24-Pack of Band-Aids
A Boku no Hero Academia oneshot.
Summary: The experiences of an individual define what they will become, like definitions defining a certain object to explain the otherwise unexplainable. This is the concept of Aizawa's experiences that developed him into the beloved teacher of 1-A—and it all began as a teenager.
Warning: Warning for language and a small hint towards romantic relations.
Abuse
verb
əˈbyo͞oz/
treat (a person or an animal) with cruelty or violence, especially regularly or repeatedly.
"riders who abuse their horses should be prosecuted"
Synonyms: mistreat, harm, damage.
Aizawa Shouta grazed over each individual letter, the stench of a twenty-year-old dictionary not deterring him like it was Hizashi. His friend had already slammed the book shut and pushed it away with a grimace, wiping his dust-coated fingers on his pants.
"Do we have to write English definitions this way?" He whined.
"It's what the teacher said."
"But Shoutaaaa."
Aizawa slowly turned to his friend, who resorted to pouting and laying his head on his desk to cover his blank paper. "What?"
Hizashi protested, "This is seriously no way to learn English!"
"Why are you complaining to me about it." Aizawa gave a small shrug and looked back at the yellowed-pages, his equally blank assignment sitting beneath his elbow. Hizashi dramatically huffed and stretched his arms out, bumping the classmate in front of him.
"Because you care, Shouta," Aizawa glanced at him blankly, and he quickly added, "Most of the time."
When the English teacher suddenly appeared at Hizashi's desk, arms menacingly crossed over his chest, his friend let out nothing short of a shriek followed by profuse apologies that tangled together and made absolutely no sense. The teacher reprimanded Hizashi for "disrupting the class", and Aizawa picked up his pencil and wrote the first definition his eyes landed on. But in his peripheral, he could still see the word, black stenciled font stretched to fill the large line.
Abuse.
They always parted ways outside the train station. It was an unspoken rule between Hizashi and Aizawa that they would say their goodbyes at the top step beneath the iron sign and move onto their respective houses. Of course, Hizashi wasn't much for rules and tried to follow him home once or twice and got his ass kicked as a repercussion. Aizawa had grumblingly followed the blond to his house many times at his invitation, but the invitation was never returned.
This particular day was dreary, the clouds throbbing with rain and clotting the sky in grey. They were surprised to emerge from the train station without precipitation; and per custom, Hizashi waved goodbye to his friend, who just simply raised his hand, turned on his heels and started walking.
But something was different today. Not something his friend could place, of course, but enough that made him worry.
"Hey, Shouta!" He shouted, just skirting the use of his quirk. Shouta slowed to a stroll and turned his head towards him. "Want to come to my house today?"
His black-haired friend stopped. People weaved in between them, departing from the train station. Hizashi took a step forward to clear the gap, but Shouta shook his head and continued forward, tossing a scrap back to his friend that he could barely hear.
"Not today. I have too much homework."
The blond watched his friend as he slipped through the crowd and crossed the street, turning left beyond a building and disappearing behind it. He ached to run after him, to tell him they would work at homework at his house this time. He would promise profusely, and beg, because he knew Shouta couldn't stand it when he did. He stared at the corner for a few more moments, hoping he would reappear; and when he didn't, he readjusted his backpack on his shoulder and walked down the familiar path to his house, alone, his heart aching with curiosity.
Hopefully, his feeling was just wrong.
Shouta didn't show up for class the next day.
When Hizashi arrived at school at their regular meeting time, he couldn't find the clump of black hair as he combed the crowd; and when he departed from the congregation of students into the reclusion of plants and trees on the front lawn, he still couldn't locate his friend.
The front doors were opened, and students filtered inside, Hizashi stopping every so often to look behind him, hoping he just missed him, hoping he just blended into the shadows and hid from him as a joke.
Instead of heading for his locker, he went straight to Shouta's. The metal felt frozen beneath his fingertips. Clean white school shoes. No mud-stained boots. He hesitantly closed the door, pressing his palm to the surface like he could generate enough of a connection with Shouta to figure out where he was, or better yet, summon him—but no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't come up with a logical conclusion as to why he wasn't there. Shouta didn't get sick. Doctor appointments were too troublesome to deal with. If Hizashi convinced him to go, it was always when they were on break so he could drag him there and make sure he didn't leave if they didn't call his name on time.
Something was wrong—and he had to swallow that as he numbly walked to class and took his seat, waiting nervously for homeroom to begin.
Roll call was always first—as was Aizawa Shouta's name. Hizashi flinched when it went unanswered, glancing every so often at the unoccupied desk at his side. This wouldn't stand. He would march blindly in the direction he always saw his best friend take and shout into the streets until he found him. He just had to get through class first.
He fixated his attention on the clock. Time seemed to tick on forever.
Hizashi was trying to concentrate on the ridiculous concept of imaginary numbers—who in their right mind would invent that—when Shouta materialized out of the blue. He had been hunched over his textbook, trying not to think about his best friend but always thinking about his best friend as he scribbled failed after failed attempt at solving the problem on the notebook paper. He jumped nearly every time the door opened, but now he was numb to the click of the lock until a presence passed his desk and slipped into the one next to his own.
His head shot up, and there he was, the illusive Shouta—looking as exhausted as he always did, slipping homework from his bag to sit on his desk. Hizashi wanted to jump up and start shouting, but one look from the teacher made him duck his head and pretend to stare at his work.
Shouta didn't say anything. He didn't even act like anything happened. He just went straight into working and solving the problems Hizashi struggled with without hesitation, like he hadn't been missing for a few hours.
Hizashi would set the record straight. He just had to wait 30 minutes, until the class was over, and he could get an answer during the break.
But the thirty minutes stretched on and on and on. Shouta finished his work. Hizashi was still stuck on the second problem.
"Where were you?" He blurted out the breath after the bell ring. Aizawa produced a small shrug as he stuffed his notes back into his bag. Hizashi would not accept it. "Shouta, you were missing for hours."
His friend rolled his eyes and tucked his bag beneath his arm. "I overslept Hizashi."
He eyed his friend suspiciously, crossing his arms. It sounded like a bullshit response if he ever heard one, but he knew Shouta wouldn't cough up the answers he wanted so easily if he had something to hide. He huffed and snatched his bag from his arms, running to the front of the classroom.
"See you at lunch Shouta!" He yelled before ducking out of the classroom.
Aizawa shook his head and stepped towards Hizashi's desk where his bag remained, slipping the strap over his shoulder. He submitted the papers into their proper slot and slowly followed the blond he called his friend.
"Idiot…" he mumbled through a soft smile. "You forgot your bag."
When Hizashi was frustrated, he was—well, aggressive. Not aggressive to other people per se, but the amount of passive-aggressive behaviors exploded. Aizawa couldn't read his mind, but he could tell when he had something on it that bothered him, especially when he fished for ramen noodles like an executioner trying to lop off a head every time he snapped his chopsticks. Even his slurps were aggressive. Aizawa stared at him over his untouched ramen as his friend heaved up his bowl and sucked the contents dry, slamming the plastic back on the tray.
"Did you even taste it?" He asked.
Hizashi pouted, "Of course I did! It tasted good!"
Despite the unnerving crowd of a lunchroom, the pair had managed to secure their seclusive spot in a corner far from the extreme extroverts of the school. Aizawa had always appreciated it, but now, something thick was disturbing the air, and he didn't like it.
"What's the matter with you."
Hizashi gave a funny look, and Aizawa sighed, sloshing his noodles around in the broth boredly.
"You're upset. Why."
"I'm not upset!" His friend stood up, snatching his tray at his ascent. "What makes you think I'm upset!"
When Aizawa quirked an eyebrow, he suddenly announced "I'm going to get more food!" before he marched away, leaving his dark-haired friend alone.
Aizawa folded his chopsticks on top of his bowl. People were so confusing, and he was reminded why he often didn't like them as he stared at his poor reflection in the soft light of the ramen liquid.
He wondered if Hizashi, like the rest of the world, just stopped liking him altogether. He supposed it was a just the fault of his genetics.
They didn't talk like they normally did on the train ride home. Hizashi didn't wave at him when they reached the top step—he immediately diverged for his home, and this time it was Aizawa watching his back as he vanished into a crowd of post-work traffic.
He swallowed a sigh. He could only rationalize that this was probably the last time they would do this together, making him even more apprehensive of what laid beyond the streets.
But he couldn't stand on the sidewalk forever. He slowly wound the strap of his bag around his fingers, letting the flare of red tips and the small pain remind him that he wasn't weak. So slowly, he stepped forward on his own path, in his own direction, wishing for once that he wasn't alone.
The Aizawa's had always lived in tiny, shabby apartment complexes. This one, the sixth or so in a line of shitty living spaces was no different for the criteria. There were two building, each one built with a dirty mustard yellow brick and crawling with filth twenty+ plus years of neglect. Only one side of each building had ledges with iron bars fixated horizontally as a fence for each complex. Aizawa lived in the west building, with a tree that curled close to their second-floor ledge.
Rationality said what he always did was wrong. That it would be simpler to request a key and enter through the front door. But self-preservation screamed in horror. He wouldn't escape through the front door unscathed.
He secured his backpack to himself and walked over to the graffiti-stained tree, its limbs drooping the more Aizawa grew and gained weight.
He knew every foothold. He planted his foot onto the thickest root and pushed up, grabbing onto a branch above his head. From there, he worked his way around the tree, using other limbs like a circular staircase until he got to his limb, the sturdiest one that jutted out close to his ledge. He slowly shuffled his way down the branch. He was 15 feet or so off the ground, with a three feet gap between the weakest part and the ledge.
And he jumped.
He landed easily on the other side of iron bars, crouching when he hit the ground so the impact traveled through his entire body. He glanced back at the tree, as it shivered and wobbled lightly. It was getting harder for it to survive his jumps, and surely, one day, it would snap.
He slipped his fingers into the sliding door and cracked it open, enough where he could slide in. Anything anymore than a foot would cause the glass to start scratching against the casing. And even though the sliding door only led to his room, he was always conscious of it. He quietly sealed the door behind him.
The only light came from the windows on the door, but it didn't filter out much of the darkness with the angle of the tree blocking the sun. He plops down on his bed, sitting his bag aside and kicking his shoes off. He checked his phone, his thumb hovering over his conversation from Hizashi. No new messages.
He truly was alone.
Aizawa woke, curled up in his bed and clutching his phone, to screaming.
It jolted him awake, and he was on his feet before his brain could process it, running to the door and slotting his shoulder under the space beneath the handle. He wished he had time to slide the bed into his place or even perch a chair against it—but then the handle started to wiggle, and he felt his socked feet give way to the angry man on the other side.
"Shouta!" He screamed, his voice thick and drunken as he rammed into the door again. It jerked open, some of the hallway light filtering in before the door snapped shut again. "Let me in you bastard!"
Aizawa shut his eyes, honing in on his fast breaths and the wood twitching beneath his shoulder. It would pass, it always would, when someone lost—whether that was the need for alcohol or the door.
This time, it was the latter.
The teenager braced himself hard against the surface and waited, waited for the next impact, waiting for the next crash so he could push back against it. But it didn't come. He didn't scream again, didn't so much as make a noise. And when Aizawa shifted his weight to get a better traction, the drunken man smashed his shoulder so hard into the door that he heard the wood splinter, and he had dive out of its vicious path to avoid being smashed into the wall with it. But perhaps it was a more merciful fate—because before he got to his feet again, the drunken man grabbed him by an ankle and dragged him out into the hall, ripping the partially destroyed door closed behind them.
Hizashi was waiting for him outside U.A. the next day, but this time he could not hide the truth. He found him casually leaning against a tree, scrolling through his phone. They were in the regular phase of "he's done pouting and is ready to apologize for his behavior" until the blond glanced up from the LED screen and caught one look at his face. He dropped his phone in shock.
"Shouta! What happened!" He shouted, a little too loudly, and it made Aizawa flinch. He quickly dropped his voice down a few octaves. "Your face is all bruised…"
His entire face wasn't bruised, he had checked. One side of his face was swollen from a black eye, both cheekbones accompanied by a swath of green and yellow discoloration. Luckily, his uniform covered the neck bruises and anything else that would cause his blond friend concern. He gave a small shrug.
"I got into a fight."
Hizashi's eyebrows shot up. "But why Shouta. That's unlike you."
Their eyes meet, Hizashi's veiled by his tinted sunglasses and Aizawa's through the bruises of abuse. He said, candidly, "Someone was trying to hurt me. So, I fought back."
His friend reached out to grab his hand, reconsidered and grabbed the end of his sleeve instead. The half-truth hung thickly in the air between them.
"Come on…" He spoke quietly, too softly for it to be coming from Hizashi, "Let's get the nurse to take a look at it…"
The only thing that could be prescribed to him was ibuprofen and a note to get him out of gym. It took all but five minutes before he was dismissed from the nurse's office and back into the custody of his friend, who he found pacing nervously in the hall. He came to an abrupt stop when he noticed Shouta and blossomed into a grin, although they both knew it was all for show.
"So how was it?" He asked.
"Not much she could do. But I am getting out of gym for today."
His friend bobbed his head, but he wondered if he was actually listening. He looked like he was in another world, trapped behind the glass of his thoughts that reflected in the yellow tint of his sunglasses. Aizawa flashed a glance at the clock down the hall.
"We should get to class," he said.
Hizashi blinked. Now that caught his attention.
"Wait—why?"
Aizawa sighed, "Because. Today is a school day."
"But you can't go to class like that!" He waved and pointed at his own face to highlight his words.
"My face is bruised Hizashi. My brain works just fine."
He nabbed him by his shoulders, and Aizawa bit his bottom lip hard to keep from lashing out in panic. His friend shook him twice before resting his fingers at the top of his shoulders, inches away from more bruises he knew would send him back to the nurse's office.
"Let's skip first period," he said, assertively.
His black-haired friend raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious?"
Hizashi nodded, lowering his hands. "Yeah. I'm serious. Let's just go sit outside or something."
Rationality spoke reason into his ears. Why skip class when he was there, it was a perfect waste of time and he only would have to make it up later. But his cheekbones throbbed, and he felt a tiny heartbeat behind his eye that made the pain intensify, and he couldn't give a damn what rationality said at that moment.
"Okay."
Hizashi cheered, this time grabbing him by his hand and running him down the hall so fast he nearly tripped on his feet. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. But his friend was happy. That was good enough for now.
He dragged him out to their favorite tree on campus, thick enough at the base that they could sit side by side and risk no exposure from the windows facing their direction. Hizashi let him sit down on his own before plopping down beside him, digging his phone out from his pocket. He was babbling on about music and artists and bands Aizawa couldn't keep up with, but he nodded his head and pretended to listen about as he shrugged off his jacket and worked on loosening his tie.
It was Hizashi's way of trying to make him feel better, by getting his mind off it; and when his friend produced one white left earbud to him, he took it wordlessly and slotted it into his ear. He stretched out his legs and leaned against the bark of the tree and ran his fingers through grass. It felt like jam, sticky with dew, and he rubbed his fingers to get rid of the feeling.
He always questioned Hizashi's taste in music—it was usually either too loud, too fast, or too complicated for him to appreciate—but this was different. He flashed his friend a look, and he grinned sheepishly, thumbing through his long list of songs on his phone.
"I decided to change up my music a little," he explained, and Aizawa watched names of music he's never even heard of let alone listened to blaze by on the screen before he tapped on one song, clicking the screen off before he could read it. "Just relax and enjoy, my listener."
The blond chuckled lightly and pressed his back to the tree so their shoulders touched, and Aizawa felt like he could fall asleep in the cradling arms of nature.
A guitar began to strum. He felt his eyelids grow heavy.
And then Hizashi started to sing.
"I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I'll never let you go…" He softly emulated, so softly Aizawa thought he might be speaking in his ear. "When all those shadows almost killed your light…"
Shadows. He had a lot of shadows, many of which he wished would never give him attention. He hated attention—it always became negative or resulted in something negative happening to him, whether it was a sound that drew the beast to his room or blunt word or lack thereof that damaged a friendship. But when he slowly leaned into his best friend shoulder, making him pause and forget the next line (I remembered you said don't leave me here alone), he realized not all attention was bad, if it was found in the right place.
"But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight."
Hizashi's attention was probably the only one he'd ever be comfortable with.
"Just close your eyes, the sun is going down…"
He did close his eyes before he realized it was just a song, before he realized the words weren't real. But his best friend always spoke to him through the lyrics.
"You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now…"
He shifted forward, his cheekbone brushing against Hizashi's shoulder with a small throb as the blond slipped an arm around his back and looped around his waist. It was more comfortable and warm—and Aizawa felt himself sinking away before he could hear the rest of the song, hearing the thrum of Hizashi's voice and the pounding of his heart instead.
"Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound…"
Aizawa woke up in the afternoon, the sun bowing respectfully beneath the trees of the horizon so only its dwindling rays phased over the treetops. He sat up slowly, the familiar ache drawing his limbs taunt against his body, and the hand he realized was on his waist fell away. He glanced at Hizashi, who was watching him, something unsaid brewing behind those eyes. Aizawa was almost afraid to know what it was, the pessimism of expecting everything to be bad once again washing over his attitude that at least, for a brief sleep, had been carried away.
"What time is it…" he mumbled softly, running a palm over his eyes, trying not to bump too hard against the bruises.
"It's around 6:30."
He dropped his hands to his lap. "You let me sleep through all our classes."
Hizashi scratched the back of his head. "Yeah. You looked so tired… and normally you don't take naps this long." It's true, as much as he hated to admit. "So I thought... 'Yeah, he really needs sleep', so I let you sleep for as long as you like."
He smiled softly at him and slowly rose to his feet, jutting a hand out to Aizawa, who took it and braced himself to be jerked onto his feet. He was reminded again of this boy, as loud and obnoxious as he always was, who came into his life and showed him that not all attention was bad when it was directed towards him—and with that thought in mind, he bent towards him and wrapped his arms around his torso, catching his friend off guard and in a full-on blush, accompanied by stuttering.
"S-shouta?" Hizashi asked suddenly, his arms raised just above him like he had turned into an octopus, and he didn't know what to do about it. Aizawa tilted his head to look up at him, before he slowly released him, stepping back a pace. Hizashi still kept his arms raised stupidly, and his blush was starting to bleed to his ears.
"What was that for?"
"To raise your blood pressure."
"Eh? Why!"
"Because it's funny."
Finally realizing he had control of his limps, he lowered them and pushed his black-haired friend playfully. "Shouta! That's not funny!"
Aizawa hid a small smile as he picked up his jacket from the ground, brushing off the grass and dirt it collected.
"Come on Hizashi. Let's go home," he said and slipped the uniform back on. He didn't necessarily know what he meant by home, but it was out there somewhere, beyond the walk from the train station. He turned on his heel and took two steps forward, stopping only when Hizashi snatched his hand.
He stared at the ground, still blushing from ear to ear, but he said firmly, "Come home with me tonight, Shouta."
The familiar disagreement. "I have homework to do."
Hizashi jerked his head up, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose so Aizawa could see the firm, green torrent building in his eyes.
"I promise," He asserted. "We'll do our homework together. Just, please. Come home with me tonight."
In his ears, Aizawa heard the faint echo of a guitar. He shook his head but stared back into his relenting eyes, the way his mouth screwed into a firm frown and how his eyebrows bunched together when he was truly serious. One day wouldn't kill him.
"Fine."
If only that was truly a metaphor, and not a reality, for Aizawa Shouta.
Night came, and Aizawa could not sleep. Hizashi clocked out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, and his black-haired friend had sunk beneath the covers on the pull-out futon for show; but now, he emerged frustratedly from them, stretching out his bare feet so they brushed against the cool wood floors.
Not one piece of wall was sacred from Hizashi's hands—even with the small filaments of light escaping through the crack of the curtains, he could see with the cool blue air the band posters plastered corner to corner on the walls, their bright colors dulled by the thick tangent of shadows.
Normally, Aizawa didn't mind spending the night at Hizashi's. The blond had insisted on it since his foot passed the entryway. After the eleventh "please Shouta", he finally resigned and agreed to it. Something was changing between the two of them, something that had been forming throughout the week, and he could feel a thread wrapping tightly around his heart. It was simple. He was scared. And when he balled his cold fingers into fists, he knew he would not, could not, sleep. Aizawa was never a night owl by nature, but years of conditioning trained his body to accept that night was the time to stay awake.
He kicked off the blanket and sighed, flopping back on the thin mattress. There wasn't much he could do, with Hizashi sleeping in the room. Usually, he resorted to reading or studying to pass the time, but now with neither of those options viable, his mind began to turn.
He thought back to English class, to the definition that waltz across his vision and remained, ever constant, ever-present as he went throughout his daily life to remind him at the least eventful times that life was just not as crystal coated as many wished it to be.
Abuse
verb
əˈbyo͞oz/
treat (a person or an animal) with cruelty or violence, especially regularly or repeatedly.
"riders who abuse their horses should be prosecuted"
Synonyms: mistreat, harm, damage.
It wasn't like Aizawa wouldn't call himself abused; he just wouldn't acknowledge the fact that the definition unnerving him was a perfect reflection of his life. Instead, he narrowed his mind to only think of his friend and the way things have changed between them since then.
He was scared, yes—the sinking feeling of his heart in a boat full of holes told him he was very afraid—but he was most afraid of losing the only friend he had ever made, to be again reclaimed by a fellow definition, loneliness.
But that's where they were heading. And it was thanks to the abuse.
"Shouta…?"
The sound of Hizashi's voice almost startled him. He didn't realize he had even stopped snoring, let alone rolled over to look over the side of the bed at him. Aizawa hummed in response, keeping his eyes on a lone guitar player hanging above their heads. Hizashi stretched one arm above his eyes before he scratched at his limp hair.
"Can't sleep...?" he asked, and Aizawa wanted to respond dryly what do you think. But he decided to take pity on his blond friend, who, for whatever reason, could not stand being awake after the sun went down.
"No," he replied.
His friend yawned and rolled onto his back, disappearing from his view, except for the limp hand he tossed over the side of the covers.
"The futon uncomfortable...?"
"The futon is fine. Go to sleep."
Hizashi tossed and turned a few times, nearly throwing his blanket on top of Aizawa below him, before he finally mumbled. "Come sleep in the bed..."
Aizawa raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"More comfortable."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. At least he could say his friend tried.
"My comfort level isn't what is affecting me, Hizashi. I just can't sleep," he said, dropping his gaze from the poster back towards the bed when his friend materialized back into view, rubbing his eyes and yawning again.
"Shoutaaaa…" Hizashi whined softly, repeatedly, until Aizawa sighed loudly and stood up. He pinched his friend after he caught sight of his sheepish grin, and he whined again as Aizawa climbed into the bed.
It felt no different than the futon; it actually made him a little more uncomfortable being completely aware of the individual sleeping next to him. Hizashi sensed it, whether from his silence or the fact that he scooted dangerously close to the edge because he sat up and wadded his blanket into his arms.
"What are you doing," Aizawa asked bluntly when his friend reached blindly over the side of the bed and produced his abandoned blanket.
"Got an idea…" He mumbled and smoothed out one of the blankets in the valley Aizawa made between them. Hizashi pointed to him and then the blanket. "Roll over."
His black-haired friend gave him a look before he slipped into the middle of the blanket. Hizashi pulled up the edges before placing the second blanket on top of that, tucking the edges beneath his body so he was enveloped in a soft cocoon that smelled like watermelon, a strange hallmark he had come to associate solely with his friend.
The blond flopped back onto the pillows, and within seconds, became dead to the world again, one finger still curled around a corner of the blanket. Aizawa stared up at the poster, of the lone player cradling his guitar to his chest, and before he could realize it, he was drifting off, overwhelmed by the warm sensation spread generously throughout his body.
Why can't every night be like this? Why can't every night feel so safe?
Because Aizawa felt like he had earned the abuse.
Part two to come in the next few days.
Soul Spirit
