouta? Why was his husband calling him by his hero name at home? His brows furrowed tightly, and that pain by his brow was back. Was their bed really this uncomfortable? Maybe it was time they invested in a new mattress.
“Mic! Hizashi!”
That was better. He and Shouta had a rule that it was Eraserhead and Present Mic respectively on the clock, and their actual names the rest of the time. Sometimes it bummed him out to have to pretend that they were nothing more than begrudging coworkers, but at the end of the day, Hizashi got to go home with his loving husband and hear –
“‘Zashi! ‘Zashi!” That. He got to hear that nickname, the one that had made him blush a beautiful firetruck red when he first heard it at seventeen.
Hizashi didn't like that tone to Shouta’s voice though, and he found himself struggling to peel his eyes back open. “Shou?” He breathed out. For some reason, it came out as a near silent gasp. “Sh-Shouta?” His tongue felt too large in his mouth, the familiar name slurred.
“‘Zashi? Zashi, can you hear me?”
Of course he could hear him. Though it seemed like one of his hearing aids might've gotten left on the nightstand, because he could only hear his husband from his right ear. Except. . . it wasn't morning, was it?
Hizashi sucked in a ragged breath as his eyes snapped open, and all at once the day came back to him. They’d just woken up on their one mutual day off when they both got the call. Plans to laze around all day and watch movies together had turned into evacuating civilians out of the way of a particularly destructive villain fight while also attempting to keep the villains away from said civilians.
One moment he had been ushering a terrified couple out the back doors, and the next everything was dark. Hizashi was attempting to gain his bearings when Shouta’s voice sounded again. “Hizashi! Hizashi, are you there? Please —”
His heart panged in his chest at the break in his husband's voice, and he cried out before he could so much as process where he was. “Shouta?” The panicked calls of his name cut off.
“Hizashi! Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Shouta called back, his voice hoarse and breathing labored.
“M'okay,” he sighed, only to abruptly realize that he maybe, probably should've catalogued his injuries first. Finally, he realized where he was. Apparently the apartment building they were evacuating had a parking garage. He only knew this because he was currently lying on the floor of it, squinting around himself. His glasses were gone, somewhere strewn about in the rubble, he imagined.
His heart skipped a beat when he realized that the building had quite literally collapsed on top of them, and he was flooded with guilt for not answering Shouta’s cries immediately. He could only imagine what his husband must have been thinking. His left arm was splayed above his head, and a hefty piece of concrete kept it pinned to the ground. At the moment, he couldn't feel the pain of the crush injury, and he didn't want to know what that meant for him.
Cataloguing this, he moved on to the next thing. His face was sticky with blood, and he could feel it oozing from a gash on his forehead, darkening his dust coated hair. His other arm was free, he noticed, and he clumsily brought it up in front of his face. Hizashi frowned when he couldn't focus his gaze on the. . . eight(?) fingers swimming in front of his face. Defeated, he dropped it back to his side, because he could not blame that one on bad vision. Finally, he craned his neck with a groan to peer at his lower half.
There were pieces of debris and rubble covering his legs up to his hips, and that hurt like a bitch, he was realizing. But there was something relieving about the fact that he could feel them. And at last, Hizashi’s mouth fell open to reassure Shouta, when his gaze landed on it.
Everything froze. Hizashi held his breath, attempting to understand what he was looking at. Maybe it was the head wound, because surely he would feel it if he was impaled, wouldn't he? Coughing harshly when holding his breath became too laborious, Hizashi’s one free hand snaked slowly toward his gut. The limb was trembling violently as it grazed his side, brushing against something warm and wet coating his jacket. Oh Gods.
Hizashi’s probing fingers finally found what he was looking for, curling weakly over the piece of rebar that was sticking out of his lower stomach. Right. That. . . wasn't good. After only a moment's hesitation, he shook his head with a tiny gasp and pressed his hand down on the wound around the rebar. It made a cold chill sliver down his spine when he realized he still couldn't feel the pain of the injury.
“Injuries, Hizashi?” Shouta called to him, and he flinched, having nearly forgotten that his husband was here with him. Fuck.
“My left arm’s trapped, I've got a head wound and concussion and — and I’ve got a lot of debris covering my legs. Can't see the damage.” He listed off, finally, trying his best for levity, though he was pretty sure he missed the mark. “And you, Shou?”
There was silence for a moment, before a barely audible shaky inhale was heard. “. . . I’ve probably got a concussion too, definitely fractured ribs for sure. The rest is just bruises.”
Hizashi’s muscles went lax in sheer relief. “You're not trapped?”
“I'm not pinned down anymore, no,” Shouta replied, “but a couple of pieces of rubble landed on my back, hence the bruises. There's a bit of a pocket around me, and I’m not sure trying to dig through to you is the best idea. We'll probably have to wait for the other Pros to arrive.” His husband was right, but Hizashi still found his pool of worry growing like the puddle of warmth beneath him.
“Yeah, right, don't know the structural integrity and all that jazz,” Hizashi breathed, staring up at the debris above his head and trying to probe around the wound without letting up on the pressure. It seemed that no matter how hard he pressed, slick blood continued to ooze from between his fingers. “Did we get all of the civilians out?”
He noticed that he'd turned his head completely to the left in an attempt to hear Shouta better from the only ear he could currently hear from. “I'm pretty sure we did,” the other man replied. “‘Zashi, why did you turn around? You came back towards me when the building collapsed.”
It was extremely blurry, but now that he thought about it, Hizashi could vaguely remember striding towards his husband, fully intent on dragging Shouta from the building, when everything collapsed. “I thought I had more time,” Hizashi said with a sigh and an audible swallow. He thought he'd have more time than this. His mind drifted towards his kids, and his heart clenched as he imagined Hitoshi and Eri’s faces when Shouta told them that he was —
And the students, they'd be so sad. 1-A had a lot of cryers, so Shouta would be forced to deal with so much grief on top of his own. Oh, Shouta. Hizashi’s breath hitched as his eyes blurred with tears. The thought of his husband trying to hold himself together to take care of their kids and their cats all by himself was heartbreaking. The rest of the staff would do what they could, and Nemuri would be there for Shouta as much as he allowed. (Which, remembering how it went after Oboro. . .)
In return, eventually Shouta would be able to start moving on and then he'd be there for Nemuri too, and then maybe they'd eventually be okay. They had to be okay without him.
“—shi? Hizashi, are you still awake?” Shouta’s voice reached him finally, sounding panicked, and he gasped, blinking away his tears.
“Yes,” Hizashi croaked, “yes, I'm awake. Missing a hearing aid, sorry.” A chill ran down his spine as he pressed his left cheek against the concrete, straining the other ear to hear Shouta as well as he could. It was getting so cold, and they probably had at least a twenty minutes until a Pro with a useful quirk to safely remove the rubble arrived. Hizashi had always been one that hated the cold — In fact, one of his favorite things about cuddling Shouta was being enveloped in the sheer comfort and warmth radiating from his husband.
Oh, how he ached for Shouta’s arms around his battered frame. Hizashi clenched his teeth with a grimace to keep them from chattering. “I'm just glad you're awake. How bad do you think your concussion is?”
Hizashi squinted at a piece of concrete splayed across his hip. “Pretty sure we're only supposed to have five fingers on a hand, yeah?” He huffed breathily. “Plus, this headache is really not fun.” Hizashi hated the way his entire head pulsed with his heartbeat, letting his eyes fall closed.
“. . . I hate that Hitoshi feels pain worse than this often.” Shouta said after a couple of moments of silence. Hizashi’s brows furrowed, eyes fluttering back open.
Their son was prone to migraines when he overused his quirk or when he cried especially hard. Hizashi just knew his death would be the cause of many headaches for his son.
Because. . . Hizashi didn't see another way out of this. He felt weaker every moment that passed with his blood seeping from his body, he was actively losing feeling in his trapped hand. The other that had originally been pressing down around the rebar to hold pressure on the wound was now lying there, limp. He just didn't have the strength, and there was so much red covering his hero costume and crimson soaked skin.
So much now, that it shocked Hizashi that he was still awake and alert. “He deserves the world,” the blond finally mustered. “He and Eri-chan both.”
“They do,” Shouta agreed immediately.
“So do all your other kids,” Hizashi added softly, beginning to feel light headed.
“They're not my kids,” came the expected response. But, of course he didn't deny what they both knew. 1-A were going to change the world. Hizashi was just sorry that he wouldn't be able to see it. Before he knew it, his vision was blurring again, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes and streaking down his dust and blood covered cheeks.
Hizashi so badly wanted to see Hitoshi grow into Mindjack, to see Eri thrive in life, to watch them grow up. His throat ached, eyes squeezing shut. And then, a shuddering inhale escaped him.
“. . . Are you crying, ‘Zashi?” Shouta asked him very slowly. Concern and confusion swirled in his voice. The other man had always been a little stilted about more emotional things, never as quick to tears or poetic declarations. Hizashi did enough of that for them both, always good at reading between the lines and seeing all the things Shouta did that really meant ‘I love you.’
“. . . If I say no, will you believe me?” Hizashi asked weakly.
“Now that you've said that, no.” Shouta answered, equally as quiet. “You haven't told me all of your injuries, have you?”
The guilt that flooded his lungs then drew a fresh wave of tears from Hizashi’s eyes. “I'm sorry.” His voice cracked, breaking off into a harsh cough. His mouth and lips were so dry. He really was sorry for lying to him. It had just felt right to let him believe for a little while longer that everything was going to be okay.
But maybe that was selfish of Hizashi. Maybe he just didn't want to hear the pain in Shouta’s voice as he begged him to hold on. He didn't ever want to hear Shouta in pain. Hell, he still had nightmares about the recordings from the USJ and that played in his head almost weekly.
“How bad, Hizashi?” His husband demanded with a thick, trembling voice.
“Rebar through the lower abdomen,” he listed robotically. “Probable crush injuries, I can't see anything below my waist, though I can definitely feel it. Can't feel the impalement, though that might be the shock, to be honest.” His fingers twitched against his stomach. Drenched. So warm, unlike the rest of his body.
“Lost lots of blood, Shou,” Hizashi breathed. “Probably. . . Probably hit something important.” It was getting harder and harder to breathe normally, to keep speaking. “I'm so cold, babe. . . Why is it so cold down here?”
Shouta made an absolutely wounded noise before he said, “It’s not.”
Oh.
That was right.
It was a blistering hot day, made known by the sweat coating his whole body even before the collapse. It was never cold. Hizashi was just losing heat as quickly as his blood and his energy. A full body shudder wracked him. It must have been audible because Shouta inhaled sharply.
“Can you put pressure on the wound?” Shouta demanded, his voice hard.
“I am,” he answered instead of trying to make him understand that he couldn't anymore. Really, all his hand was doing was lying on top of the large pool of blood that he'd become.
“You can't move at all?” Shouta tried next, sounding more desperate than he'd heard in years.
“No, Shou,” Hizashi sighed, near silent. He was almost panting at this point just from the strain of speaking.
After a long time, Shouta finally spoke. “Save your breath, Sunshine. Just — make a noise when I call your name so I know you're still awake, alright?” Seemed easy enough.
Hizashi hummed, content to test out this method immediately. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and he had a feeling that it wouldn't be a good idea to try forming any more words right now. “Rescue will be here soon. Just stay with me for now, yeah?” Shouta asked of him.
Hizashi knew he couldn't keep that promise, but he hummed again anyway, then he closed his eyes with a trembling exhale. Shouta would have to buy Eri a new dress for the funeral, he mused. Her entire wardrobe looked like a rainbow threw up on it, she didn't own anything black. Surprisingly though, it was Shouta that was responsible for that.
And Hitoshi would need a suit, he didn't have one that would fit him. The last time he'd worn one he was thirteen, and he'd most definitely grown and bulked up since then from Shouta’s training. Tears dribbled down the sides of his face. Hizashi sniffled, reaching up to wipe them away and forgetting that his hand was coated in blood that was now smeared across his face. “Gross,” he breathed, barely audible. His tears made trails through the crimson streaked over his face.
He wondered what would happen to Put Your Hands Up Radio in his absence. Maybe one of his colleagues would take over for him until Jirou was old enough. He'd been planning to have her take over for him since the first time she'd come to him worrying over her warring interests of music and heroics. His punk rock purple haired intern was going to be an amazing hero someday, and he knew that she was going to go far.
It just fucking sucked that Hizashi wouldn't be there to see it. He wouldn't be there to see the kids graduate. He wouldn't be there to continue 1-A’s sign language lessons — lessons that they'd all come to him separately about after learning about Bakugou’s hearing loss. He wouldn't get to see any of them become heroes. He wouldn't get to see his kids grow up.
He wouldn't get to see Shouta turn old and grey, wouldn't get to memorize the age lines he'd never see. A small sob turned into a cough, and Hizashi spasmed as blood dotted his lips. A trail of it leaked from the corner of his mouth, and he managed a shaky grin. How cinematic.
“Hizashi?” Shouta called out, sounding stressed beyond his years.
“M’okay,” Hizashi breathed. “M’okay, Shou.”
It was silent for a few moments, before he heard his husband speak up again. “. . .You’re not, are you?”
Hizashi squeezed his eyes shut as a fresh wave of tears slid down the sides of his face. “I love you,” he said softly in return. “Shou, I n— I need you to tell—”
“No,” Shouta spat, strangled. “No, you don't get to say goodbye to me. You don't get to do that to me. To our kids.”
Hizashi’s blueing lips trembled. “I wasn't. . . exactly planning this.” Weakly, he picked up his free hand and placed it back against the wound on his stomach. It was so slick. So warm to his frozen extremities. “I don't — I don't wanna leave you.”
His head lolled to the side, towards where Shouta was on the other side of the crumbled debris. “So don't,” Shouta demanded. “Just stay awake, Mic. Help will be here soon.”
Hizashi knew that he was probably right. In fact, he could even hear the distant sound of rubble shifting far above them. But. . . there was just so much blood.
Too much.
“Tell them,” he panted, full body tremors making his voice shake. “Tell ‘em tha’ they’re good kids. Tell ‘em I was proud of ‘em.”
“Tell them yourself,” Shouta hissed. Hizashi didn't want to imagine the anguish on his face, so he didn't. Instead, he pictured his husband’s soft smile. The one he reserved for their family. For those kids.
“I don't think. . .” Hizashi wheezed, “Shou, n-not this time.”
“Stop talking like that! You're going to be fine,” Shouta barked. “Keep the pressure on your wound and keep your goddamn eyes open, Mic!”
Hizashi imagined Eri’s smile next. The way her nose scrunched and her eyes lit up — the delighted giggles he'd been so happy to hear for the first time. Despite everything she'd been through,their daughter still kept her light. The fact that she could still smile and laugh after the life she'd been subjected to gave him high hopes.
She could get through this.
Hitoshi was next. Hizashi's mind drifted to the first time he'd seen the scrawny teenager on their doorstep. There were still cuts from a muzzle healing on his face, and one look at the boy told him that he had never once trusted an adult in his life. He was right not to, as well, considering that they'd all failed him. He liked to think that their son trusted them now.
He smiled more. Laughed more. His shoulders that had once held the weight of the world were lax from tension when he walked into their home. He remembered wondering if he'd ever see Hitoshi looking genuinely happy. Now, he thinks that at UA, his son was the happiest he'd ever been. He had friends now — had people looking out for him. He had Shouta and Nemuri to be there for him when Hizashi couldn't be anymore.
He would get through this too. Hizashi sniffled, his lashes scraping against the cement as he blinked tiredly at the rubble. He wished he could see Shouta now, but maybe it was a good thing that he couldn't. Because he didn't want the last memory Shouta had of him to be watching him bleed out.
“ —ic! Mic! Answer me!”
“Shouta,” Hizashi managed, his voice a rasping whisper. His eyelids felt heavy. Unbearably heavy. It was a fight to blink them back open every time. “Shouta, I'm sorry. ‘M so sorry.”
“Hizashi,” Shouta’s voice audibly broke. “Please, just stay awake. Don't apologize. Don't close your eyes.”
Hizashi couldn't feel his fingers anymore. His lips twitched. “I love you, Sh. . .”
“Hizashi?”
“Hizashi? Present Mic!”
He was smiling when his heart stopped.