EraserMic Fluff

PT 20

"Hey, Shōta, I'm going to go on patrol," Hizashi said. Shōta looked up from his book.
"Okay. Just be careful. And come back as soon as you can," Shōta called. Hizashi grinned.
"Of course," he said. "I love you."
"I love you, too." Hizashi's grin turned into a soft smile. He waved goodbye. The door clicked behind him, and the apartment was quiet. Shōta turned back to his book, absentmindedly petting Maki.
A few hours later, he closed the book and stood up. He stretched, then went into the kitchen to make a snack. When on patrol, the night seemed to be over in a second. When waiting for Hizashi, though, he could grasp just how long patrol took. He climbed back onto the couch, then took a nap. He would wake up when Hizashi came home, and the two of them would sleep together in the bed.
When Hizashi wasn't with him, Shōta struggled to sleep. It was always a fitful nap, where he'd roll around and call out and feel the pain of old wounds. Sleep was necessary for survival and functionality, however, so he bore with it because Hizashi wasn't always around to give him a peaceful rest.
When he awoke from a bad dream an hour later, he was surprised Hizashi wasn't home yet. Patrol shouldn't take this long. He picked up his rarely-used phone and called Hizashi. Ring. Ring. Ring. Then the voicemail message came on. Shōta blinked. He tried again. The same thing happened. Anxiety grew, but it didn't break the dam yet. If Hizashi was in the middle of fighting, he couldn't call. If he dropped his phone, he couldn't call. If he was dealing with civilians or fellow Pros, he couldn't call. These were all logical, rational ideas.
That's the thing about anxiety, though. Regardless of how illogical, how irrational, it can be, it still can take over. A crack appeared in the dam.
Shōta texted him. He waited. Then he texted him again. Anxiety sloshed around in his stomach, nearly reaching the dam level. He stood up and went to the bathroom. He came back and checked his phone, hoping it was enough time for Hizashi to text or call back. No new messages, no new calls, no new voicemails. His texts went unread.
The crack deepened.
Some anxiety trickled out.
It wore away the sides of the crack, making it bigger.
Still unread.
More anxiety dripped out.
The crack widened even more.
Unread.
And there it was. Anxiety sloshed out, becoming a tsunami that washed away all excuses. He grabbed his googles, his scarf, and was out the door.
He ran as quickly as he could, running on telephone wires, jumping from building to building, skidding on rooftops whenever he made a sharp turn. He followed the tracker on his phone. Oh god, please, please let him be okay. Let this all be an overreaction.
He skidded to a stop in front of an alleyway. He stuck to the shadows, moving silently in the night. He reached the dead end, and squinted his eyes at a vaguely human shape.
His heart stopped.
Hizashi was sitting up against the wall, blood in the corners of his mouth and soaking his clothes. Even from here, Shōta could see the jagged wound that cut across Hizashi's stomach.
All logic drained away and he was running, skidding, collapsing at Hizashi's side. His hands fell to Hizashi's wound, applying pressure. Blood coated his hands.
"...'Zashi, 'Zashi, please...wake up, damn it...fuck. There's so much blood. Fuck. 'Zashi, please, wake up. Don't leave me here, damn it," Shōta's voice filled Hizashi's world. He opened his eyes slowly. The edges of his vision were tinged with black and everything was out of focus. He coughed up blood. Shōta looked up at him. He was crying. He looked young again, a broken child who had everything ripped away from him.
"Shō..." Hizashi coughed. Shōta's face scrunched up.
"'Zashi...it's going to be okay," Shōta mumbled, his voice breaking. Hizashi smiled faintly, and his hand reached up weakly to touch Shōta's face. Shōta's eyes widened. Tears spilled down his cheeks.
       "...I...love...you," Hizashi gasped. Shōta's face scrunched up again, and tears welled up.
       "...'Zashi...I love you, too, idiot," Shōta cried, smiling. Hizashi closed his eyes. Shōta pushed on Hizashi's wound more, and Hizashi gasped for breath, opening his eyes. "I know it hurts, Sunshine, but you got to stay awake for me, okay? Can you do that?" Hizashi nodded slightly. How the fuck am I going to call for an ambulance and keep pressure on this? My hands are covered in blood, too, so the phone might be hard to use anyway...
          Shōta lifted one hand off the wound and grabbed his phone. The blood made his hand slip, so pressing the buttons was difficult.
        "I need an ambulance at my location immediately; one Hero down and bleeding out. Suspect at large," he yelled into the phone, struggling to keep Hizashi's attention so as to keep him awake. He tossed the phone onto the ground and wrapped Hizashi's waist with his scarf. It wasn't the best, but it would keep pressure on the wound and hopefully keep him from bleeding out. Shōta grunted as he tightened the scarf, struggling to see through his tears.
         Despite the blood rushing through his ears, he heard a sound behind him. Shōta spun around to meet a Villain holding a bloody knife.
        Without his scarf, fighting the guy would be difficult. He looked strong, and fast, too. But like hell Shōta was about to let this bastard get away with hurting Hizashi.
        He charged forward, ducked the man's swing, and spun his leg around to kick the Villain's legs out from under him. The Villain tumbled over, but caught himself at the last second and lunged forward. Shōta grabbed the arm that held the knife, prepared to throw the guy over his shoulder. The man's other hand reached up, however, and a blinding light flashed out of his palm before Shōta could erase his quirk. Shōta closed his eyes and threw the man over his shoulder anyway. Even with his eyes open, he wouldn't be able to see for a few seconds, and a few seconds were all that were needed to decide between victory and defeat. He decided to keep his eyes closed and used his other senses to attack. Those days spent training blindfolded were suddenly very helpful.
       He managed to force the Villain into a corner as sirens blared. He opened his eyes and erased the Villain's quirk and kicked the knife out of his hand. He lunged again, tackling the man in the dark. Working as an underground Hero made him skilled at fighting in near pitch black. The ambulance stopped just in front of the alley and Hizashi was placed on a stretcher. A hand grabbed Shōta's arm before he plunged the Villain's knife into his chest, stopping him in his tracks as he sat on top of the Villain. Shōta looked up at to see who stopped him. It was Nemuri.
       "Look, I get it, Eraser. Killing someone isn't going to help, though," she said. Shōta growled.
        "Let me do this."
        "No. You knocked him out, and the police can deal with the rest. Shōta," she said, her voice going soft, "go with Hizashi." Shōta glared up at her, but his anger faded. He slipped off the Villain and ran over to Hizashi. Nemuri grabbed the Villain and pulled him over to the cops.
         Shōta rode in the back of the ambulance next to Hizashi. He felt drained; empty. His face was blank, and he looked far away. Blood soaked through his clothes and stained his skin. He stared at Hizashi's sleeping face in silence all the way to the hospital.