Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s a quiet Friday evening in the dorms, and Shouta is trying to get ahead on the latest exam he’s grading for class 1-A. He’d thought it would be appropriate to assign them an essay, and now he’s cursing his past self for the decision, because his eyes hurt after reading just the first three, and he still has seventeen left. He’s sitting cross-legged on the couch in the living area he and Hizashi share in the faculty housing of Heights Alliance, with the papers strewn across their coffee table. He can hear Hizashi talking to himself in his room, even with the door shut, and Shouta is finding himself wishing that he’d requested a private suite. As much as he loves his husband, he can’t focus with the noise he’s making. 

That’s probably why his first reaction to hearing a knock at his door is to groan, low and annoyed. He reaches up a hand to scrub at his aching, burning eyes, and hauls himself off the couch just as whoever’s behind his door knocks again, a little more insistently.

“I’m coming,” he calls out, walking barefoot on his carpet over to the door. It takes him a second to undo the chain lock and open the door, revealing a shock of green hair and a pale, freckled face. Midoriya looks more anxious than normal, his eyes wide and the skin underneath bruised a pale violet, and Shouta hisses in a sharp breath when he sees his arms. Midoriya is clutching his left arm with his right hand, a blue towel clenched tight. The towel is stained dark with blood, and his arm is streaked with it, like it’s been wiped away too many times. Midoriya’s hands are coated in a thin layer of red that looks sticky and fresh and smells like iron metal, bright and loud. On Midoriya’s left arm above the towel, there are a few cuts, neat slices in parallel rows, a few days old judging from the scabs and the yellowing bruises around them. Aizawa can see similar wounds on Midoriya’s right arm, along with a few fresh, weeping cuts that leak little trails of bright crimson blood.

Midoriya looks up at him, his eyes filling with tears that make his pupils look larger and darker. “I-I think I need stitches,” he says, voice wobbly and quiet, and Shouta reacts quickly, reaching down to carefully grab Midoriya’s wrist. He brings the limb up, so that he can see, but Midoriya keeps the towel pressed tight over whatever wound is underneath. Shouta sighs.

“Come in,” he nudges the door open wider with his foot. “Sit down on the couch, I need to see the injury.” Midoriya nods, a few tears rolling out of his eyes and down his cheeks, and his face is more red than pale now, which is good, because Shouta knows that injuries like this can make people lightheaded, even if they’re used to pain. And Shouta knows Midoriya is used to pain. 

Shouta tugs him into the room, and he comes easily, letting Shouta lead him to the couch. He hesitates next to it though, looking up at Shouta with these wide, green eyes that make Shouta’s heart ache. 

“I-I don’t want to get blood on your couch,” he says, and Shouta gives him his best unimpressed look.

“I don’t care about the upholstery, I care about the bleeding wound you have on your arm. Sit,” he orders, and Midoriya complies with a shaky nod, a bobbing motion that looks almost self-soothing. He looks too small on the couch, the grey color of the fabric making the green of his hair and the bright, almost-neon color of his blood look more saturated in comparison. 

Shouta kneels in front of him, carefully sets a hand on Midoriya’s where it’s holding the towel tight to his skin. He thinks that the towel itself looks bloodier than when Midoriya first arrived, which is a bad sign. Shouta gently tugs at Midoriya’s hand, and the boy releases his death grip on the towel. Shouta peels it back slowly, clenching his teeth when Midoriya winces. The fabric is slightly stuck to the wounds underneath, the many wounds, a mix of fresh and old. Shouta can see a number of those same cuts he’s already seen, mostly half-healed, but he can also see two groups of fresh cuts, one that looks just like the ones on his other arm. They’re worrisome, but not for the severity of the wounds themselves, and they’ve stopped bleeding. What worries Shouta is the second group of cuts, just three wounds only centimeters apart from one another. 

They’re higher up Midoriya’s arm, closer to the elbow, and the first two are deeper than the other cuts on his arm but not so deep that they would be a problem in and of themselves. The last cut, the one closer to his elbow, though, is deeper and longer, stretching across the whole width of Midoriya’s arm, a wide, gaping wound. Shouta can see yellow fat bubbling under the blood that rising out of the wound, threatening to spill out onto Midoriya’s lap. He presses the towel back into the wound and turns his head.

“Hizashi,” he shouts, just loud enough for his husband to hear. “Can you bring me the first aid kit?” He hears an answering shout from the next room over, something that he can’t understand the exact words of but sounds vaguely affirmative enough. Shouta glances back at Midoriya, who has begun to cry again, tears running down his freckled cheeks and gathering at the point of his chin. 

“Midoriya,” Shouta says, applying pressure to the wound on his arm. “Breathe, okay? You’re okay.” Midoriya nods again, that same shaky motion, and Shouta reaches up his free hand to rest on Midoriya’s shoulder, gently resting it there. He hears the door to Hizashi’s room open, but he doesn’t turn to look.

“Shouta,” Hizashi says. “Do you want me to get you some gauze?” Shouta is immensely grateful to his husband and to the mental health training they’d both received at UA in their third year. Hizashi knows better than to react to the situation outwardly, knows better than to do something that might upset Midoriya even more. 

“Yes,” Shouta replies, sparing a glance to see Hizashi setting the bright red first aid kit down on the coffee table, on top of the ungraded essays on the surface. He rummages around for a moment before pulling out a packet of gauze and tearing the paper packaging open, passing Shouta the thick piece of dressing. 

Shouta takes it and peels the towel off of Midoriya’s arm, pressing the gauze down in its place. It’s a thick, large piece of gauze, but it only covers the freshest cuts, not the ones with fading bruises and dark, almost black scabs that gather along their seams. Shouta can see places where lint and dust has stuck to adhesive that isn’t quite washed off, places where Midoriya had worn bandages over the cuts on his skin. He wonders just how long it’d been, how long he’d been missing this. 

He glances up at Midoriya, who seems to have stopped crying. He’s staring at the white gauze, at the smooth surface of it. Shouta watches the way his face is almost calm, almost relaxed if not for the way his skin is red and blotchy, stained with tear tracks. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks Midoriya, watching as the boy’s eyes flicker up to meet his own. Midoriya bites his lower lip for just a moment before he answers. 

“I’m okay,” he says, looking back down at his arm. “I-I just freaked out, um. When I couldn’t get it to stop bleeding.” 

Shouta nods. “How long has it been bleeding, even with pressure on it?” He knows Midoriya’s smart, knows that the kid has the basic first aid training all of the first-years have at this point. He’s glad that he knew to put pressure on it, knew to get help.

“J-Just a few minutes,” Midoriya says, looking down and to the side. “Maybe six or seven.” He swallows visibly, his throat bobbing with the motion. Shouta glances down at his arm, at the gauze square. Some blood has started to leak through on the piece of the material that’s directly over the largest cut, but it’s not enough for Shouta to be worried that Midoriya hit something important.

“We need to clean it, then get you to the hospital,” Shouta says, and Midoriya nods, shaky. 

“I-I, um. I sterilize the skin and the b-blade before I...” Midoriya squeezes his eyes shut. “Before I cut,” he finishes, his voice small and weak. 

“Okay,” Shouta says, glancing up at Hizashi, who nods and walks back into his room, presumably to get his car keys. “I still want you to get checked out, though.”

“O-Okay,” Midoriya replies, and Shouta sees fresh tears in his eyes. “You’re not mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Shouta confirms, squeezing Midoriya’s shoulder gently, meeting his gaze. “I’m worried about you, and I’m concerned for you, but I’m not angry with you or upset at you.”

Midoriya nods, a sob escaping him, and he reaches up his free hand to try and cover his mouth but Shouta takes his own hand off of Midoriya’s shoulder and grabs his wrist before he can touch his face.

“You’re still covered in blood,” Shouta explains, and Midoriya’s eyes widen slightly, turning down to look at his hand, covered in a thin layer of brown, oxidized blood. 

“Oh,” Midoriya replies, distantly, and Shouta sees the color drain from his face, the way he goes pale and sweaty in just a few seconds. “I feel dizzy,” Midoriya says, absently, and Shouta moves quickly, helping Midoriya to lay down on the couch, his injured arm still extended. Midoriya presses his eyes shut, his lips a thin, tight line, and Shouta can’t help himself, reaching up to brush a stray piece of hair from Midoriya’s face. 

“You’re okay, Midoriya,” Shouta says, as soothingly as he can. “Just take deep breaths.”

“T-This is stupid,” Midoriya whispers, just as Shouta sees Hizashi kneel down behind him. “It’s just a little cut, I’ve had worse.” Hizashi gestures at Midoriya’s arm, and Shouta lets him take over applying pressure on it. Shouta moves so that he’s closer to his student’s face. 

“It’s not stupid,” Shouta says. “Breathe deeply, okay? It’ll pass.” He watches Midoriya gulp down air, too fast for Shouta’s liking but better than the shallow, anxious breaths from before. Shouta takes Midoriya’s hand on his uninjured arm, squeezing it. 

“Am I going to be expelled?” Midoriya asks, softly, and Shouta swears he can feel his heart breaking. 

“No, problem child,” he says back to him. Midoriya opens his eyes, his huge, green eyes. “I’m not going to punish you for this. We’re going to get you some help, okay?”

“Okay,” Midoriya says back, his voice soft and wet. “I’m tired,” he whispers, and Shouta can tell from the look on his face that he isn’t talking about physically. 

“I know,” Shouta whispers back, reaching up to wipe sweat from Midoriya’s brow. “I know.”