today ive indulged in my idea that hizashi has a pet pigeon, much more quieter and more family friendly than a cockatoo, no? specifically those big ones that look like footballs. she just needs a name
this one isn’t a crossover, it’s just angsty erasermic stuff based off of this sound on tiktok that’s been rolling around in my head for a few days tw: character death tw: depression (?) tw: blood
———
Death is something Shouta Aizawa has been looking forward too for a very long time.
Usually he tries not to think about it. He has an example to set, after all. He doesn’t teach anymore, but the kids who are still alive and kicking visit him as often as they can with their well wishes. And Eri, too, of course, spends entire weekends with him whenever her schedule allows it.
But he’s a tired man. Has been tired for a long time.
The war still lingers in the back of his mind on his best days, despite the fact that it’s been twenty years. But it’s twenty years without his closest friends. Twenty years without some of his students who hadn’t made it.
Twenty years without his husband.
Eri keeps trying to convince him to retire. Underground heroics is no joke, and it takes a massive toll on the body. He ignores her, of course, because outside of her infrequent visits, it’s the only thing keeping him from going absolutely crazy.
The job ruined his life, but it’s also the only thing that’s been keeping him going.
But he’s fifty now, and his old joints don’t work like they used to. And because of his quirk, his eyesight isn’t exactly the best. So it doesn’t come as a surprise to him when someone gets in a lucky shot.
He’s sitting on the edge of a roof, eating his gas station lunch at nearly four in the morning when there’s suddenly a sharp pain in his shoulder. The force is enough to knock him forward, and because he’s unprepared, he doesn’t manage to get his capture scarf snagged onto something in enough time.
It hurts. Blindingly so, but it’s not the worst he’s ever been through. He can think Shigaraki and his fucking Nomu for that award, when he was thirty and desperately trying to stay alive so he could keep his kids alive. But he’s not desperate to live anymore. He hasn’t been for a while.
Several of his ribs are no doubt broken, as well as the arm he landed on. He coughs, and he feels the warm wetness run down his chin. The iron taste is far too familiar for his liking, but he can’t bring himself to care as he forces his eyes open.
His vision is blurry, but he can still make out a dark hoodie and a flash of sharp teeth from the way the man above him is grinning.
“For being the number one underground hero, that sure wasn’t hard,” the man croons. Shouta glowers at him as much as he can, but that only makes the man laugh harder as he kneels down into Shouta’s space.
“Fuck you,” Shouta spits out, and he hates how gargled his words sound. He knows that even if the man wasn’t going to finish the job, he would probably just bleed out instead, or maybe choke on his own blood.
“Sorry, man,” the man brings his hand out, and Shouta catches the glint of metal in the dim lighting. He feels the cold as the barrel of the gun is pressed to his head, right between his eyes. But he doesn’t look away. He forces his eyes open, and makes his killer look him in the eye. “You’re not really my type.”
There’s a loud bang, but Shouta is already too dead to register it.
—————-
Shouta isn’t expecting to open his eyes.
He knows what happens. Can remember every moment with a distinct clarity. The feeling of the cold pavement under him, the pain in every part of his body, the press of cold metal in his head. He knows he died.
But now, there’s none of that. The pain is gone-even the normal joint pain that comes with age and a physically taxing job. His eyesight is the best it’s been in years, and when he presses his fingers to his forehead where the gun had uncomfortably sat, there’s nothing there.
And what’s even weirder is, he’s in his apartment.
One he hasn’t seen in twenty years.
He slowly gets out of bed and pads into the living room. There’s music from a familiar antique record player warbling some old jazz song, filling the apartment with a soft noise. There’s a light breeze coming from the open doors of the balcony, and the curtains flutter lazily in time with it. The sun is shining through in that lovely, picturesque way he’s only seen in movies.
And then he hears it.
It’s faint, especially with the music overlapping it. But he hears it. Hears him.
Shouta is moving before his thoughts catch up, because it’s impossible, isn’t it? He shouldn’t be here, wherever here is. A cynical part of him knows it’s probably some elaborate trap, or maybe some kind of dream induced by the bullet to his brain. But his gut isn’t screaming at him. Even as he rounds the corner and sees his husband, dead for twenty years now, humming softly as he cooks breakfast.
He looks as beautiful as the day Shouta lost him.
He isn’t stained with blood and grim that only comes from the battlefield. There isn’t the nasty scar on his neck from his directional speaker being destroyed while he wore it. In fact, there isn’t a single scar on his skin. Not even any from his childhood, like the one he used to have on his eyebrow from the time he was four and hopped off the back of the couch, hitting his head in the process.
His golden hair is pulled up into a lazy bun, with a couple strands free to frame his face. His glasses sit low on his nose because he’s looking down, and he’s to focused on his task to notice. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and one of Shouta’s old hoodies, and sitting around his neck is his wedding band on a chain.
“‘Zashi?” Shouta says. it’s quiet and desperate. Because now he knows he’s dreaming. He knows this isn’t real. But he so desperately wants it to be. Wants to run his hands through his husband’s hair and whisper sweet nothings as he watches him cook. Wants to sway along to the music and let the food accidentally burn.
Hizashi looks at him, and his smile is softest and saddest thing Shouta has ever seen. And it makes his heart twist.
“Hello, again,” Hizashi says. His voice is full of nothing but pure, open love. The kind they only ever shared in this apartment. Before Shigaraki and before the war, when they actually had time to spend with one another.
“What-what’s going on?” Shouta asks. Hizashi turns the stove off and puts the food to the side before stepping towards Shouta. And gods, he smells just the same, too. A wonderful, citrus scent that brightens up Shouta’s senses. Hizashi gently grabs his hands, and holds them close to his chest.
“I-I gotta say, I’m surprised, Shouta,” Hizashi says. He looks up at Shouta through his lashes, and squeezes his hands tighter. “You lived so much longer than I thought you were going to.”
And it finally hits Shouta. He’s pretty sure he’s known since he woke up, deep down, that he did die. But hearing the earnestness in Hizashi’s voice is just more clarification. And…It’s almost comforting, in the way that it’s presented. So Shouta huffs out a laugh, and leans forward, resting his head on Hizashi’s shoulder.
“I know,” he says. His voice is rough with unshed tears, because this…This is something he’s longed for for solong. It’s hard to believe that he actually has it now. Has himnow. “I’m sorry I made you wait.”
Hizashi tuts at him, and lets go of Shouta’s hands in favor of holding his face. “Don’t ever apologize for living, Shouta,” he said. “I’m so, soglad you didn’t follow me so soon. I’m proud of you, Sho.”
And, well, he can’t really bring himself to keep the tears back any longer. So he pulls Hizashi into the tightest hug he can manage, and for the first time in twenty years, he lets himself break down.
It’s cathartic in more ways than one. But what makes it even better it the rumble of Hizashi’s chest as he hums to him. One hand is carding through his hair, pulling softly at the tangles that have taken place.
And…Shouta almost feels guilty. Almost feels guilty that he didn’t last longer. That there are people who are still living, his kids who are still thriving, who have to find his mangled body and bury him. But at the same time, he can’t bring himself to care. Because he’s been running on borrowed time for a long, long time. It was only a matter of time, after all.
Shouta’s first day in the afterlife is spent cuddling on the couch with his husband, telling him about Eri’s accomplishments and how Midoriya didn’t get more annoying when he became the Number One hero. It is spent listening to his husband laugh and sing. It is spent drifting off to the sound of Hizashi’s soft snores as he naps.
