Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or MHA

Rating: T

Warnings: hospitals, description of injuries (it's all Shōta again)

Words: 7,573

Notes: Welcome back everyone! And to new readers, welcome! Let me first say that I am absolutely delighted and overwhelmed by all of your feedback. Your comments literally make my days when I read them and encourage me to keep going, especially when my mental health is not good. Even just keysmashing lets me know you enjoyed my fic. I have never written for MHA and have only written one Bleach oneshot before this, so thank you so, so much for your interest in my fic.

Second, *rubs author hands together* I have a super fun part at the end that I'm excited for you all to read. No, I will not explain. Also, I kinda proofread this. If you see any typos or the like, no you didn't lol.

Unrelated, but I am proud to announce that I finished my master's program! I will be graduating in a bit over a week!

Enjoy, and let me know what you guys think!

Chapter: 4) A Late Phone Call and Cracking Glass

Saturday, April 27, 2X75

It was Saturday morning when Shōta was discharged from the hospital.

He was conscious for only part of it.

Although he had woken up earlier in the week, he had been thoroughly exhausted between the surgeries, Recovery Girl's Quirk, and his body just generally trying to heal itself. He'd seen several doctors, Yuki-san, and a physical therapist. He's gotten pamphlets of aftercare information that he'd barely absorbed and that Hizashi had to take over since Shōta had trouble paying attention and staying awake.

The discharge was done in quick stages. They had to go over all the aftercare with him—thank you Hizashi—then go through the paperwork of signing him out. After that, he needed help getting back into his own clothes because his arms were still wrapped up and hurting to use properly. Oh, how he missed the smell of home on his clothes. Once dressed and items packed, he was wheeled to the entrance of the hospital, and it was sometime between being wheeled from his room to sitting in the passenger seat of Hizashi's car already on the way home that he had fallen asleep.

It was disorientating to wake up confused about his location, but he was able to quickly put together the order of events. Grogginess made his body heavy as he turned (read: flopped) his head in Hizashi's direction in the driver's seat.

He asked him what happened, but all that came out was a very intelligible and articulate, "Hrnghh."

Hizashi snorted, glancing at him before turning his eyes back to the road. "Hello, my dear sleeping beauty! Are you finally in the land of the conscious for good?"

For good?

Oh right.

A groan left his mouth as Shōta had to resist rubbing his sore eyes. (He knew they were healed, but the irrational fear of him accidentally causing more damage to them by touching them wouldn't go away.) He cleared his throat. "How long was I out?" They didn't appear to be too far from their home.

Hizashi turned right down a street to merge onto an oncoming ramp. "Since we got you into the car, I'd saaaay about twenty minutes. Though, I'm not sure how awake you were when we were getting you discharged, yo. But hey, what better time to sleep than now, yeah?"

Shōta hummed. Even with all the sleeping he had been doing, he still felt so freaking exhausted. To the point where he was sure if he crawled into his yellow sleeping bag, he wouldn't wake up for another week. The bone-deep tiredness that accompanied being sick, being injured, or both. Pain still radiated all over his body, but it wasn't to the extreme degree it had been before. (And watch, now that he said that the universe was going to prove him wrong.) He wasn't looking forward to all of the nerve pain he was positive he was going to have,

"…Want to sleep for a week."

"I know, I know." Hizashi lifted one of Shōta's bandaged hands with his free one to kiss his knuckles. "The doctors gave you a good timeline when you can return to your duties, but I don't want you returning before you're ready." This was coupled with a pointed look.

Shōta didn't make eye contact. "Hm, no promises."

"Shō!"

"What?"

"Oh my god, Shōta no."

"Shōta yes."

Hizashi groaned, hunching over the steering wheel as they waited for the light to change. They were about two blocks from their place. "Why are you like this?" Was that desperation Shōta heard?

He grinned. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"If you push yourself and end up hurting yourself, I'm revoking all of your Doctor Jelly Pouch privileges."

Shōta gasped, then glared at his husband. (Hizashi would later tell him that the glare was made less effective thanks to his mummy appearance.) "You wouldn't. You know why I eat those!"

Now, Shōta was the one in the relationship that liked to fuck with people. From intimidating assholes to scaring his students with his logical ruses. This time, it was Hizashi that looked like that cat that caught the canary—even though his appearance always made him look like a blonde canary. A wide, radio host grin split open on his face. That, coupled with the severely devious eyebrow game he had going on, he looked truly off the rails. "Just. You. Watch," his eyes got wider with each word as if to punctuate his threat.

He's been spending far too much time with me for his face to look like that. His dumb…handsome…really beautiful face—focus Shōta!

Well, well, well, two could play that game. "If you steal my Doctor Jellies, I'm stealing all your hair gel."

It was impressive how much control Hizashi had over his Quirk for all that he looked like he wanted to scream and shatter the windows. "Don't touch my hair gel, I need that!"

Even with his exhaustion, they quickly descended into familiar banter. It was comforting, pseudo-arguing about absolutely ridiculous nonsense with his husband like this. Neither of them was truly threatening the other—although with what happened to Shōta, he might actually be serious—and their back and forth was something that Shōta could do in his sleep. Which, in fact, he had done before. Snipe here, poke there, he would always prefer arguing about dumb shit with 'Zashi than being stuck in that damn hospital.

The anxiety ants were no longer crawling under his skin and bones, having buried themselves deep within Shōta, silent for now. Settled, but not gone.

It took them about five or so minutes to finally get home.

Hizashi helped him out of the seat and to his feet. He used the car to lean on as Hizashi got his went ahead to unlock the front door. Shōta took the opportunity to look at the car he was learning on. It was an American-made 2X60 model Ford Mustang, sleek black with red accents. (Hizashi had told Shōta it had reminded him of Shōta and he fell in love with it ever since that day. "All black and red like that, it's super sexy-looking Shō! Just like you!") Hizashi had it imported from the United States over ten years ago after a visit in the States with the only family member he kept in contact with, Cousin Meryl. At first Shōta had been hesitant with Hizashi's decision to buy it, thinking it would cost a fortune that would bankrupt them both. As it turned out, Hizashi got it used from an older person who was more than willing to part with it as they had not been able to care of it any longer. The older person had taken immaculate care of it. After saving a lot of money from all three of his jobs (plus the money Hizashi had told him he had been saving since his last year in UA), Hizashi was able to get it shipped to Japan.

The car was almost like 'Zashi's baby. Well cared for, glossy to the point of being reflective, and surprisingly comfortable inside. (If they had more than one makeout session on the soft leather seats, no one had to know….Or any times they had gotten frisky.) The Mustang, lovingly named Meicchan because it reminded him of his cousin, was such an integrated part of their lives that it always threw Shōta off whenever he didn't see it parked when Hizashi had to get maintenance on it.

Meicchan was part of his and Hizashi's shared history, and maybe there were still a lot of drugs in his system that were making him nostalgic about his relationship due to a car. He let out a soft laugh.

"Oi, Shō! Don't fall asleep on me now. I'm coming to help you inside!"

His own soap, clothes, cats, and bed were practically calling to him.

"Hai, hai."

Shōta had been sleeping like the dead—not dead, he wasn't killed, the monster didn't kill him—for three hours so far. One black furry nugget guarding the back of his neck and one purring minicar a sentinel against his back.

After Hizashi had helped him take his medication, go through his aftercare routine packet, and get him into clothes that didn't smell like hospital, the cats had claimed their stake on his husband. It wasn't that they didn't want to be near Hizashi, but Susu and Kioku were smart and could sense that Shōta was in pain and not feeling well. They had quickly plastered themselves to Shōta and that was that.

Hizashi himself was working on fumes. Between the stress of nearly losing his husband, taking over Shōta's homeroom for a few days, maintaining his English classes, actually doing his night show one shift instead of having his interns cover for him (he'd give them each a little extra on their upcoming paychecks), and keeping up with the information of the USJ incident, he felt like is he looked at a pillow for too long that he was going to fall asleep face first. A look back to their bedroom only made him want to join Shōta in bed.

But, as always, there was work that had to be done first.

He made a compromise with himself. He would not go sleep with Shōta, but he would be kind to himself and sit on the couch instead of the kitchen table.

Right now, it was about three in the afternoon, the clear sun pouring through their tiny kitchen window. Their apartment was located on the second floor, so although their view of the outside world was small, it gave them the height advantage to see above several other buildings. (And for Shōta to climb in and out of like he was that American comic book hero, Spider-Man. Just with less red and blue and almost all black. With that tiny smidge of yellow, of course.)

He went through his mental checklist of what he had to do. First and foremost was Shōta's health. They had good insurance through their jobs, plus UA was going to fully cover any medical expenses as it was a work-related incident. (A little too soon to joke, but Hizashi knew Shōta well enough that he was going to start hearing worker's comp jokes sooner rather than later.)

Next were appointments. Hizashi already scheduled Shōta's check-up with the doctor this coming Wednesday after school hours. Shōta had talked to the doctor about appointments this morning as Hizashi was helping him get ready to be discharged, but the poor man had been so tired that he had begun to drift mid-conversation. So it had been up to Hizashi to take care of the rest. Not that he minded.

Shōta was on several medications. A high-strength pain reliever for a few days after his surgery. Max time he was supposed to use them was five days with tapering dose strength and taken with food to mitigate nausea. It had a possibility of being addictive, so the doctor was very adamant in making them understand the number of days and dosage. (Pain reliever addiction was not an unfamiliar thing within the Hero community. Several heroes have gotten addicted to them—not even on purpose—simply by the nature of the job. Putting one's body on the line every day was hard, and sometimes injuries required more powerful drugs than a simple aspirin or acetaminophen.) One of his other medications was an anti-inflammatory to be used once a day for a week. Lastly, he was prescribed an as-needed pain reliever and a new blend of eyedrops that were stronger than his usual ones.

He sighed. I still can't believe this happened. Our security is supposed to be one of the best in the country! He took off his glasses to rub his eyes. Students were in danger. Shōta almost died! This can't ever happen again. We need that meeting ASAP.

Nezu had wanted to have a joint meeting between UA staff and faculty and the police once Shōta woke up so that they not only would get the full picture with Shōta's input, but to have Shōta updated and caught up to speed without missing anything, too. Hizashi already called Nezu earlier today on the way home from the hospital while Shōta had been asleep in the car. The update was quick. Nezu was audibly relieved to hear about Shōta's condition, and he informed Hizashi that since Shōta was awake and (somewhat) moving, the meeting would take place on Monday.

Honestly, the sooner the better. Hizashi hated waiting for things, and a meeting like this couldn't come sooner. Maybe then they would get a better understanding of the USJ incident and how to prevent it. The more he thought about it, the more he suspected something that, frankly, made his stomach turn. UA activities were only shared with the public when there were public events such as the Sports Festival or Cultural Festival. Class activities, schedules, and teacher schedules were shared through the UA intranet that only UA workers had access to. Sensitive information like that…

There had to have been a leak. Someone must have sold out information for the Villains to have details like that!

Several swears in both Japanese and English spilled from his mouth. Who would do such a thing? Many of the faculty and staff were alumni, and even those who were not alumni loved their jobs. They loved the students, even the more troublesome ones, and all teachers knew that they would do anything to protect their own students and each other's students. An incident like this had put the students in direct danger. New students, at that, who had no previous experience fighting Villains. Few students had combat training. Even the ones who came from Hero families who already had some training would not be prepared for a Villain attack such as USJ.

Thinking about it all left a sour taste in his mouth. Sucking on a lemon would have been more pleasant.

But, thinking about it also brought to mind one variable no one had information about.

Kurosaki Ichigo.

Victim or threat? Threat or victim? Hizashi still was leaning heavily on victim.

Kurosaki had been unconscious for several days now. Mystery surrounded the man like a heavy curtain, and the curtain wouldn't be raised until he awoke. Could he have been part of the Villains breaking in? Hizashi didn't think so as several of the students and All Might conveyed that Kurosaki had been confused about the situation and fought alongside All Might to stop the Villains. Plus, again, he had no idea who All Might was. That didn't scream Villain to Hizashi.

Kurosaki had come from one of Kurogiri's warp gates. Perhaps he had information on the Villain's previous locations. Although he seemed ignorant of All Might and who the Villains were, perhaps he could have been near the Villains' previous locations. Swept up by Kurogiri's Quirk, in a way.

Or maybe this has to do more with Kurogiri than Kurosaki? Are we looking at this from the wrong angle? Unbeknownst to the public, Hizashi was actually smarter than he let on. This was purposeful. A way of using his different personas to take control of whatever narrative he needed. On more than one occasion, he had heard people comment that he must be spacey and 'not have a lot going on up there' due to the boisterous, loud, cheerful way he presented himself to the public. They forgot that he was a Pro Hero who often needed to think on his feet; an educator who needed emotional, scholastic, and social smarts to foster a good environment for the students; and a professional DJ and radio personality who had been running his own business for several years. Idiocy was not an accurate adjective to describe him.

But, he was more than fine letting others think what they wanted of him.

It only made him more dangerous when he stopped playing nice.

He blinked, then laughed. "I sound more and more like Shōta every damn day." They had been married for like a decade now. And what was it that they said about married couples? That they began to look and sound like each other the longer they were married? Odd between him and Shōta, but it made sense. Even before they had gotten married, they had dated for a few years and were together at UA. A long time would be an understatement at this point.

He reached into his shirt and pulled out the necklace he had on. His thumb and forefinger rubbed at the ring looped on the necklace absently, having done so at least a thousand times throughout their marriage. The band was blue-tinted silver with a golden sun with swirly rays radiating from the center. Inside, the inscription of, 'To the sun that brightens my entire life,' always rested pleasantly on his finger when he wore his ring on his hand when he was full civilian. (Solid civilian days were rare, so he only switched it to his hand when he was absolutely sure no one was going to need him. Otherwise, it stayed on his necklace.)

He had cried when Shōta proposed to him…both because it was utterly sweet, totally Shōta, and in laughter because Hizashi had the ring he had been going to propose to Shōta to right in his pocket!

Then Hizashi had made Shōta laugh at the whole thing then cry when he bent down and proposed to him. Shōta expressed his emotions in private and was rather tame about them…most of the time, so to see him happy and laughing and crying like that was one of the brightest memories in Hizashi's mind.

Shōta always wore his wedding ring on a sleek chain around his neck, too nervous that it was going to get lost or damaged with their lifestyle. It didn't bother Hizashi at all, he knew the risks. Shōta's ring that Hizashi had slid on his finger that day was a dark gray alloy, almost black. The band was thick but had a clear ring around the center that displayed brilliant green metal leaves blooming from the center then wrapping around the whole ring. He and Shōta must have been really sharing the brain cell that day, because to match the inscription on Hizashi's ring, the one on Shōta read, 'To my whole world who keeps me grounded every day.'

It was sappy and incredibly gay and Hizashi absolutely adored it. Even now, ten years later, there were still days he read the inscription over and over and over again.

Ah, but enough reminiscing. His job did not do itself simply because it was the weekend. "Alright, Hizashi," he pumped himself up. "Burn through this schoolwork and then you can be free!'

He had quizzes to grade, updated lesson plans to make—sue him, he was behind—and find a few videos he could show to his different English classes to help them on the upcoming units this week. Most of his students in the various classes did well, although his year three students were struggling.

"Hmm, I'm going to have to revisit how I taught this, then." It was one thing if a few students struggled with a quiz. It was totally different when a whole class struggled with it. That meant there was something about how he taught it that wasn't making the information stick or understood. A pang of frustration at himself made itself known.

With that, he settled into a familiar routine of getting himself ready for the week: grading and lessons plans.

On the bright side, he was happy to see that Kaminari did better on this quiz than on the practice quiz he had given him to prepare. Hizashi noticed rather quickly that the little lightning listener struggled with written coursework, so had inquired about any dyslexia. Kaminari hadn't been sure—they still had to test him to be positive—but Hizashi had gone ahead and tweaked the way Kaminari could turn in his homework and take the quiz. That, and the ADHD had going on…well, Hizashi was just glad he caught onto his student's educational difficulties earlier than later.

Bakugō's essay had a surprisingly good narrative but quite a few grammar mistakes, while conversely, Tokoyami's had limited vocabulary, but had good spelling and grammar. Very odd, but pretty stellar that he used a lot of 'darkness' and 'banquet' in his essay. (Hizashi never even had 'banquet' as a word on their vocab lists.) Jirō's short essay on the test was simple, but she was clear in her message about her favorite music. A few points were taken off for spelling, but he wrote her a side note to come see him if she was interested in music in heroics. Hizashi got a good rhythm grading the essays for Shōta's class. Some were full of purple marks (he one hundred percent believed that red marks on a paper caused a lot of stress) while others only had a few. Midoriya's was…a lot. But not in a bad way! The little listener clearly practiced writing his English if the little notes the kid jotted down on the sides of the quiz paper were any indicator. Hizashi only took a point off as Midoriya had gotten off-topic a bit. But he did write him a note on his excellent verb conjugation and narrative.

The second years took longer. Even though the year had just started, Hizashi had always made it a point to not let his students slack off. Sure he gave them free time to unwind, but when it came to studying and exams, he kept them sharp. Gotta have that good balance! Right now, they were working on more advanced verb conjugations and an expanded vocabulary since the term just started. He was hella jazzed to see that all of them did well. One student was struggling with a few verbs in particular, but he wrote a few notes that would help her clarify it for next time.

It helped that they were smart and took advantage of the extra credit video he had told them about a few days before the quiz.

For the third years, it was a mixed bag. Oh, his third years.

All of them got over seventy percent, but not many got over ninety. With the third years, he was covering translations. They would be getting into much more complicated literature later in the term, but this first week was just short passages of some short stories he pulled from various textbooks he had in his office. They all got the gist of the context, but many of them hadn't kept up with the practices he had suggested working on at the end their second year. He could tell by their spelling and tenses. Additionally, a handful of students had redundant adjectives as if they didn't know any more than the few they had used.

He frowned. This was one of the frustrating things that came with the territory of being a teacher. He could provide all the help and information for his students to improve, but it was ultimately up to them to put in the work. He'd have to make an announcement to them on Monday about it. Pulling up the browser on his laptop, he copied links to a few sites that had English practices quizzes and test prep meant for their year level. Then he drafted an announcement to put on the class's page that had his expectations, some of the things they had missed, and the links to the sites. He's post it later, but he knew none of them would read it yet.

First week of school? Please, those kids were not doing any extra work on a weekend. Even if it was checking the class page.

He rolled his eyes, fond but oh so tired. He couldn't even be mad. He was the same in his third year at the beginning of the term: Monday through Friday was school, and the weekend was everything but school.

He'd give them another quiz in about two weeks to see where they were. If they hadn't improved, he'd give some more extra credit via translating a twenty-minute short film. Hopefully that would keep them interested enough to improve.

And speaking of videos, he wanted to find an educational one for the first years to—

Meow.

Meow?

Hizashi blinked and looked around for the noise. Oh. Lo and behold, there was Kioku plodding himself out from their bedroom looking oddly satisfied. Wow, his eyes flicked to the time on his laptop, that must have been a quick nap for it to be five thirty—

He did a double-take.

"Five thirty?!" He rubbed his eyes as if that would change the numbers staring at him. Nope, still there. "How in the hell is it that late already?"

Had he really spent over three and a half hours grading?

He maneuvered himself and stretched, wincing then sighing in relief when his back cracked like a pretzel. Yeesh, he was getting old.

Kioku meowed again, wrapping that thick tail of his around Hizashi's leg. Hizashi stood up, stretching out his legs then leaning down to pet the Maine Coon. Kioku pushed his big head into Hizashi's head and closed his eyes. "Aww, you just wanted some attention, didn't you? I suppose being asleep with Shōta doesn't count as getting attention on your part, huh?"

He was rewarded with a chirp. Hizashi laughed.

Just as he walked into the kitchen, movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye. The little black fuzzball that was Susu was slowly inching her way out of their bedroom like she was still half asleep. Did they not want to stay with Shōta any longer? Their cats, as much as they liked to play, loved to sleep equally as much if not more. When either one of them was sick or hurt, both cats wanted to stay around them.

He got his answer when he saw Shōta creeping out of their bedroom behind Susu. When they had got home, Hizashi had helped him into some comfy black sweatpants and an oversized dark charcoal-gray t-shirt that was easy to move around in. Dark hair was ruffled from sleep, sections going this way and that. He was still covered in bandages so Hizashi couldn't see his eyes from the angle he was petting Kioku from, but if he had any guess, they were probably closed. Like Susu, he still looked half asleep.

"Well, good morning, sleeping beauty," he greeted as he stood up again. He rested his hand on the small of Shōta's back to make sure he didn't run into a wall before guiding him to the couch. "How are you feeling?"

Shōta cleared his throat before answering. "...Same-ish, but less tired. Need meds." He seemed to be mulling something over and Hizashi watched him blink slowly. "Did-Did I really sleep till morning?"

"Oh, no, no. Sorry, I was being facetious. It's five-thirty."

"Hn."

With a fond shake of his head, Hizashi once again made his way into the kitchen, allowing Shōta to get his bearings. He got the cats squared away with food and fresh water before starting his and Shōta's dinner. After setting their small wok on the stove, he checked the fridge. There was some leftover rice. Hmmm, some fried rice sounded good. Shōta wouldn't be able to eat something with a lot of oil, so Hizashi would make sure to use only a little. He slipped into the motions of making dinner, the calmness of the process making him comfortable.

Idly, he began to hum an English song from a new band he had heard on the radio recently. Chill, nice rhythm with some R&B vibes. It matched the slow but methodical movements of making some food. Lightly oil the pan and dump the rice in. Heat. Toss, toss, toss. Throw in some veggies, then add an egg. Toss, toss, toss. (Long hum on a low-key note, three-quarter time. Low note, high-high-low. Slow crooning hum.)

Foot tap-tap, foot tap-tap-tap. Daaa-dum, da-da-Da-dadada-daaa. Lower the heat, toss the rice once more.

He clicked off the stove and plated their food. Shōta's got put in a butter-yellow bowl and his was in a maroon one. Turning around with a bowl in each hand, he said in his best restaurant waiter voice, "Alrighty, one one-course meal of the highest caliber! Japan's best, Throw-Stuff-In-A-Wok Yamada-style fried rice!" He stopped in place when he turned fully.

Shōta was looking at him with such a soft look that it made the breath in his chest stutter. A small smile easing his lips, the dark eyes he fell in love with were fixed on him like there was nothing else to pay attention to. Even under all those bandages, face partially obscured, Hizashi could easily tell the expression on his face. They'd been married for almost a decade, but nonetheless, it made heat rise to Hizashi's cheeks. "S- Shō?"

His voice broke Shōta out of whatever was going on in his head. He watched him close his eyes and shake his head just so, that smile still on his face. When he looked back up at Hizashi, he tilted his head. "Do you know," he began quietly, "what I think about every day?"

Ever curious, Hizashi settled himself next to Shōta after depositing their dinner on the coffee table. (Comfort was a priority tonight, so no eating at the dinner table tonight.) "I could guess cats, but I feel like that's not really what you're going for."

Shōta reached up and brushed some of Hizashi's long blonde bangs from his face. Even through the bandages, he could feel the warmth from his hand. "Well, cats would be the correct answer, but you're wrong."

"Hm, you going to tell me, or am I going to have to start a guessing game tonight?"

"No, no," Shōta was playing with Hizashi's hair at this point, and he wasn't going to lie, it felt really nice. "Every day," he cleared his throat. "Every day I look at you, and…I just feel so fortunate to be married to you. I love that you're just so authentically you, 'Zashi. You…you just have this way of being yourself that I'm so lucky to see. Your voice, the little things you do," he put the hand not fiddling with Hizashi's hair over his, "it makes me love you even more. I don't say it enough—" lies, yes he did, "but I want you to know how much you mean to me."

Now, it really was time for Hizashi to blush. And hard, too. "A-Ah, jeeze, warn a guy, won't you!" He turned away to fan his face a little, an almost nervous smile playing on his own face. No, not nervous—embarrassed. There was nothing to be embarrassed about, but his husband talking like this…

"Should I have lied?"

"No! But, ahhhhh, Shōōōōō!" he whined, hiding his face into Shōta's neck.

"What's wrong? I thought radio DJs were used to compliments."

Smart ass. "Just shut up, and eat your dinner, yo."

With that, they shared a comfortable time with each other as they ate. Shōta struggled getting his meds opened—nerve damage would do that—so Hizashi helped him get them out the bottles. One high-strength pain reliever and one anti-inflammatory. Hizashi finished his food faster than Shōta, so he filled the space by recalling everything that had happened thus far while Shōta had been in the hospital. How Kurosaki had saved him and his students, to begin.

"You never told me that," Shōta said. They were still smushed against each other, not having drawn far apart after Hizashi had lifted his face from Shōta's neck for them to eat.

"Really? I could have sworn I had?"

"No," Shōta shook his head before tilting it, "I heard about Kurosaki saving my students and almost fighting All Might—which is still weird to think about—but nothing about me like that."

Hizashi held his hand, rubbing his thumb across the knuckles. Kurosaki was still an enigma, but thanks to him, he was able to hold his husband's hand again like this. "My bad. Yeah…Like I said before, the students said that Kurosaki asked them who was friend and who was foe. This was mostly about All Might, but once he knew, he was able to get you to safety. Didn't even know you or the students, but basically went headfirst into the whole mess." He lifted Shōta's hand to kiss the back of it.

Memories of Shōta's smashed face, broken bones, blood all over him…It made Hizashi swallow back bile hard. I almost became a widower…we're only thirty.

They were quiet for a moment, heavy thinking on both their parts. The crunchy and wet sounds of Kioku and Susu eating could be heard.

Shōta squeezed his hand. "Stop thinking so hard."

"I didn't say anything."

"I can hear you thinking. Don't dwell on it before you catch your brain and that pretty hair of yours on fire."

He smiled. "Aww, you think my hair is pretty?"

"'Zashi."

"Alright, alright. No thinking so hard, got it."

With warning thoroughly given, he talked about how the other faculty was concerned about his well-being. All Might had left him a big bouquet of flowers on his desk in the teacher's office. Nem had been texting Hizashi for updates every day. Nezu was up to date on Shōta's status, both through Hizashi and the medical staff, but Hizashi could tell that he was upset this happened to one of his teachers. Now that Shōta was awake, things could get rolling. He mentioned the meeting that was supposed to take place on Monday, and, lastly, how his class had been asking about him every day.

"You know, your students do care about you," he said, taking a sip of his water.

Shōta made a noise akin to surprise. "I've only been teaching them for a short time. I don't know why they would care so much." Hizashi watched him pluck the carrots from his rice to the side of his bowl. Shōta liked to eat them last for some reason.

Hizashi almost rolled his eyes. Typical Shōta downplaying his own importance to others. "You're their sensei, Shō. Of course they would be concerned about you!"

"Hm. If you say so."

"If I say—Yes, I say so! Here, I'll show ya!" Before Shōta could say another word, he popped off the couch and dove into his leather work bag that he had slung over one of the kitchen chairs. He didn't have to dig long to find what he wanted. "Ah-hah!"

Shōta couldn't turn his head quickly, so he waited for Hizashi to come back to the couch to ask, "Should I be concerned?" he drawled.

"No, look!" Hizashi shoved what he had gotten out of his bag in front of Shōta, making sure to give him enough space so he didn't have to jerk back his head. The brown paper of the envelope crinkled between his fingers.

A little quirk played on his husband's lips. "Is it going to blow up? Should I make another trip to the hospital?"

"Shōta, I'm this close to smacking you with this thing."

"Ah you would further injure your husband? I'm calling Nemuri and telling her you're abusing me."

"Shō!"

"Alright, alright," Shōta chuckled as he took what Hizashi was giving him in his bandaged hands. "I'll take some pity on you since you've been so nice to me for the past couple…of…"

He watched as Shōta trailed off as he slowly opened the large brown paper envelope that was protecting what was inside. In Shōta's hands was a large handmade card that the entire class of 1-A got together to make and/or sign. (And yes, even Bakugō had contributed with a signature above his line of, 'Don't fucking die.') Hizashi had seen the thing before he found an envelope to keep it safe, and he had to admit, for a rambunctious bunch of teenagers, they did a pretty good job.

It even had a black cat on the front that was drawn laying in what was a good approximation of Shōta's signature yellow sleeping bag.

Shōta was quiet for a while after he trailed off.

"You okay there?"

There was a telling clearing of his throat before he answered. "…I…I'll give them one easy day this week."

That was Shōta Aizawa-speak for 'Wow, I'm touched. I must show my gratitude somehow.' Hizashi was well versed in the language, a lone expert, he might even say. Nem was a close second.

They were both startled by the ringing of his phone. It was almost eight in the evening now. Hizashi wasn't due at the station tonight in order to watch over Shōta, and most people knew not to call him this late as he was either working on UA stuff, on the rarer night patrol, or at the station. Any local emergencies that came through the Hero Network had a specified alert tone, and the one that sounded from his phone was not that.

When he looked at the screen, he was surprised to see it was Nezu. Hizashi showed Shōta the screen.

They exchanged a confused look as Hizashi answered, "Moshi, moshi?"

Nezu was in his office late this evening to get some work done.

The USJ incident had set everyone on high alert, and rightfully so. Even with the security footage they were able to recover, they were still not able to determine how the Villains were able to enter the campus. Not only that but how they even knew the class was going to be there at that exact date and time was irritatingly unclear. Nezu prided himself on his intelligence. His High Specs allowed him to outthink circles around many people, but it also came with its own drawbacks. Because his mind worked overtime nearly all the time, it allowed him to jump from logical conclusion to logical conclusion faster than even he was sometimes comfortable with.

And one such logical conclusion was one he did not like in the slightest.

There had to be a traitor in UA.

UA security was one of the highest in the country save for Tartarus. Although they were a school, Nezu himself had revamped the security system when he had become principal of the school. The security of the campus was meant to protect students, and digital and internal security was meant to protect privacy and security. There had never been a leak in sensitive UA information in its entire existence.

With the call he received earlier about Aizawa's release, he would plan a meeting for all faculty and staff for Monday. A possible traitor in their midst was another topic to add onto everything else that needed to be discussed: the breach, the wellness of the students now and for the future, and one Kurosaki Ichigo.

But that was work for Monday. Tonight, he was satisfied enough with his work to go home.

As Nezu exited his office, the black blades spread out on the floating platform shook, rattling in the clear case they were in. Then it stopped.

Human ears would not have heard from how far they would have been walking away from the office.

It was good that Nezu wasn't human then.

About half a minute after the noise stopped, Nezu leaned his head back into his office. Dark, quick eyes surveyed the room for anything that was unfamiliar. Anything that would have made such a noise. His papers were in place, the computer turned off for the night, and pens and other writing utensils sitting still in their metal cups. Everything was orderly and proper.

He hummed and tilted his ears to try and pinpoint the noise. "What—"

The rattling sounded again, catching Nezu's attention immediately.

Kurosaki's swords were shaking, vibrating in their case with rising intensity.

"Oh my, what do we have here?"

At this point, the vibrations were so intense that the swords were clattering against the case. More intense by the second, cracks soon began to appear in the clear case. Crack, crack, crack went the glass, sharp and loud in Nezu's sensitive ears.

The more animalistic part of himself, raw and instinct, was yelling at him to get away. Danger, danger, danger, it roared. His fur stood on end.

The mesh cage on his desk that housed the purple and black butterflies that they had discovered on Kurosaki's person seemed to shake just a moment. Barely seen to a human, but noticeable to him. The four butterflies inside flew around in distress. Their wings flapped madly as if they were in panic.

He took several measured steps back. Once he was close enough to his desk, he shielded himself behind with just enough room to peek out and watch. More and more cracks formed into white spiderwebs in the glass. Faster and faster until the case was no longer see-through. There was something foreign that was making the air feel heavy. Like some kind of energy was being exuded from all the spiderweb cracks in the case. An extension to Kurosaki's Quirk?

Nezu hadn't felt this before.

Whatever was going on with Kurosaki's swords, Nezu had a strong hunch that there was something happening to their owner as well. Weapons did not just move and radiate energy like this. Didn't make him want to bare his teeth and hide away. Or fight with his claws.

He adjusted himself properly back behind the desk. Whipping out his phone from his pocket, he hit the "2" key, bringing up one of the numbers he had on speed dial.

It was a tense few moments as he listened to the ringing, and he felt a modicum of relief when he heard Yamada pick up the phone. [Moshi, moshi?]

Normally he would make pleasantries and chat with Yamada for a bit before getting to business what with his former student's cheery attitude, but he did not have that kind of time. "Yamada-kun. Apologies for calling so late, but I have an emergency I need you to attend to."

[E-Emergency? Nezu-kōchō, what happened?] He could hear the clink of dishes in the background and felt a stab of guilt for interrupting what must have been dinner time. (1)

He interjected urgency in his tone. "Kurosaki. His swords are shaking and radiating some kind of energy. I can't see any visual signal of the energy yet other than the case the swords are being held in cracking. I have a bad feeling, so please, I need you to check on Kurosaki in the hospital." As he said this, he heard another loud crack. He didn't turn around from the desk.

[Me?] Hizashi sounded rather surprised. [His swords? What—I? Don't you think—hold on Shō—someone like All Might is better for this sort of thing?]

Shōta was still awake, hm? "All Might is currently occupied in a Villain incident in Fukushima-ken—" (2)

Nezu had to hold the phone a bit away from his ear when Yamada yelled, [All the way up there?!] followed by Aizawa's, ['Zashi, Voice!]

"He's in Fukushima-ken dealing with a Villain incident at Fukushima Prefectural Museum of Art. He is too far away to be of any help here, and you have already been looking after Kurosaki. I trust you with this, Yamada-kun," he spoke quickly, though not unkindly. "Kurosaki has seen and rescued Aizawa-kun, so if he is awake and sees someone close to Aizawa-kun, he might be calmed more than seeing a stranger."

He was about to say more, but his fur stood even more on end—if that was possible—as he sensed the strange, foreign energy put pressure into the air. He took a breath. "Quickly, if you could, please." It wasn't a request, but he knew his employees knew how he was and when he was serious."

Not five seconds later did he hear, [I'll be there ASAP, kōchō. I—Shōta, no you're still—Oh my god, you can't do—] There was a brief pause and a sigh, then, [We'll be there.]

"That's all I ask, Yamada-kun. I will alert the local police to…be aware that an American Mustang is part of official UA and Hero business." AKA: Speeding is okay because they'll know and ignore you. "And that the hospital should prep a wheelchair."

[Aye-aye!]

Zangetsu—Slaying Moon—was.

Ichigo—First Protector—was not.

Zangetsu—fangs and claws of the night sky—was not.

Ichigo was—fists and blood of HollowHumanShinigamiQuincy—was.

The difference couldn't be discerned.

Barely aware of his—their—his surroundings, everything was muted. Quiet. Calm. Buried. Smothered. ChokedStifledWrongwrongwrongwrong.

He couldn't move, couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Oily sickness.

Pure blackness that was not his—their—domain. Not moon-bright between his blades-fingers-claws-hands, not star-flecks pouring from his metal-fists-tip-grip. Blackness of an oily sickness.

Was he awake? Was he asleep?

Was he alive? Was this death?

…Where was he?

Choking.

…What…was…

Sinking.

…pulling…

Falling.

…him…

Dying.

…down?

Heaviness, abyssal black, slid over him.

It was foreign—

—familiar—

—invasive—

—welcomed—

—sickening—

Disease.

He—I—we sunk deep…

He

The human. The blade.

I

The mortal. The beast.

They

The star-flecked Moon-Human-Blade-Beast-Them

We

Screamed.

Published: 5/5/2023

A/N: Oooo what's this? I hint of—gasps—PLOT? Lol, anyway, I'm actually pretty proud of Ichigo (Or was it Zangetsu? Or was it Ichigo?) part!

(1) From what I looked up, the honorific for principal in Japan is "kōchō." So, referring to Nezu as Principal Nezu would be "Nezu- kōchō." I don't remember how other characters refer to Nezu when addressing him, but I thought Nezu- kōchō would be the safest.

(2) The suffix "ken" is a prefecture. So, "Fukushima-ken" is the Fukushima prefecture. (And prefectures in Japan are governmental bodies of Japan that are larger than cities, towns, and villages.)(the letter H, the letter T, the letter T, the letter P, and the letter S) : / / simple . wikipedia wiki / Prefectures_of_Japan