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"Oboro!" The raw scream bleeds from his throat as he drops to his knees aside the limp body of his friend. Or... what's left of him. He tugs his scarf off and begins to process of packing the largest and most dangerous looking injury, applying pressure as he continues to do his best to plug the gaping wound. The coppery tang of blood mixes with the dust of the crumbling building, the scent overwhelming. He tastes grit and blood and his body is so cold and far away. His vision is blurred by tears, his head oddly light. He tilts sideways and barely manages to keep himself upright. Everything around them is dark, so dark, and yet he's still certain that the room is spinning.
Something... something's not right. Oboro didn't d- There wasn't a room. He wasn't in a room. He was in the building. Oboro was in the building, and Shota... he wasn't.
A firm hand on his shoulder startles him, and he falls backwards into a warm embrace when he struggles to pull away from the perceived attack. The scent of vanilla overpowers him, and he knows who is holding him instantly. He melts against Hizashi, his sobs still unrelenting. As Hizashi holds him tightly and the room continues to spin around them, suddenly far too bright for words, Shota grabs onto his husband's arms as if his very life depends on it.
"He needs our help, Zashi!" He slurs his words, barely choking them out.
"Shh..." Zashi's response is tender and exposed, his pain all too obvious even behind the thick and foggy lens of drink and nightmares. "Not anymore, Shota. He's resting now. You need to rest, too." Hizashi strokes the back of Shota's hand as best he can, rocking softly, and slowly Shota finds the tension peels away in layers. Eventually, Hizashi pulls away just long enough to drag Shota to his feet. He keeps his arms clamped firmly around his shoulders as he guides him into their bed.
"Lay on your side, sweetheart. That's it." Hizashi croons.
Shota chokes back a rather disgusting hiccup and curls into the bed. "I couldn't help him, Zashi."
"I know, Sho. I know. It wasn't your fault."
Shota stares at the wall as Hizashi crawls into his side of the bed and wraps his arms around him once again. "I didn't know... I just kept fighting. I had to fight so I could get to him, so I could help him."
"I know."
"I didn't save him."
"No. But you did everything that you could."
The silence that engulfs them is deafening, but Shota can't force another word to pass his lips. His thoughts are a jumble of pain and regret, far too gone to be coherent. The room still spins, and Shota finds himself regretting that last drink.
After a seemingly eternal pause, Hizashi whispers "How about we pay our respects tomorrow? When you've sobered up and cleaned up."
Shota nods, the sensation hollow as his consciousness begins to slip away. A slow stream of tears continues to roll down his cheeks as sleep creeps in, and he swears that he can feel a similar moisture pressed against his back. As blackness overcomes him, the spinning slows to a halt.
He awakens in the morning to find water, crackers, and aspirin on the nightstand. The curtains are drawn, and the only light is a dim glow from the slightly ajar bathroom door. He drags himself up just enough to drink the water, nibble the crackers, and take the aspirin. His head is pounding.
Pounding pounding pounding.
Eventually, he draws enough will to drag himself from the bed and shuffle into the bathroom. He splashes water on his face, noting with twisted displeasure how he can still smell the alcohol on his breath. He brushes his teeth, half-heartedly holding his tangled mess of hair back and still managing to get some toothpaste in his hair. Mumbling curses, he leans over the faucet and wets a chunk of hair to wash out the toothpaste. He doesn't bother with anymore grooming before shuffling out of the bathroom and down the hall.
He finds Zashi munching on a cold breakfast pastry from the couch, curled beneath a plush throw while one of his favorite shows plays silently on the television. His hearing aids are discarded on the coffee table before him. Shota gives the sofa a wide berth to allow Zashi to become aware of his approach before he gets too close. On mornings like this, when their shared pain is too raw to handle, getting too close to Hizashi while he's on a hearing break is just asking to get forced into a headlock.
Zashi catches a glimpse of Shota out of the corner of his eye and turns slightly to face him, patting the cushion beside him. Shota complies, and Zashi immediately begins gently stroking his hair away from his face. Shota looks him over, noting with a pang of guilt that Zashi's eyes are still red-rimmed and puffy. The guilt forces him to pull back, away from the love he doesn't deserve.
His fault. His fault.
Hizashi clicks his tongue and shakes his head in disapproval before unfurling himself and discarding the blanket. He shoves what is left of his pastry in his mouth as he walks away, momentarily leaving Shota alone with his guilt and thoughts.
It's all his fault. He doesn't deserve Hizashi's care. He doesn't have the right to have episodes like this, to draw that pain back into the light of day for Hizashi. What the hell was he thinking, drinking so much last night? What the fuck is wrong with him?
That is, until Hizashi returns with a detangling spray and hairbrush. He sits on the arm of the couch, applying light pressure on Shota's shoulder and head to face him in the correct direction. He then begins to carefully and lovingly detangle and brush Shota's hair. At some point, the tears begin to glide down Shota's cheeks in earnest, but Hizashi doesn't stop until his thoroughly satisfied with his work. Then, and only then, does he press a tender kiss to the top of Shota's head.
Shota turns and pulls Hizashi into him, and the pair spend the remainder of their Sunday in that liminal yet warm space that is a shared and unending grief. And somehow, somehow the edge is dulled for just a little while.