Work Text:
Warning for graphic violence and character death…ish.
This fic was originally meant to be the epilogue of a new (very long) series. However…I don’t think I have another 400,000 word fic in me. At least not now. That said, I want to at least post this part because @mcfanely made me some truly fantastic art.
Thank you to foxlights for your excellent beta work, as always. I appreciate you.
Japanese words:
Hanagasumi (花霞 / はながすみ) – flurry of cherry blossoms
It’s a summer night in August. Tuesday has just ticked over into Wednesday. Eraser Head might consider it a decent night for a stakeout–the humidity is down slightly–if he wasn’t in the process of dying. He’s not likely to consider the night, or anything else, ever again. Aizawa Shouta lies face up in a disturbingly large pool of his own blood.
Let’s rewind.
Eraser Head’s patrol begins like a hundred others. He starts in the red light district, and gradually works his way toward the train station. He stops a mugging in progress. Encourages the drunk guy shouting abuse at a sex worker to take a long nap on the sidewalk. Feeds a few strays. Cats, as well as the homeless down by the river. Tells some kids out past curfew to go home. Carries groceries for an elderly man.
Eraser boards the train to Shizuoka City. He keeps an eye on the teenage boy standing behind an oblivious young woman. The kid’s hand moves dangerously, purposefully closer to her backside. Aizawa steps close, leans down, and grins his most terrifying smile. Aims it point blank at the sweaty-faced kid.
“If you touch her,” he rasps, “I will break all your fingers. And then I’ll drag you to the police station so you can turn yourself in. Sound good?”
The boy shakes his head back and forth, mouth a rictus of fear. He’s breathing hard, but this time it’s not because he’s turned on. “Reflect on why you’re having a difficult time treating women with respect.” The kid looks like he’s about to pass out. Or burst into tears. Good on both counts. Maybe he’ll remember this the next time he considers assaulting someone. “Are you going to behave or…?” Aizawa lifts an eyebrow, cracks his knuckles. Widens his eyes a little. He’s still smiling.
He wouldn’t really break the kids fingers. Probably. But he’d definitely wrap him in his scarf like a pervert burrito, and drag him to the nearest koban.
This time the kid nods like he’s trying to dislocate his neck.
“Then leave.”
The kid goes, muttering excuse me, excuse me, through the crowd of late workers on their way home. His hands are tucked safely in his armpits.
The young woman is wearing headphones, faint music leaks out around her head. She has no idea her night almost took a turn for the worse. He sighs. Plans a lecture on situational awareness when he’s back in the classroom. Correction: when he has students back in the classroom. People–women especially–put themselves in danger when they ignore their surroundings. He returns to his seat by the window, feigns sleep until the woman is safely off the train.
Eraser moves from Shizuoka Station to the old part of the city via rooftop. By 1:00 he’s camped in an alley off Hanagasumi Square. If he had a yen for how many alleys he’s lurked in over the years he’d have enough money to retire. Not that he would. This particular alley is cleaner than most (no mountains of trash bags or human waste), but the smell from the dumpster isn’t great. Then again, Aizawa’s smelled worse. He’s smelled worse.
He drops a handful of cat treats behind the dumpster, but no strays emerge. Oh well. Considering the number of empty Trigger vials lying around, the alley might see too much traffic for cats to be comfortable here.
He can see most of Hanagasumi Square from this position. According to one of Eraser’s informants, there’s some kind of has-been yakuza group selling Trigger here between 1:00 and 3:00 most nights. Aizawa is hoping to catch one of the assholes looking for buyers. Trigger use might have declined in Naruhata, but it’s rising everywhere else.
It’s mid-August but Aizawa wishes for October. He likes autumn, the cooler weather, the changing leaves. The back of his neck is damp beneath his capture weapon. Aizawa sighs. Pulls at the back of his jumpsuit. A faint breeze blows across the square, down the alley. Emphasis on faint. Still, he can’t complain. It’s not raining, the temperature is below 30° C, and the smell of urine is fading. Or maybe he’s just getting used to it.
UA High School’s summer break ends next week. Students will be returning to their homerooms…but not his. Aizawa-sensei currently has no homeroom students. He expelled the whole hopeless bunch. They’re reckless. They lack potential. This year’s Class 1-A is the worst group he’s had the misfortune to “teach.” Which is why he’s refused to re-enroll them, much to Nezu’s chagrin.
The kids don’t realize it, but Aizawa’s done them a favor. They need to learn from their mistakes, or give up now. It’s better to put an end to an ill-conceived dream now, than give up halfway through. If they want to hate him for the expulsion that’s fine. He’d rather be hated than attend another funeral.
Aizawa is leaning against a dirty wall, eyes on the Square, when he sees the kid. Her head doesn’t even come up to his waist. She runs into him. Literally. Bounces off his legs and lands on her butt. She’s a slip of a thing, giant eyes and pale hair. His eyes narrow. The kid’s barefoot and covered in bandages. The dress–which looks suspiciously like a hospital gown–is dirty, more rag than dress. Terror radiates from her, much louder than the girl’s music on the train. Even if this kid didn’t look like an injured refugee, it’s much too late for her to be out by herself.
She looks four or five. The same age as the kids floating on Shirakumo’s clouds a lifetime ago. Oboro had said you’d be a natural with kids. Even now, as a teacher, Shouta disagrees. He’s not a natural with kids. Or adults, for that matter. But if he can keep his students alive, if he can teach them to protect themselves, he’s done his job.
Aizawa is going to protect this little girl. He’s crouching down to her level before she gets her first Please help me out. By the time she’s crying, he’s already got her in one arm, balanced on his hip.
“I’ll help you,” Aizawa tells her matter-of-factly. “I’m a hero. It’s what I do, kiddo.” This smile is markedly different from the one he reserves for villains and perverts. “My name’s Eraser Head. What’s yours?” When the guy in the plague mask steps into view he can feel the kid go stiff. She goes silent, face blank. But she’s trembling uncontrollably. Aizawa’s never heard anyone scream this loud without making a sound.
“That’s my daughter,” Plague Mask says. He holds his arms out like he’s mimicking something he saw in a picture book. “Come here, Eri.” His words are as empty as the gesture.
“If this is your kid,” Aizawa drawls, “then so am I.” He hugs the girl tighter. Eri.
Plague Mask sighs, tugs off his gloves. Aizawa lets himself relax slightly. Gloves mean the man has an emitter Quirk.
“This kid isn’t going anywhere except to the police station, and then the hospital.” Aizawa smiles affably. “You’re welcome to come along to the station.”
Plague crouches, puts one hand to the ground. Nothing happens, aside from the fact he looks doubly stupid. And seems a little too upset about touching the scuffed concrete. He’s muttering about germs. He should be worrying about physical abuse charges and his imminent arrest instead.
Aizawa’s hair floats. The familiar ache behind his eyes tells him Erasure is working. “You can keep touching the ground, but nothing’s going to happen.”
Eri turns to the hero in amazement. He can erase Quirks! Is that what Eraser Head means? But his head doesn’t look like an eraser. Can he erase her Quirk? Her horn is itchy, and itchy means bad. It means she might accidentally do the bad thing.
Aizawa takes a step back, readies a loop of his capture weapon. He doesn’t want to fight Plague with the kid, but he’d really like to beat this guys’ abusive pedophile ass into the concrete. He risks a quick glance at Eri’s pale face. Her big red eyes. At the very least he can tie Plague Mask up, leave him gift-wrapped for the local PD. He glances at the fire escape above. He’ll use the second floor railing as an anchor and pull–
Eraser Head loses his balance. Falls to one knee, grimacing. His back hurts. Fuck. He’s been hit. Hard. Right below his left shoulder blade. Pain flares, burns hot from his shoulder, across his back, down to his ass. Ah, he knows this feeling–he’s been stabbed. With what, he doesn’t know. He’s not about to look away from Plague Mask to find out.
He is disgusted with himself. Or would be, if he could feel anything beyond the fire in his back. Who is he to lecture his students on situational awareness? The ground ripples beneath his knee. He can’t keep upright. He doesn’t know if it’s from Knife Guy’s Quirk, or because of the wound. Is there poison on the blade? His head is heavy. He needs to blink.
His sense of balance is shit. His left arm shakes, now he’s trembling too. Aizawa tries to keep hold of the kid, but he drops her anyway. And his Quirk. Shit, shit. The only bit of luck is that Eri doesn’t have far to go. She lands on her feet, but falls to her hands and knees. So does Aizawa. They look at each other. He frowns. His vision blurs like he’s had too much to drink. The ground tilts beneath him.
Footsteps. A man saunters past. Aizawa squints up at him, reactivates his Quirk. Knife Guy has black hair, a strange face. No, he’s wearing a mask. There’s a theme, these guys are the yakuza Aizawa’s been looking for. If he could just get his balance back and capture them. Get the girl away. He exhales, concentrates on Erasure. His Quirk doesn’t last long because the man leans down and casually stabs Aizawa in the chest, then keeps walking.
Aizawa grunts. There’s more pressure than pain. He can’t catch his breath. Something he’s done his whole life becomes an all-encompassing task. Which means his right lung is punctured. Fuck, this keeps getting worse. The man throws a knife, how many does he have? Aizawa is terrified Eri is going to be hit next. He twists awkwardly, tries to put more of his torso between the girl and Knife. This earns him a second knife to the chest. Now there’s pain, a great deal of it. But Eri is unharmed. He topples onto his side. Tries to focus on the girl. He’d prefer she not have to watch his murder, but she’s kneeling beside him. Panicked, tearful eyes watch him. She swims in and out of focus. His breaths become shallower as his lungs fill with blood. Ah. Ah shit. He’s going to die in this alley.
It’s hard to talk. Harder to think. He tries desperately to do both. “Ru…n aw…ay.” He blinks, vision doubling. Tripling. And then, just because he is, says, “‘m…so..rry.” He failed her. Failed…Oboro. Failed everyone. This is…on him. He hopes Hizashi is okay. Wonders what he’s doing. When is he coming to bed? Aizawa is tired. He wants to sleep.
Voices. Aizawa jolts back to awareness. Knife and Plague Mask. Eri is…crying. Why is it so cold? Two words pierce the fog. No! Please! He tries to sit up, afraid Plague Mask is going to hurt the girl, but his body won’t move. His lungs have dwindled to straws. He’s drowning on land. Aizawa blinks at the blurry outline of Plague Mask as he stumbles toward him. Is he looking at Aizawa or Eri? Not the girl. That’s…good. He’s fine with dying if it saves the girl. Will it save her? His thoughts drift…just like him. He’s…treading water. Drowning. What happened? Where is…Zashi?
“Turn off your Quirk,” Overhaul snaps at Sakaki. The last thing he needs is to fall and touch the ground again. It’s bad enough he’s about to touch the Underground Hero. This is Eraser Head? He looks homeless. Chisaki had considered using him in the experiment. No longer. This man is clearly a failure. As a hero. As a member of society. He’s nothing but a grotesque mass of germs. And worst of all, he dared to try and take Eri, his property? He dared to use his Quirk on me? Unacceptable.
“Heh. Sorry,” Sakaki mutters. “I think I already killed him. Got one, maybe both lungs.” Sakaki might have dropped out of middle school, but he knows where and how to throw a knife. Which means Hero-san’s lungs collapsed like a couple of popped balloons. Heh. He pulls a mini bottle of Suntory Yamazaki whiskey from his bandolier. Drinks. Belches. Grins.
Chisaki thinks about bursting the bottle and then Sakaki’s head. Controls himself. Sakaki isn’t the one who needs to die. “Then I’ll save him,” Chisaki says calmly. “And kill him slower.” He grits his teeth, presses two fingers to the inside of Aizawa’s wrist. To the casual observer, it might look like he’s taking the hero’s pulse. He is not.
Aizawa’s pain expands. Explodes. A wretched scream scrapes from his throat. He chokes on it. Coughs. His body spasms. He stops thinking of Eri. Of Hizashi. He stops thinking at all.
Blood drools down the hero’s chin. Chisaki almost flees in revulsion. He inhales. Exhales. Counts to ten. He will make certain Eraser Head dies…just at a more leisurely rate. In exquisite agony. He closes one eye, concentrates. Dissembles the hero’s spine, right kidney, his liver. The left atrium of his heart. Chisaki pulls the man’s bloodstained jumpsuit–and then his chest–open like a zipper. He lifts one finger. He must be careful, careful.
The knife in the hero’s back clatters to the dirty pavement. The two in his chest slide onto his arm, and then the ground. Eraser Head rolls onto his back, arms outstretched, as if he’s floating down an unseen river. Red tributaries expand into puddles. Chisaki smiles, his work almost complete. He carves through layers of skin, fat, and muscle, but doesn’t go deep enough to reach the lungs. They’ve already been compromised.
Lastly, Chisaki tears both legs open from ankle to thigh. This man tried to follow him. Tried to take Eri. Between his spine and mutilated tendons, he won’t be going anywhere. Except into a cremation chamber. Blood pools thick and fast. Chisaki scowls. He heals the man’s pneumothorax and quickly steps back from a variety of disgusting puddles. Now the so-called hero can exsanguinate slowly. The wounds to his chest and legs probably won’t kill him first. If he happens to regain consciousness before dying, all the better. He’ll experience constant, grinding pain while his body fails. All in all, Chisaki is pleased.
Sakaki stares sadly at the handle of a Smith & Wesson Bullseye. “What about my knives?”
“I’ll buy you new ones. Come on. We’ve been here too long already.” The thought of returning to the compound improves Chisaki’s mood further. He’s fine. He’ll shower thoroughly as soon as he’s home. He has Eri. As an added bonus, he’s rid the world of something dirty. Someone dirty. The outcome could have been much worse. “Let’s go, Eri.”
Eri creeps out from behind the dumpster. She squats by Eraser Head-san, hands over her mouth. His eyes are open, but they don’t look right. The colored part is all big and black. He doesn’t move. There’s blood on his face. His clothes. The ground. Her feet. She gulps. His chest looks–her brain can’t find a word. It makes Eri feel like she has to pee. Or throw up. She can’t see herself when Chisaki-sama uses his Quirk on her, but sometimes she can hear herself gasp. Or scream. Eraser Head-san looks like he’s trying to scream, but all that comes out of his throat is a scary rattle-y noise. Oh, she thinks. This must be what it sounds like to die. She’s probably made this noise lots of times. She cries silently. She doesn’t want Chisaki-sama to hear.
Aizawa lies in his own blood, unaware of Eri. Of Overhaul. His body is entering the final stage of shock. His blood pressure drops. His organs fail. His oxygen level plummets. The electrical signals traveling across the vast galaxy of his brain blink out one by one. Slowly at first, and then faster. Aizawa Shouta's universe goes dark.
Eri’s heart pounds. Chisaki-sama and Sakaki-san are going to drag her away if she doesn’t hurry. But she’s never used her Quirk on purpose. Never, ever, ever. Her Quirk is bad, Chisaki-sama says so all the time. She doesn’t even know how to use it. But if she can save Eraser Head-san, if there’s the littlest chance, she has to try. She already killed her papa. She doesn't want to kill a hero.
Hero-san’s hand is lying palm up in a puddle. She gulps. His hand is red. So are her bare feet. She tells herself it’s paint, but it’s not. Her chest feels funny. There are little swirly spots in front of her eyes. Eri feels wobbly, like Sakaki-san is still using his Quirk. But she holds Eraser Head-san’s hand anyway. His fingers are cold. His lips are blue. Her horn itches. She bows her head, squeezes her eyes shut. Now her horn tingles. It hurts. Eri doesn’t want to keep crying, but she can’t help it. She’s so scared!
Eraser Head-san apologized to her, but she’s the one who’s sorry. If she hadn’t run away, Chisaki-sama wouldn’t have hurt him. If she hadn’t run away, none of this would be happening. She sobs silently, miserable. And she skinned her knees and palms when she fell down!
Eri thinks: Please work, please work. Please don’t be a bad Quirk. She blinks, surprised. She made a rhyme! Maybe that gives her Quirk more power. Or…makes it less bad? Her horn still feels tingly-hurty-hot. Eri can’t tell if anything is happening, but she’s afraid to look at Hero-san. She doesn’t want to look at his black marble eyes again. She wishes they were still red, that he was still holding her. His arms were strong. Safe. His voice was nice, like smoke and pretty stones all mixed together. Please work, please work. Please don’t be a bad Quirk.
She bites her lip. Ignores the little spots dancing around her. She’s dizzy, but she’s been dizzy before. Eri pretends she’s a hero like Eraser Head. She can be brave too, and opens her eyes. She peeks at Hero-san’s face super fast. His eyes make him look like one of the dolls in her room. And his chest isn’t moving up and down. He’s not making the rattle noise anymore. “I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice is trembly. She doesn’t know what else to say.
“You should be,” Chisaki-sama tells her. He’s using his angry voice. She scrabbles to her feet, hands clasped behind her back. “Stop blubbering, and get away from him.” He’s cleaning his hands with a wet wipe. He nods at Hero-san. “This is what happens when you try to defy me, Eri. That man got exactly what he deserves.” She looks down, shivering. Tears drip down her nose.
Chisaki drops the wipe on the ground, takes another from the packet. Perhaps he should have told Eri to rewind Eraser Head right out of existence. Just like she did with her father. All the other heroes would wonder what became of him. Oh well. The girl doesn’t know how to use her Quirk, much less control it. That’s fine. Eri doesn’t need to use her Quirk to be useful. The police still won’t know who killed the hero. Or why. He drops the second wipe. Pulls his gloves back on. But he’ll know. So will Eri. It’s a lesson she won’t soon forget.
“Sakaki, grab her.” Chisaki isn’t going to touch her, gloves or not. She was kneeling in Eraser Head’s blood. She stepped in it. This alley, this city, this country–it’s all repellant. But if his plans continue to go well, he’ll finally cure Japan of its sickness.
Sakaki pulls Eri by the back of her worn dress, shoves her forward. “Come on. Boss says we gotta go.”
Eri doesn’t get a chance to look back as Sakaki-san carries her away. She doesn’t struggle. Instead, she does something she hasn’t done in a long time: she hopes.
The gamma activity in Aizawa’s brain surges. His stuttering heart beats. It beats again, falls into a steady rhythm. His internal organs function. They are no longer injured. Torn and severed tendons, nerves, and muscles reknit. So does his flesh. Vertebral ligaments, joints, and ganglia fit back together, his spine straightens. Blood resumes pumping through his body, his lungs oxygenate. The stab wounds seal, his skin scars, the scars disappear. Older scars fade into nonexistence. Worn knee cartilage regenerates. Muscle strains heal, micro-tears rebuild muscle fiber. A smattering of white hairs at his temples go dark. He inhales. Exhales.
Aizawa gasps, coughs. Scrambles upright. Blinks. Looks wildly up and down the alley. He’s alone. The little girl is gone. The men are gone. He slaps at his face, his chest. His hand comes away wet. In the moonlight his palms are black. But when he pulls aside torn fabric, he can’t find a wound. What? He remembers the feel of the blades entering his body. Plague Mask touched him and–his vision flickers.
Nausea twists his guts. He can’t catch his breath. Aizawa puts his back against the wall, checks again for movement. He’s still alone. He wheezes in another breath as quietly as he can. Listens. Activates Erasure. Realizes his ragged breathing is from panic, not injury.
He looks at his hand again. It’s dark with blood. His blood. His jumpsuit is heavy with it, still dripping. Aizawa blinks. Stares. Licks his lips. Tastes iron. No one can live through losing this much blood. He inhales slowly. Exhales. Which means…what? That Eri has a healing Quirk? It explains why Plague Mask might want a child–aside from the usual perverse reasons.
Aizawa thumps the back of his head against the brick wall. Not only did he fail to save the girl, she saved him. He bends down slowly. Picks up the three glinting knives that spilled most (all) of his blood, and tosses them into the dumpster. He probably shouldn’t do that. He should save them as evidence of…something. His almost murder? It doesn’t matter. They land with a satisfying series of clangs.
He pats his pockets. Or, more accurately, where his pockets used to be. They’re just shredded fabric now. His utility belt hangs from his one surviving belt loop. He sighs. Fumbles in one of the pouches. His Hero License is still there. At least Plague Mask didn’t get it. Aizawa doesn’t want anyone linking him to Yamada.
He squints into the shadows. Checks the Square. It’s empty. Homeless, drug addicts, drug peddlers–they’ve all cleared out for the night. It’s just as well. No one would want anything to do with him the way he looks now. Not only did he fail to rescue a terrified child and apprehend her kidnapper, he might have…died. Briefly. This is turning out to be a real shitty patrol.
Aizawa spends a while moving crushed boxes around with the toe of one boot, searching for his phone. The top half of his left boot is gone. His right boot fairs slightly better, but they’re both ruined. He can’t remember what Plague Mask did to him, and it’s not for lack of trying. Maybe his brain is trying to protect him. From the way his costume looks and the amount of blood, he has enough context clues to get the gist. He was killed. His murder doesn’t seem so ‘almost’ anymore. He was ripped open. Apart. He feels sick again.
He breathes some more. Concentrates on not vomiting. Tells himself to stop thinking about Plague Mask and find his damn phone. His feet squelch uncomfortably in the remains of his boots. His tanto is under a piece of cardboard damp with his blood. It’s going to need a thorough cleaning. He’s going to need a thorough cleaning. Aizawa finally locates his cell partially beneath the dumpster. The screen is cracked. He picks it up gingerly, fully prepared to find it broken. But when he taps it, the lock screen lights up. He checks the Square again. He’s not paranoid, just careful. Checks the other end of the alley. Listens. Nothing. Just him and his breathing.
Considering what just happened he feels physically okay. His eyes haven’t felt this good in years. His knees don’t hurt. Neither does his back. He doesn’t even have a headache. That’s weird, right? This whole situation is weird.
His capture weapon clings to him like a wet tissue. He grimaces, pulls it off. Tries to wring it out, which doesn’t work. Nanofiber isn’t exactly fabric. He sighs again. Feels restless. His thoughts return to the blood (his blood) like he’s picking a mental scab. Maybe that’s what his hazy memory is, a scab. He’s protecting himself. Ugh. He wants to go home. He wants to see Hizashi. To sleep. He dials Tsukauchi instead. He might have shit the bed hero-wise, but he can’t ignore protocol. He kicks off his boots, tosses them in the dumpster too. Paces the mouth of the alley in wet socks while the number rings. He avoids the empty Trigger syringes. And pool of blood.
“Hey Eraser Head, what’s up?”
“Do you know a criminal and/or villain in Shizuoka City who wears a plague mask?” Aizawa wasn’t at his best during their interaction, but Plague Mask and Knife definitely had a boss and flunky vibe. So… “Probably yakuza? Or former yakuza?” And if he is yakuza, is he connected to the influx of Trigger? Or the mystery drug? “Uh, he might have a daughter. Or someone he claims is his daughter.”
The detective is silent for so long Aizawa thinks the connection dropped. He pulls the phone from his ear, stares at the screen. The call timer is still ticking upwards.
“Well shit,” Tsukauchi eventually says.
Aizawa gets it. “I take it I just stepped on somebody’s toes?”
“Not…exactly. My advice is this: call Sir Nighteye. He might have something going on.” Translation: Sir Nighteye is investigating Plague Mask. Maybe he knows about Eri. If he doesn’t, Aizawa’s going to make sure he knows there’s a kid who needs rescuing. Badly.
“What are you doing in Shizuoka City, anyway? That’s pretty far outside your usual patrol area.”
“I was following up a lead,” Aizawa says shortly. “It didn’t work out.” Tell him Plague Mask lightly murdered you! His inner Hizashi says. He ignores him. “I’ll call Nighteye tomorrow. Thanks Tsukauchi-san.”
“Anytime. Take care.”
He calls Hizashi next. ”I ripped my suit,” he says in lieu of a greeting. “The trains have stopped running and I don’t feel like running around with my ass hanging out.”
“Hello to you too. Aren’t you in Shizuoka? Eh, never mind. The drive’s worth it if I can see your ass.” Aizawa can hear his eyebrow wiggle. They both know Yamada can see his ass every damn day, but if it’ll get him here quicker, Aizawa will play along.
“Yeah, lucky you.” He pauses. “Can you bring a towel? And some shoes?”
“Uh, should I ask?”
“I wouldn’t.”
***
Yamada takes one look at Shouta and promptly freaks out. What in the actual fucking fuck happened? Does he even want to know? Yes. After a crying jag and slightly excessive dose of valium, preferably. Shouta suggests going home so he can sleep and Yamada shuts that down fast. Shouta woke up in a tidal pool of blood, his costume a wreck, and he thinks a nap is the answer? Fuck that, yo. Yamada drives straight to UA, one hand on the steering wheel. The other is clamped around Shouta’s wrist, he needs to confirm Shou has a pulse.
“I’m fine,” Shouta says again. He’s been saying that for a while. ‘Fine’ and whatever the fuck Shouta is are worlds apart. His costume is “ripped?” Try decimated.
Yamada turns the car off. “Shut up.” He opens the door and checks Aizawa under the dome light. Yup. He still looks at least 85% dead. Coincidentally, that’s the current percentage of Yamada’s hysteria.
Inside UA’s fully lit corridors Yamada notices something else. Something he couldn’t tell in the car. Shouta looks…off. Different. Yeah, he’s covered in drying blood, and his jumpsuit is basically a suggestion at this point, but his hair looks…better? He might have died tonight, so should his hair really look this good? And the constant bags beneath his eyes are less noticeable. He stares at Shouta. Trades in some of his hysteria for suspicion.
“You’re leaving something out. What really happened?”
Aizawa sighs. “I’m only telling this once. Can you please wait until we’re with Recovery Girl?”
Hizashi mutters, drags Aizawa the rest of the way to RG’s clinic. Aizawa lets himself be dragged. If Hizashi were the one covered in blood, his mood wouldn’t be great either.
Shuzenji is waiting for them. She’s known for her Poker face, but it’s nowhere to be found when she sees Aizawa. She looks from him to Yamada and back again. “What happened?”
Yamada nods, patience officially depleted. “That’s what I want to know!” He gestures wildly toward Shouta. “Look at his jumpsuit! Look at all the blood!”
Shuzenji pats his hand. “I see it, Yamada-kun.”
“Can I take a shower now?”
“No. X-rays and an MRI first.” Shuzenji points to the gown on the chair. “Change in the bathroom.” At Aizawa’s expression she relents slightly. “You can wash your face and hands.”
Aizawa grimaces. “A gown? Why not samue?”
Recovery Girl smiles thinly. “Don’t get injured and you can wear whatever you want.”
“Don’t pout,” Yamada adds, more out of habit than intent. “You promised to show me your ass.”
“I apologize on his behalf.” Aizawa sighs wearily.
“I’m used to it,” Shuzenji says, but she’s only half listening. She’s too busy staring at Aizawa’s neck, eyebrows drawn.
Aizawa hesitates, hand on the bathroom door. “What?”
Recovery Girl steps closer, motions Aizawa to bend down. He crouches obediently. “Where’s the scar on your neck?”
Aizawa frowns. He has a lot of scars. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“That second year accidentally burned you during Quirk training last year, remember?”
He does. The real damage was to his capture weapon. And his hair. The burn on his neck was nothing. He looks down, as if he can see his own neck. Aizawa sighs again. “I don’t know. Isn’t it there?”
Hizashi and RG reply in unison: “No.”
The scar through his eyebrow from the time he took a board to the face fighting Octoid is gone too. Yamada’s gaze lowers to his husband’s chest. “Where’s that stab wound from that time we fought Tri Blade?”
Aizawa pulls a face. “Probably the same place as the stab wounds from tonight.”
“You said you were stabbed,” Yamada says slowly. “Are you telling me you were stabbed more than once?”
Shouta shrugs. “Three times.”
Yamada is having some trouble forming words, so Recovery Girl asks the follow up question. “Where?”
“Once in the back.” Now that Aizawa’s not actively dying he can name the muscle groups. “Felt like the latissimus dorsi. Twice in the chest.” Through the pectoralis major and minor, the intercostal muscles, between his ribs, into the upper lobe of each lung. Mask knew what he was doing. Aizawa touches his tattered costume gingerly, avoids Hizashi’s gaze. He can hear his husband’s teeth gnashing from here. It’s a good distraction from the thinking about whatever Plague Mask did to him.
“What?” Hizashi’s voice rises with his eyebrows. “Are you kidding me? How are you alive?”
That’s a good question. How indeed?
Aizawa takes refuge in the bathroom. He scrubs at his hands, wipes at his face with a wet paper towel. Uses a handful of paper towels on his chest, arms, and legs. Shuzenji might have wanted him to wait, but he can tell he’s not injured. Not anymore. He studies his reflection. There’s something wrong with his face, but he can’t pinpoint what. He touches his chest where Knife stabbed him, but there’s not even a dull ache. No scars either. He cranes his neck to see his back in the mirror, there’s no sign of injury. If Aizawa didn’t have the remains of his jumpsuit, he might think he’d imagined the whole incident.
He throws the ruined costume in the trash, steps into the disposable slippers and ties his gown shut. Aizawa can hear Yamada and Recovery Girl’s muted voices, but not what they’re saying. They fall silent when he opens the door.
“You know the drill, Aizawa-kun,” Recovery Girl says. She nods toward the portable X-Ray machine in the corner. “X-rays first, then scans.”
This feels like a waste of time. “I didn’t break anything.”
“Humor me. I’m old.”
***
The X-rays, CT scan, and MRI take over an hour. Correction: the scans take twenty minutes, but Chiyo spends another 45 trying to make sense of the results. She compares Aizawa’s current scans with the ones he had last year. There’s no mistake, the nerve damage in his shoulder is gone. The worn cartilage in his left knee is repaired. Last year’s scans show multiple instances of bone regrowth. Now, the only bone remodeling still visible is from his fight with Garvey when he was still a student. The fracture line across the humerus shaft is fuzzy, but obvious.
Shuzenji gives Aizawa a small packet of Sumikko Gurashi gummies. “I’m not a forensic anthropologist, but I’d say your body is around age 25. Maybe 24.” She meets his gaze with a steadiness she doesn’t feel. “Your skin, hair, bones, joints–they’re all in better condition than they were ten months ago. Not to mention your reflexes.”
Yamada waits for the punchline. For a hidden camera. For Recovery Girl to tell him she’s kidding, which she never is. That she’s made a mistake, which she never does. Most of the scars on Shouta’s hands and wrists are gone. His facial hair is sparser than when he left on patrol. Ah. That’s why Shouta looks different. He looks like he’s on an undercover mission as a university student. It freaks Yamada out, and he’s already at his freaked-out quota.
“What if he keeps de-aging?” he asks, afraid he’ll wake up to find his husband looking like an elementary schooler.
Shuzenji taps her cane against the floor. “This isn’t an ongoing process.”
Yamada is not convinced.
“I think this is as young as I’m going to get,” Aizawa says. Now that’s a weird sentence. Here’s a weirder one: you were dead. Or maybe just teetering on the brink. He can’t remember everything that happened in that alley, but he remembers suffocating. Unbearable pressure--and pain. A pain pulling him apart until he was nothing but a collection of loose thoughts: Hizashi’s face, the smell of coffee, gray clouds, wind in his hair, and then…nothing. He doesn’t know exactly what happened to him, he’s not sure he wants to know. And there’s no one to ask. Not Plague Mask, and not Eri.
Eri. The little girl. Where is she now? Still with the abusive asshole? Aizawa clenches his teeth. Dammit. All because he was caught off guard.
“Aizawa-kun? Are you listening?” Recovery Girl is watching him, expression full of concern.
As expressions go, it’s not one Aizawa is fond of. “Yeah, sorry.”
“I know this is a lot to take in.”
Not really. It is what it is. He can’t change what happened. He’s alive, that’s what matters. He’ll do what he always does: keep putting one foot in front of the other. Zashi looks scared. Pale. “I’m fine. Apparently, I’m better than fine.”
Yamada exhales through his nose. “It’s been long enough. Tell us exactly what happened in that alley.”
Aizawa gives them a heavily sanitized version. Finding Eri is the same. Plague Mask. Knife’s Quirk, his throwing knives. Hizashi and Shuzenji think all three stab wounds were from thrown knives, that’s fine with Aizawa. Neither of them need the image of Knife leaning down to shove a blade into him. Aizawa pushes the image to the back of his mind, compartmentalizes it with a bunch of other shitty stuff he’ll think about five years from never.
By the time Recovery Girl sends them home, Yamada understands this is just how Shouta looks now. That’s cool cool cool. It doesn’t matter Shouta suddenly looks five years younger, yanno? What matters is he’s alive to look five years younger.
“Do you feel different?” Hizashi asks.
“Not really.”
Unhelpful. “Are you really all right?”
Aizawa considers the question. Physically. “Sure.”
“Do you want to go to Tokyo Central? Get checked out at a real hospital?”
“I already saw Recovery Girl. Hizashi.” He squeezes Hizashi’s hand. “I trust her. So do you.”
It’s not that Yamada doesn’t trust Shuzenji. He does. It’s this situation that’s got him on edge.
Thin watery light paints the sky on the drive home. The sun is almost up by the time Yamada unlocks their apartment. As soon as they’re inside he throws his arms around Shouta, hugs him hard. Kisses him harder. Presses his forehead to Shou’s. “Babe. Babe. Please be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” He tries to joke. “I mean it. If you turn into a baby I might accidentally leave you on a train or put you in a drawer with the folded laundry.”
Aizawa scoffs. “I’m right here. Not lost. Not a toddler. Just me, slightly younger. Okay?”
Zashi nods. “Okay.” What should he do? Make breakfast? Sleep? Pace anxiously around the room for the next five hours? That last one sounds pretty good. “Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat…?”
“No thanks. I just want a shower and some sleep.”
Nervous pacing will have to wait until later. Yamada plants himself in the bathroom to keep Shouta company instead, talking just to talk. Shou sways under the hot water, clearly exhausted. He responds in grunts and mmm-hmms which is fine. In fact it’s great. It means Shouta’s here and alive and that’s all Yamada needs.
Aizawa doesn’t spend enough time drying his hair because who cares. After what he’s been through, he’s not particularly worried about catching a cold. He doesn’t care how he looks on the best of days. This has not been the best of days.
Hizashi holds Aizawa close in bed, cheek mashed against his shoulder. “Do you…want to talk about it?”
No. Maybe. He would like to talk about the girl, but not yet. He’s not interested in talking about Plague Mask or Knife. Knife bends down, casually stabs him. The little girl falls. He inhales a slow steady breath through his nose. Reminds himself he’s fine. Safe. But Eri isn’t. He pats Hizashi’s hand. Yawns. “Let’s talk in the morning, Zashi. I’m tired.” The understatement of a lifetime.
Yamada catches Shouta’s yawn, strokes his arm. He’s tired too, but sleep doesn’t come easily. A parade of what-ifs cycle through his brain: What if that little-listener hadn’t been there? What if Yamada woke up to news his husband was dead? He’d be lying in their bed right now, alone. Bereft. He shudders, pulls Shouta closer.
Aizawa runs down an endless alley, dodging a gauntlet of gleaming blades. He ducks, pivots, runs faster. One knife glances off his shoulder. Another embeds itself in his side. He stumbles, keeps going. He’s chasing a man in a mask. The man holds a crying child, yet still maintains a solid lead. The child’s eyes are impossibly wide, impossibly sad. No, that’s not sorrow, it’s terror. It’s an expression that doesn’t belong on a child’s face. The little girl screams, bandaged arms raised in warning, but Aizawa can’t make out her words. The next thing he knows, he’s on the ground.
Get up. Get. Up. He has to find the girl. Help her. But he can’t move. The man in the mask brandishes Aizawa’s tanto. He laughs, slashes at Aizawa’s legs. His arms. He slides the blade between Aizawa’s ribs, levers them apart. His bones crack like lightning. Blood obscures his vision. The moon looks down, a judgmental red eye. He has failed for the last time.
Aizawa’s fingernails scratch helplessly at the pavement. What about Eri?
The woman on the train?
His students?
Hizashi?
“–ta?”
He’s sinking. Aizawa’s throat is locked, lungs empty.
“–outa?”
The moon leans closer. Through his blurred vision Aizawa can see it’s no longer red, but gold. It speaks to him. The words are lost amid the crackling sound of air trapped in soft tissue. He’s bleeding out in an alley. He’s been unwound, unmade. Hands touch his face. Aizawa flinches. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to leave Hizashi alone.
“Shouta!”
Yamada aims his voice at Shouta’s panic, just loud enough to startle him into lucidity. He squeezes his husband’s shoulders. “Babe, it’s me. You’re okay.” He’s very much not, but what else is he supposed to say?
Aizawa covers his eyes, awake. Alert. Rubs tears off his face. Fuck. He sits up and Hizashi lets go. Drags a hand down his chin. The usual rasp of stubble is gone. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“Don’t be sorry.” Yamada tugs gently at Shouta’s hair. “Just don’t shut me out.”
Aizawa leans against Hizashi. Nightmares make for an extremely shitty alarm clock. “I’m not. I won’t. This is…just going to take a while to wrap my head around.”
Yamada nods. “Same.”
Aizawa has plans for the rest of summer vacation: break up the drug ring, help Tsukauchi with a cold case or two. Work with Nezu to update the entrance exam. Well. He had plans. He has a new goal now.
“Hizashi. Tsukauchi-san said Sir Nighteye is working on an investigation into the Shie Hassaikai. That’s the group who’s been dealing Trigger. And I’m pretty sure Plague Mask and Knife are members.”
“Okay. And you want to help with the investigation?”
Catching the Shie Hassaikai is important, but secondary. “I’m going to join the investigation so I can rescue Eri. Because she’s wherever Plague Mask is.” Aizawa looks at Hizashi. “That kid saved my life. It’s my turn to save hers.”
Hizashi’s eyes narrow.
“Please don’t talk me out of this.”
Yamada clicks his tongue. “Tch. Talk you out of it? No way, babe.” He smoothes his mustache. “I’m going with you.”