Chapter Text
Aizawa Shouta is no stranger to sporadic naps. Usually, he finds somewhere cosy to hole up—somewhere he won’t fall flat on his face, preferably—before he passes out, yet he has no recollection of doing so, or even feeling the pull of sleep to begin with.
Weightlessness tugs at his limbs, the odd feeling churning the liquid in his gut into something bordering on nausea. Disorientated, he blinks against the slowly rotating backdrop of torn-up asphalt and a haze of blue and red lights. Sound buzzes weirdly; there’s static in his ears; his vision blurs.
“Stabilise his head,” someone says.
He feels hands on him, gently pushing around his still oddly floating body.
His shoulder throbs and he feels every muscle in his body strain against his bones; pain pulses through his skull in time with his heartbeat, red and hot, as though someone had tried to split it open. His eyes ache so badly it hurts to keep them open. He tries anyway, blurry shapes phasing in and out of focus; bright pink and forest green fuzz together across his vision.
“Shit, he’s awake,” a voice says.
“Sensei, don’t move,” another orders worriedly.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here,” a third chimes with strained confidence.
He feels himself jostle, pain flaring up his spine, and it’s too much. His eyes scrunch closed of their own volition and a strangled sound is pulled from his throat.
Blackness takes his focus, inky and dark and—
Urgent shouts pull him back, like a violent game of tug-of-war, and he goes with it because— because they’re his stu— he needs to protect th—
Electricity sparking dangerously around a green figure pulls his focus. A child screams; the green—that’s his- he needs to pr- that’s Midoriya—collapses with a pained shout of his own.
No— no— he won’t he- he- he can’t—
Panic wells in his chest because he can’t move - can’t get to him—
Gods, it hurts , but he focusses his vision as best he can on the grey and white blob clinging to his student and activates his quirk. He feels his hair rise; his eyes strain at the effort.
The screams stop, sparks ceasing, and he feels his hold slip as his hair settles back around his shoulders in a tousled mess. As relief courses through him, his eyes flutter closed to the sounds of a sirens and more shouting. The sounds fade as darkness pulls him under agai—
A wrinkled face leans over him, creases pulling down— down, down, down —
His vision swims, but he sees their lips move and he tries to focus —
“—dear, squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” she says gently, but serious.
He tries to comply, he does, his fingers tingle as he moves them— agony arcs up his arm— his head throbs, his brain feeling like it’s too big to be contained in his skull—
It’s black again— then a fuzzy grey blob—
“Ok, ok, that’s plenty dear.”
Nausea churns in his gut as he tries to move again because his students are- they’re still- he needs to protect them - they’re just— they- He feels the colour drain from his cheeks and he flushes, hot then bitingly cold, and he’s eased onto his side as his stomach clenches, muscles spasming, and he hears a wet, retching sound—
“—can’t— while he’s like thi— more ener—” vaguely, he registered that there’s arguing, but he doesn’t have the energy to focus on what they’re saying.
The voices fade as his body spasms again and he feels a light, gentle pressure against his forehead. The nausea and whatever energy he has left fades, a heaviness tugging at his chest and he’s spiralling, breathless, spent — he finds himself unable to fight the pull. Unwillingly, darkness swallows him.
Shouta doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but when he resurfaces from the groggy pull of sleep, the white-painted room and faint smell of stale eucalyptus—antiseptic, his brain helpfully supplies—are unfamiliar. His head throbs, eyes straining against the overhead fluorescent lighting, as he struggles to recall how he’d landed himself—he glances around and sure enough, yep, there’s a cheap plastic curtain and scratchy sheets—in the hospital.
The bedding and the hospital gown he’s been shoved into crinkle stiffly against his skin as he shifts. His joints and muscles protest at the motion of pushing himself upright, limbs aching as though his skin is stretched too tightly over bone and muscle.
He gives his head a moment to right itself at the change in elevation, blinking away the blurred edges creeping into his vision which hang around for longer than he’d like.
The room is empty, he realises. The nurse’s chair is pushed out and the computer still alight atop a desk of neatly organised papers. The three other beds in the room are vacant.
His clothes are folded neatly at the end of the bed, boots tucked underneath.
Gingerly, he goes through the motions of changing. The belt of the jumpsuit sits a little loosely around his hips and the sleeves and pants are a bit long, but he reasons it’s better than his ass hanging out of a hospital gown. He pulls the boots on too, although they’re two sizes too big, and tightens the laces as much as they’ll allow, rolling up the extra length on the jumpsuit so he’s not swimming in it.
It takes him longer than he’d like to walk across the room to the open door. While it had been his intention to just leave—he has no desire to be poked and prodded when he is absolutely fine —he’s conveniently blocked at the exit by a woman in a white coat.
He freezes, like a deer caught in the headlights, as she blinks at him, surprise widening her dark eyes a fraction.
“Aizawa-san,” she says simply, clutching a clipboard closer to her chest, “you’re awake.”
He blinks back at her. Well, obviously .
“Take a seat, I’d like to check you over if that’s alright.”
He backtracks awkwardly, sitting as instructed and allowing his feet to dangle off the side of the bed.
“Now, can you tell me your name and date of birth?”
He sighs deeply, already ready to leave. She waits patiently for his answer.
“Aizawa Shouta, August 8th,” he mumbles. She glances at the clipboard, seemingly content with his response. He blinks tiredly at her. “Can I go now?”
Her polite smile tenses. “Not quite yet, there’s still some more things we need to check.”
A light flashes across his right eye. He flinches back, but the woman holds him in place as she repeats the motion, flicking a small torch in and out of his vision. It aggravates his building headache and he tries not to groan.
She places the torch on the desk, leaning over to take his pulse-
“Why am I here?” he asks, trying not to let his frustration show.
She frowns at him, a crease wearing between sloping eyebrows.
“I was hoping you could tell me, dear. What do you remember?”
He tries to think, he does, but his thoughts are fickle things that refuse to line up for him; he was- yesterday- his class had— no, he’d been patrolling- wait, no, he’d been studying for midterms— no no there’d been- been—
“I—” The pressure behind his eyes builds and he’s forced to close them. “It’s all muddled.” He presses the heel of his palm into an eye socket. “I can’t-”
“It’s alright, don’t force yourself.” He hears her scribble something on the clipboard. “Can you tell me where you are?”
That much, he can answer. “A hospital,” he says softly. A niggling thought rises; something important that he can’t quite remember. Forest green and lighting— He lets his hand fall away from his face. “There were others,” he starts, unsure, unease churning in his chest. “Are they…?”
She smiles at that. “They’re in good hands, no need to worry.“
He frowns, because that’s not what-
If he’d been in an accident then his friends they- they are- they were—
He’d been with…?
His spiralling thoughts are interrupted by another question from the nurse.“Is there someone we can contact to take you home? A parent or guardian? We don’t seem to have anyone on file.”
His head swims. He didn’t have- he was- he didn’t need- nausea creeps up on him again, rolling his empty stomach into knots. He tries thinking of anyone - anyone else-
Swallowing thickly, he pushes the feeling down. “Can you call Yamada Hizashi?” he asks shakily. “He’s from UA too.”
She writes the name down, nodding. “We’ll get in touch with him. Try to get some more rest while we find him.” And with that, she leaves.
And as much as he wants to sneak out behind her, he can’t find the energy to push himself off the bed again. He finds himself nodding sleepily and, heavy-limbed, he settles back on the bed, boots and all, his head resting on the thin hospital pillow briefly before he’s drifting again.
He’s pulled awake—well, not quite, it’s that hazy place between dreaming and wakefulness—by worried voices.
“How long’s he been like this?” a vaguely familiar voice asks, a little nasally and carrying despite the low volume.
A woman responds. “He was admitted yesterday. He’s been concussed, so he may be a little confused and dazed over the next few days.”
“That’s not what I-” they cut themselves off with a frustrated exhale. “Ok, a concussion I can deal with. Is he good to be discharged?”
“Yep! As soon as he wakes up he’s cleared to go.”
They talk for a little longer, but he tunes it out, content to drift deeper in that warm place between asleep and awake.
A gentle shake pulls him back, and he finds himself blinking at a blonde-haired man with a ridiculous sweeping hairstyle, pencil moustache, and a concerning amount of leather. It takes him another moment to drag himself upright to get a better look, wincing as his muscles twinge.
He blinks at the man again, and he realises he looks astoundingly like Hisashi, but- but older- no, that’s him- wait, no, his hair’s supposed to be lot shorter— no, no — his vision blurs as his image of Hizashi overlaps with this version; the image doubles, and he sways —
A firm hand on his shoulder keeps him upright. “Shouta, bud, you good?” The man- no, Hizashi, that’s Hizashi—asks, a worried look pulling at the corners of his mouth.
He nods, words sticking in his throat because what- what is happening—
“That’s some concussion you got there,” the blonde says, the tension in his voice pulling his focus back. “Wanna tell me what happened?”
“Hizashi,” he breathes, head still spinning. The lights are suddenly too bright, the overlapping smell of bleach and antiseptic and plastic overwhelming- “can- can we leave?”
Hizashi gives him a doubtful look, glancing back to the doorway. “Maybe you should stay another night, bud—”
“No,” he says, a little too quickly. He closes his eyes, letting out a controlled exhale. “Anywhere but here.”
He’s is quiet for a long moment. “Okay,” he finally says. “Let’s go.”