AN: Welcome to my stress relief project! This fic is going to be fairly graphic in some places regarding trauma and panic/anxiety attacks. Especially in the first chapter. Other than that I hope you enjoy!
Also the title comes from the fact that forget me nots are blue and dabi has blue flames so it's sort of a pun? I guess?
Shouta Aizawa was a twenty-one year old underground pro hero. He had been at the gig for almost four years now-well, six if you counted his provisional years- and he thought he had seen some disturbing things. Human trafficking, quirk trafficking, underground fight clubs, drug epidemics, you name it he'd seen it. That night was about to be a different story.
It was the smell of something burning that drew Shouta to the scene. At first he didn't think much of it; probably just some homeless people trying to keep warm in the January night air. But it never hurt to check.
The last thing Shouta expected to see though was a smoking body laying in the alley.
Burning.
He was burning.
No, there was no fire. No blue or orange flashed beyond his eyelids, or heat pressing against his skin. But then why did he hurt so much? His nerves felt like they were exposed to the world, raw and frayed like rope. He would vomit from the pain if he had the energy to.
Something heavy hit the ground near him. He tried to open his eyes to see what, but they felt like they were sealed shut by glue.
Dried blood, his mind supplied. Or puss. Gross. He groaned to lament his disgust.
Somewhere above him someone muttered a soft "shit". And then there was a hand on his throat.
Immediately his eyes shot open, breaking apart whatever had held them down, and he found himself scrambling backwards despite the pain.
The scene in front of him wasn't familiar.
There was a man dressed in black with a grey scarf around his neck and yellow goggles on. They appeared to be in an alleyway, dirty puddles and open dumpsters running down the long grimy stretch.
"Relax, I was checking your pulse," the mystery man said. "You're injured."
Yeah no shit.
"W-who are you," he managed to rasp out. The question was followed by a vicious coughing fit, finding his throat to be drier than a desert. The man in front of him moved to help but he only shrunk further away.
"My name's Eraserhead," the man said patiently. "I'm a pro hero."
"NO!" he screamed. Adrenaline flooded his body and he found himself skittering back along the alleyway. Rough asphalt scraped his palms and he stumbled back onto his butt. He had to get away. pros were bad, they couldn't be trusted, they were fakes, they were liars, they-
Something ensnared his torso and he fell over from the halted momentum.
"Calm down, kid!" The man- Eraserhead- exclaimed.
But he couldn't. He had to get away, he had to get away he had to-
He threw up.
Distantly, he heard the pro hero hiss out a curse. He would have done the same if not for the bile in his mouth.
"I know you're scared but you're in no condition to be wandering the streets like that You're safe."
"Adults lie," he spat in response. "I can take care of myself."
"The shitty ones," Eraserhead agreed, still keeping his distance. "Then why were you passed out in an alley?"
He had no response to that. A pregnant pause followed, wherein the hero slowly loosened his capture weapon (which is what had bound him and made him fall) until he could sit up on his own.
"What's your name?" Eraserhead asked.
He opened his mouth to respond, but stopped. Nothing came to his mind. A cold chill washed down his spine in realization.
"I don't- I don't know," he choked out. Then, louder, "I don't know!"
Panic welled up in him, he could feel the heat of tears forming behind his eyes. Why didn't he remember his name. Why didn't he remember how he got here? Why didn't he remember anything!
"I don't know my name!"
"Hey, kid, it's okay," Eraserhead tried to reassure, stepping towards him. "We can take you to the hospital, and they'll be able to help"
Logically he agreed, but the second the word "hospital" had left the pros mouth, panic was already surging through him.
"NO!" He screeched. "Not the hospital please don't make me go, please!"
Breaths were coming faster now, his limbs starting to tremble uncontrollably. He couldn't go there. He couldn't. It was a bad place, a really bad place. He couldn't do it, please don't make him do it!
His head was starting to feel floaty. The alleyway was growing dimmer too.
"Breathe, kid!"
When had Eraserhead gotten above him. And why was he on the ground?
"Kid, I swear to god," the pro muttered.
"I can't-" he gasped. "I can't-"
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe and he couldn't control his body. He was freezing and hot and everything hurt and he couldn't stop trembling and he didn't know where he was or remember his own name and his hands were getting really hot oh god was that smoke what was happening-
"I'm sorry," was all he heard before the heat disappeared from his hands and his world fell black.
AN: I hope you enjoyed it! Remember to wash you're hands!