Chapter Text
1 - Why it's bad to mistake a colleague for a patient
The road to pissing off your new coworker is paved with good intentions and the mental fatigue that comes along with a seventeen hour day shift. But it's an honest mistake, and in Hizashi's own humble opinion it hardly warrants the angry glares their new attending shoots him whenever he happens to pass by the triage desk.
Here's what had happened: Hizashi had left the hospital forty minutes after his shift had ended through the staff-only exit. He was about to turn his music up to an ear-drum rupturing volume when he'd spotted a figure hunched over on a traffic bollard. The figure had been wearing a baggy black tracksuit, and although the temperature had cooled considerably over the course of the evening, it was still uncomfortably warm and humid. So, frankly, after an entire day of treating heatstrokes, that was what Hizashi had been most worried about. Obviously, he'd strolled over to the stranger and tapped his shoulder.
His concerns had not been alleviated when the stranger lifted his head. Strands of long unkempt hair had framed his unshaven face, and perpetual exhaustion had dug deep grooves beneath bloodshot eyes. Come on. Anybody would've insisted on helping the stranger into the climatized waiting room, right?
Hizashi had spent almost five minutes making his case rather loudly, which was that he'd get the help he needed inside the ER, not scrolling his phone aimlessly in the staff parking lot. He'd run out of arguments eventually, the stranger had risen to his feet, rewarding his efforts with a disgruntled scowl and entered the hospital through the staff door.
How the hell was Hizashi supposed to know that Aizawa Shouta was their new nightshift attending?
He groans, and it takes immense self-discipline to stop himself from letting his head slam into the desk. A concussion and retrograde amnesia actually sound great just about now, because this handover is going about as well to be expected after his little faux-pas. He half-listens to Aizawa rattle off the cases that haven't been covered or admitted yet, and starts chewing on his pen cap.
Aizawa's handoffs suck, by the way. Each word out of his mouth is a nearly incomprehensible mumble, and he doesn't even bother listing possible differential diagnoses for them to go off of. That means they're starting from scratch, and they might as well take every history again, because his handwriting is fucking indecipherable.
Kayama gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, but she's clearly hiding her amusement behind the surgical mask she's wearing.
"Come on," she says once Aizawa is out of earshot, "it's been a week. It couldn't have been that bad. I've seen you do waaaaay more embarrassing stuff."
Thankfully, Hizashi doesn't remember most of the 'way more embarrassing stuff'.
"Tell him that," he whines. "He's trying to kill me! Thank God he doesn't have laser eyes, because I seriously think I'd be a goner."
"Laser eyes," Kayama repeats, arching one of her perfectly manicured eyebrows. She watches Hizashi log into his staff account and click open the list of patients waiting to be seen in one of the dozen exam rooms. Their names and birthdates are listed in one column, color coded by priority.
The miracles of modern technology.
"I don't get why he didn't go into surgery. He certainly has the attitude," Hizashi grumbles, and, because he's a little pissed the new attending has decided he dislikes him from day one he adds, "maybe he didn't make it into a program."
He steals a handful of pens off the desk and stuffs them into his chest pocket – knowing his own terrible habit of leaving them everywhere, he'll be lucky to have a single one left at the end of the day.
"I highly doubt that," Kayama barely looks up from her tablet. "He graduated from UA."
The puzzles pieces click into place at once. UA is the most prestigious medical school in all of Japan. The admission rate is less than five percent, and the requirements and classes are said to be grueling. UA undoubtedly produces remarkably skilled doctors – like their hospital director and chief attending – but it's also a breeding ground for the type of arrogant and standoffish professionals Aizawa strikes him to be.
No wonder he's a complete asshole, then. He's literally been socialized into thinking he's better than everybody for years. But just because it isn't all nature and their might be some nurture involved doesn't mean Hizashi can't still be pissed at him instead of his Alma Mater.
Whenever Kayama's and his shifts coincide (and don't drag hours overtime), they grab dinner at a local bar a few blocks from the hospital. It's small, tucked into a nook between a residential apartment building and a convenience store, and most of the patrons are there for the cheap beer and outrageously colored cocktails. They do also make a mean fried chicken, although Hizashi is fairly certain it's frozen and ready-made, and the secret is more so that anything after twelve hours of hospital tastes gourmet.
Hizashi props his chin up on his hand and watches the bartender dip the rim of a cocktail glass into sugar. He'd offered Aizawa a cheerful hello when he'd come in today, and received a glum nod in response. He's not entirely sure why it bothers him so much. Aizawa is just a coworker who doesn't particularly like him. Yeah, Hizashi is a social butterfly, but he can handle somebody not liking him, thank you very much. Really. Okay? He doesn't need to he everybody's best friend. What's actually the annoying bit of this whole ordeal, he decides, is that he just can't figure out why Aizawa has it out for him in particular. Kayama's right, their first encounter is nothing but a funny anecdote, not something you'd start a week-long dispute over.
Kayama smacks him against the back of his head hard.
"Ow!" Hizashi yelps. "What the hell was that for?"
"You've not been listening to me for the past ten minutes," she says, "and your food is getting cold, darling."
Hizashi takes an unenthusiastic bite of fried chicken and licks the cold grease off his lips.
"Are you still thinking about Dr. Aizawa?" Kayama looks far too smug about her conclusion, "he's not that bad, come on. Have you seen him work? He's amazing. He intubated that haematemesis patient with almost zero visualization."
Hizashi scowls, impaling his next bite of food on his chopsticks. She's really laying it on thick, especially considering their chief attending is Japan's most renowned orthopedic surgeon. "You make it sound like he's the next Yagi. His bedside manner is –"
"Surprisingly good," Kayama finishes. She's obviously trying to piss him off, and Hizashi can feel his worn temper threaten to snap like a hair tie stretched too far. "Especially with kids."
"I saw him tell a patient that, and I quote, 'next time you come in here with a month-old rash I'm gonna drag you to the shock room and show you what a real emergency looks like'," Hizashi mutters into his can of beer.
"We've all thought it before, haven't we?" Kayama puts on that insufferable grin of hers, "maybe he's just a little... Introverted?"
But that can't be it, because Aizawa has absolutely no qualms about ordering even his superiors around during the few trauma codes Hizashi has had the incredible honor of partaking in. He can begrudgingly admit that Kayama is right about one thing: Aizawa is, much to his dismay, an excellent doctor, and he runs his codes like he's conducting an orchestra without missing a single beat. Hizashi can also admit that the whole scruffy grumpy thing works for Aizawa. His scrubs are always a size too large, he never bothers shaving his stubble clean and he keeps his hair in a messy bun, but unfortunately, that gives him a kind of rugged charm. Even so – his whole asshole-attitude is just too prominent to look past. And it's not really Hizashi's problem, seeing as they are on different shifts. He only ever runs into Aizawa when either of them stay overtime, and even then he's learned to steer clear after the first few blank stares and raised eyebrows.
It becomes his problem a few weeks later, when Dr. Nezu, retired neurologist and full-time hospital director, decides to rearrange everybody's schedules. His reasoning makes sense; nights are not nearly as busy and they're severely understaffed during the day.
It still seems like a rather cruel twist of fate that Hizashi has to spend entire twelve-hour shifts with Aizawa from now on.
Hizashi tugs off his gloves with a quiet sigh and tosses them into the garbage bin. It's a few minutes past one, and he's starving. If he hurries, he can make it to the hospital cafeteria before lunch rush begins. Although they have a small doctor's lounge right next to staff locker rooms to rest, eat, and, most importantly, make coffee, Hizashi jumps at the chance of a warm meal. The staff discount doesn't hurt, either, and when he turns into the cafeteria he spots Kayama and Yagi at their favorite table. It's tucked into a corner, halfway concealed by two sad-looking plastic palm trees.
He's about to change course and head towards them when he notices movement from behind the larger of the decorative plants. He sees a sliver of dark hair and baggy scrubs and stops dead in his tracks. Fuck.
How the hell did they get Mr. Antisocial to join them for lunch?
In the time it takes Hizashi to decide whether or not to slowly, discreetly back out of the cafeteria and pay for an overpriced protein bar at the vending machine instead, Kayama has already spotted him. She waves excitedly, and that seals the deal. Hizashi sighs. He points at the few people standing in front of the counter and gets in line, desperately hoping by the time his food is ready, Aizawa will have already left.
Of course, because as established, life has it out for him, not only is Aizawa still at the table, the only free chair is next to him. Hizashi lets himself drop onto it with a quiet huff, and it scrapes across the linoleum floor gratingly. Aizawa winces at the high-pitched sound and Hizashi suppresses a vindictive smirk. He greets Kayama and Yagi and even offers Aizawa a half-hearted hi before he digs into his lukewarm, overcooked omelet.
He's halfway through the omelet – Kayama and Yagi are making idle conversations about a psych patient, Aizawa is silent – when he notices the empty jelly pack on the table. It's grape-flavored, and neat lettering boldly claims it contains all important vitamins and trace elements. Hizashi glances at Aizawa. He's currently sucking on a second jelly pouch, brows furrowed thoughtfully, slender fingers thrumming against his thigh beneath the table.
"That's your lunch?" Hizashi blurts out before he can stop himself. Aizawa wouldn't be the first doctor with odd eating patterns, he's seen his fair share of coworkers sustain themselves on chocolate protein shakes and granola bars. Aizawa just doesn't seem like the type to go for sickeningly sweet artificial grape slime. "The cafeteria food can't be that bad."
Aizawa looks over at Hizashi's half-eaten omelet and snorts.
"Okay, it's pretty bad," Hizashi concedes. This is progress. This is almost a normal conversation. Maybe Aizawa just happened to get up on the wrong side of the bed about thirty times, and this has nothing to do with him. "But it literally can't be worse than that abomination!"
He swipes the empty wrapper off the table to study the nutritional label. Aizawa had not gone for some low-calories knock-off version. "How is that even possible? Seventy grams of sugar on a hundred grams of jelly?"
Aizawa shrugs, unbothered by Hizashi pointing out his less than ideal lunch choice. "Don't knock it till you try it."
Hizashi wrinkles his nose. "No, thank you. I'd literally rather –"
Before he can finish his colorful metaphor, Kayama's work phone rings. She makes a face and squeezes the phone between her shoulder and chin while she finishes her last bite of food. She listens attentively, then she rises to her feet and clips her phone back to her belt. "Sorry to cut this short, boys. Yagi, you might want to come along for this. Sounds like we need a surgeon."
Hizashi is about to jump up to follow her when he remembers the rest of his lunch, and that he's not a fucking coward. He doesn't need to flee the scene. They're both adults, they can be civil. Pretend to be civil. Whatever.
The very civil silence that ensues after Kayama and Yagi leave is tense and awkward, and it's not made better by having to head back to the emergency department together. The teaching hospital spans nearly eighty different buildings and hundreds of departments, and it's a fifteen minute walk from the cafeteria to the central ER. Here's the thing – Hizashi's never done well with silence. It's unbearable, and he's desperate to fill it with literally anything. Literally anything, to his sleep-deprived brain, apparently means: "So, what exactly did I do to piss you off so badly? Because it can't be mistaking you for a patient, right? Like, dude, if you're mad about that you should really take a look in the mirror."
Aizawa pauses, fixing Hizashi with one of his indecipherable gazes. Admittedly, that had been a low blow, but Aizawa had not missed a single opportunity to point out how he could be optimizing his patient care and treatment plans. Preferably in front of as many other attendings and residents as possible.
Just when Hizashi is sure he won't receive a reply, Aizawa says: "I know who you are."
"I mean – yeah, I should hope so," Hizashi sputters, "you've been here for two months, so –"
"No," Aizawa interrupts him and sticks his hands back into his pockets, "I mean I know about 'Doctor Mic'."
Hizashi feels the irrational urge to defend himself, and he swallows it down with effort. "So? It's not a secret. Everybody at work knows."
Aizawa scoffs. "And I'm sure they're more than willing to participate in your little skits so they can bask in your followers' attention. It's only human, isn't it?"
Hizashi is taken so aback he's rendered an unprecedented speechless. He stares at Aizawa, fingers involuntarily curling into his scrubs. "I – come on, I'm not a famous actor or something, I'm just –"
"A famous YouTuber," Aizawa responds easily. Somehow, it sounds derogatory coming from his lips instead of an accomplishment Hizashi's spent years working for.
"I'm not that –"
"Almost four million followers. Since you only post Japanese vlogs, that means more than three percent of the entire population has subscribed to see your abysmal content," Aizawa continues coolly.
"I – okay, sure, yeah! I fail to see the problem, though," Hizashi mutters meekly. He's run into fans at work before – patients asking for an autograph or a photo, starry-eyed young nurses and residents asking if they can be in his next skit – but aside of random internet trolls, nobody's come at him like this before. Even Nezu watches most of his videos; and HR approves more finicky topics.
"Making fun of patients in pain," Aizawa says lowly, "is despicable."
Hizashi's skin prickles with white hot anger, and he can feel blood rush to his cheeks and turn them bright red.
"I don't make fun of my patients," he snaps, ill-tempered, "why would you think something like that? I make educational content! And film vlogs!"
Aizawa nestles a phone out of his pocket, unlocks it with his fingerprint and navigates to YouTube. Hizashi can see his name typed into the search history. Aizawa opens his short form content and shoves the phone into his face.
It's his (unfortunately) most popular skit. Hizashi winces slightly. "It's five years old."
"It's a video about the weirdest things you've found in your patients' rectums," Aizawa says flatly. "And you have other skits about your patients. How would you feel if some random doctor aired out your medical history?"
Somebody brushes past Hizashi, reminding him that they're standing in the middle of the sidewalk and arguing over something stupid. He bites down on his tongue to prevent himself from snapping and draws in a few measures breaths.
"Most of my skits are educational," he says sharply. "Yeah, they draw on my experience, but they're usually not about a specific patient. If you had actually watched any of my stuff you'd know that I only re-enact symptoms to make people aware of what they could mean. And that was to make sure people stop sticking bowling pins up their asses!"
He pauses to catch his breath, "but feel free to take it up with HR if it's bothering you so much. Good luck!"
Aizawa grunts dismissively. "You're wasting your time here. Why don't you leave the medicine to doctors that are actually serious about it and go live out your cushy fantasy? You're basically already a celebrity doctor with how many talkshows you've been to."
Hizashi huffs indignantly. He unfreezes his feet and forces himself to start walking towards the ER once again.
"I actually like being a doctor," he shoots back beneath a sharp exhale. "Maybe you should try having a little fun every once in a while. It might help with your attitude problem."
Aizawa doesn't dignify that with a response. Dammit. The inhibition part of his prefrontal cortex is clearly working a lot better than Hizashi's, and he doesn't fall for his provocative snark.
Hizashi finds himself mulling over their conversation (argument?) for the next few days. Evidently, Aizawa's problem isn't with Hizashi personally, it's with his public persona. He's somehow gotten it in his head that having a popular YouTube channel means he's a worse doctor, or that he's not serious about his work.
"Bullshit," Hizashi mutters and kicks a bottle cap across the pavement. He's stubbornly determined to prove Aizawa otherwise, but he has the rising inkling that he could do a perfect burr hole with a construction drill in pouring rain and still not impress Aizawa.
He's sorely tempted to make his next skit about rude coworkers. The only problem with that is how Aizawa-like his characters would end up. Probably hard to get that past HR, right?
Hizashi throws himself into work instead. The ER is always a good distraction, and it's usually easy enough to focus on his patients instead of whatever's bothering him. He'd gone into emergency medicine because he actually likes patient contact, but he can't deny he's distracted today. Actually, if anything, Aizawa is way more of a distraction than his little side hustle. Hizashi finds his gaze trailing Aizawa involuntarily whenever he walks past the open curtains.
He never seems to be in a rush, and what Hizashi had initially mistaken as him being bored or sluggish turns out to be an invaluable asset. It's reassuring. The last thing trauma patients need is a panicked or rushed doctor; but it's hard to feel anxious in the face of Aizawa's quiet stoicism.
Hizashi pulls the curtain closed around the exam bay with a quiet huff. This is stupid. He doesn't need to prove himself, he knows he's a good doctor. He rolls up to his patient on his swivel chair and slips into a pair of gloves, offering a hopefully somewhat reassuring smile.
"Told you I'd come back timely!" He likes to think his lighthearted banter puts his patients at ease just as much as Aizawa's steadiness does.
"An hour isn't very timely," the man on the stretcher growls. Hizashi briefly wonders if he's a bodybuilder or something alike, because he's packing so much muscle mass he makes the bed look comically small, and the hospital gown stretches and strains around his shoulders.
"Trust me, it could've been much worse. Waiting is usually a good sign for you," Hizashi says lightly. He glances down at his tablet, "okay, I'm here for that abdominal ultrasound, remember?"
His patient had come in with chief complaints of vomiting, abdominal pain and a week-old diagnosis of stomach ulcers. If Hizashi had to wager a guess he'd say the medication he'd been prescribed hadn't taken with all of the vomiting, but he wants to take a look himself. He turns back to the portable ultrasound, reaches for the gel – of course, the work phone clipped to his scrubs goes off at that exact moment. Hizashi curses quietly and checks the display.
CODE CRIMSON - TB 1 - ETA FOUR MINUTES
Ah, shit. His patient is going to be so thrilled.
"I'm so sorry, you'll have to excuse me," he says, peeking out from behind the curtain. "Hey! Togata! I need you here."
Togata is only a med student, but he's here on excellent recommendations and hasn't fucked up badly so far. He stops and smiles. "Yeah?"
"I need you to take over for me. Abdominal ultrasound – take a look at the kidneys too while you're at it. I've gotta run, page background if you need help," he says and ignores his patient's rude comment.
Hizashi falls into a light jog and rounds the corner from the exam bays into the wide hallway. He passes the handful of procedure rooms and arrives at trauma bay one almost simultaneously with Aizawa. (Although, much to his chagrin, he's a lot more out of breath than Aizawa).
"Do we have anything else?" Hizashi asks. There's no time for whatever personal differences they may have. Not with a potentially exsanguinating patient incoming.
"Yes," Aizawa says, tablet in hand. "Status post traumatic amputation. I'm gonna lead the trauma team."
Hizashi doesn't argue.
"I'm activating the MTP," Aizawa continues. A young nurse helps him into a surgical gown, "get an on-call anaesthesiologist and haematologist down here."
"Got it."
By the time the paramedics wheel the gurney into the shock room, nearly a dozen people have gathered around. Hizashi feels his body thrum with adrenaline, and his hands itch with the need to act right away.
"Male, early twenties, pedestrian versus train," one of the paramedics tells Aizawa. Hizashi helps them lift the patient from the gurney onto the stretcher. Even through his surgical mask he can smell the heavy, metallic stench of blood. Their patient covered in it; barely a bit of waxy skin peaking through splotches of red. It's impossible to tell what other injuries he has beyond his missing limbs. Shit. Not good. His legs are shredded, cinched tightly around the thighs with two tourniquets, but they're still oozing thick, dark blood. Hizashi uses the portable ultrasound to conduct an initial FAST exam; in spite of the obvious amputation they need to rule out internal bleeding. He guides the transducer over their patient's chest and abdomen and listens to the paramedic continue with his preliminary report.
"Passerbys saw him hovering around the tracks. No evidence of foul play, it's likely he fell or jumped. An incoming tram pinned him between the edge and wagon, he was dragged along for at least twenty seconds. He was conscious when we arrived, but deteriorated during the ride. Initial GCS of 9, now 5. Traumatic amputation of both lower extremities above the knee, last measurements had his heart rate at 140, satting at 85 percent, blood pressure 60 over 40. We, uh – we gave one gram of TXA on-site."
Hizashi is once again impressed at how even Aizawa's voice remains. "Okay, let's get monitors. His breathing doesn't sound good to me."
"FAST is positive, free fluid in the belly," Hizashi says. He watches Aizawa get out his way after putting in two wide central lines and take his place at the foot of the stretcher. The patient coughs, blood froths at his mouth.
"Yamada, you're on airway," Aizawa orders, "where's my blood?"
"Coming!" A young nurse calls from the open door, carrying two heavy coolers.
"Hang two units," Aizawa says, "type and cross. I want a CBC, a coagulation panel, lactate and an ABG."
The two trauma nurses start cutting away the rest of their patient's clothes. Hizashi exhales sharply, studying the vital parameters. Shit. His oxygen saturation is dropping rapidly; he's evidently not protecting his airway.
"100 percent oxygen," he tells the nurse to the left of him, she looks familiar, but her names eludes him at the moment. "Push esketamine and midazolam for rapid sequence intubation."
Their motions are all practiced, nearly automatic. Hizashi doesn't need to think about his next steps, his hands move without conscious effort. That's what they'd spent years studying for – acting in crises without having to stop and think.
"Any available vascular and orthopedic surgeon, trauma bay one," sounds over the PA speakers.
"Suction," he turns to the respiratory therapist once the patient goes limp. "Dammit, I can barely see – more suction."
"Tighten that tourniquet – what's going on, Yamada?" Aizawa asks.
Hizashi grits his teeth. He can feel cold sweat trickling down his back, making his scrubs stick to his skin uncomfortably. All he sees is bright arterial blood in the patient's throat. "I can't get a visual. He's guarding."
"Prepare for a crike."
"Wait!" Hizashi finally manages to guide the endotracheal tube down the patient's airway. "I've got it. Oxygen sats are rising. End-tidal CO2 isn't great."
"Temperature is dropping. 35 degrees," the anesthesiologist says.
Aizawa hesitates. Hizashi looks up, and sees him faltering for the first time during a trauma. It's just a heartbeat or two, nearly imperceptible, then he clears his throat and says: "Hang two more units. Keep up the one to one to one ratio. Is the OR ready?"
"Five minutes," somebody says.
Hizashi's always thought the expression of time slowing to a halt was odd. Time doesn't slow. The clock, if anything, starts ticking faster, and they don't have time to breathe, to think, all they can do is act. Aizawa makes the snap decision to push epinephrine, and they start their secondary survey. Massive pelvic instability, blood around the spleen, possible liver laceration, bad ventilation. His face, somehow, has been spared, which makes it all worse. He seems so young for twenty. His hair is soaked in blood, but it looks like it might've been dyed silver or white.
"Lactate is 14, pH at 6.9 and potassium is at 6.7," somebody reads off the results of the blood analysis.
"Two minutes on the OR," another voice says. The PA crackles.
"The patient is too unstable to transport," Aizawa says. The monitors are blaring, and their patient's heart rate drops by almost a hundred beats to a terrifying 40. The ETCO2 plummets at the same time.
"I can't feel his carotid," Hizashi says urgently. Aizawa doesn't reply, and Hizashi continues, "I'm starting compressions."
That seems to snap Aizawa out of it, because immediately, he's at Hizashi's side and helps him onto a stool so he can brace most of his weight on their patient's chest.
"Blood – keep it coming," Aizawa says breathlessly, "dammit, that tourniquet is not tight enough, somebody – you, Tsunagu, fix that."
"His temperature is dropping. The blankets aren't doing anything."
Hizashi tunes out the dissonant beeping and orders. 100 beats per minute. He's not sure how long he spends on the chest compressions, but his arms are starting to tingle and feel numb when somebody pulls him off the patient. Aizawa takes over compressions while Hizashi tries to catch his breath.
They all know this isn't survivable. The patient has started to bleed from every orifice; no matter how much blood or clotting factors they push. Nobody could survive this kind of metabolic imbalance.
"He's in PEA," Hizashi pants, flexing his cramping fingers. He eyes the monitor, sees the electrical impulses drift further apart. It can't have been more than fifteen minutes since their patient had arrived. He's lost too much blood. His heart is trying to pump, but there's nothing left, it's futile, it's hopeless. Beneath the dried blood his skin is starting to discolor and turn an ugly hypoxic blue.
They try for another minute or so before the screen flatlines.
"Asystole," Aizawa says. He slides off the stool and wipes his blood stained hands on his blue surgical gown. For a few heartbeats, the only sound is that of the ventilator forcing wheezy air into the patient's lungs. Hizashi reaches over and flips the off-switch, leaving a red thumb print.
"Time of death, 4:57 pm," Aizawa says into the sudden silence.
Hizashi sighs softly. He's standing in a puddle of blood and he feels soaked, contaminated in an irrational way. He'd be lying if he said this was easy to shake off. It's never easy, especially with young and tragic accidents. Although this had probably not been an accident. He remains standing at the side of the patient's head for a few more seconds, and Aizawa is already gone by the time he finds the will to tug off his gown, cap and shoe protectors and stuff them into a large plastic trash bag. In his haste, some blood had soaked through the gap between the hem of his scrubs and his wrist, drying to an ugly dark brown.
"Hey," the young nurse who'd stood at his left says. Now that the code is over and the rush of adrenaline has started fading, Hizashi remembers her name. Sosaki Shino. "That was a great intubation, Dr. Yamada."
"Thanks," Hizashi murmurs half-heartedly. "Uh, since Dr. Aizawa has decided to abandon ship, I guess that leaves me in charge of this mess. Do we have word on any family?"
"We found an ID in his jeans," she says, her voice wavering slightly. "I'll tell our social workers to contact them."
"Thank you, Sosaki. Have him moved to a viewing room and cleaned up for the family, yeah?"
She nods, and Hizashi watches one of their cleaners start to mop up the floor.
Stepping out of the shock room and into the hallway is a relief. He inhales deeply, and although hospital air is always cold, stale, and reeks of antiseptic solution, it's heavenly compared to the heavy taste of blood. Hizashi draws in a few long breaths, fanning air into his sweaty face. His hair is a mess, some strands have come loose and are sticking to his skin, but he doesn't want to fix it before washing the blood off his hands.
The staff bathroom is just down the hallway. He pinches his chip card between two fingers and swipes it across the small display to unlock the door, pulling it shut behind himself. Hizashi sighs heavily, resting the palms of his hands on either side of the sink. He inspects his reflection. Sweaty, red cheeks, generally disheveled looking. He hopes he'll have a few quiet minutes to put himself back together.
Hizashi scrubs his hands and picks dried blood out from underneath his fingernails, then he dries them off with a paper towel. He undoes his bun, runs his fingers through his hair and ties it up again – there. Now he might not scare off the next patient he sees. Going back to work now is infinitely more appealing then brooding over their last patient at home – what good could come of that? It's not like he can turn back time, and even if he could – he doubts they'd be able to change the outcome. Nothing short of a miracle could've saved that boy.
Hizashi is about to turn and leave when he hears a quiet sound coming from one of the stalls. He startles, his heart skips a beat – fuck, he hadn't realized somebody had been in here all this time. There's another sound, a wet cough that forebodes nothing good, and then the unmistakable noise of somebody being sick into the toilet.
"Hey, you okay in there?" Hizashi asks cautiously. It can't be a patient, and he doesn't mean to impose on a colleague or nurse, but he just can't help himself. That's why he's a doctor, isn't it? He can't stand by and do nothing.
The only response is something splashing quietly. It makes him shudder in instinctual sympathy.
"Open up!" Hizashi says sharply, pounding his fist against the door. It's a little flimsy and he could probably break it if he tried, but he refrains. "Open the door, or I'll –"
"Go away," a familiar voice rasps.
Oh. Oh, shit – come on. Hizashi is seriously tempted to do just that – to turn on his heels and walk out and leave Aizawa to wallow in his misery. In the end, he can't get himself to walk away.
"Aizawa," he says, "open the damn –"
The door swings open and nearly smacks him in the face. He takes a step back and rapidly looks Aizawa over. He's curled over the toilet, hair hanging in his face, and his skin is a ghostly shade of white. Beads of sweat streak down his cheeks, leaving behind shiny tracks.
"Come to gloat?" Aizawa hisses.
Hizashi scoffs. "Not everybody's an asshole, y'know?"
He crouches down next to Aizawa, who seems to want to say something, but then he shakes his head and leans back over the toilet to retch, coughing up a mouthful of bile and vaguely purple-looking jelly. Hizashi sighs. He might be overstepping here, but he knows how miserable throwing up with long hair is. He pulls it from Aizawa's face and secures it into a ponytail with one of the hair ties around his wrist. Absentmindedly, he rests a hand between Aizawa's shoulder blades and feels a violent shiver run down his spine.
"Gonna make a skit about me?" Aizawa says breathlessly. There's a tense edge to his voice, a strangled quality that Hizashi doesn't like at all. "About how I can't even – can't even handle a little trauma?"
"Of course not," Hizashi says. Exhaustion bleeds into his voice. He can't really fault Aizawa for this. That'd been pretty graphic, even for ER standards.
It's just... Unexpected. Aizawa is a seasoned professional, he must've treated many, many traumas, some worse than this. Hizashi had seen him run a code on a equally brutal degloving injury, only that hadn't been a – ah. He's not entirely sure how, if at all, to broach the topic, and Aizawa seems miserable enough as is, so he decides to ask about it another time.
"Fuck," Aizawa breathes and presses the back of his hand against his chest. "Fuck."
Hizashi hums softly. "You're okay. Breathe."
Aizawa shakes his head again. Hizashi hears him swallow audibly and suppresses the urge to launch into a string of English-Japanese cussing. What a goddamn stubborn bastard.
"You're in your head," he says. "It's okay. Let it happen, it'll pass."
"You're a fucking psychiatrist too?" Aizawa snaps. It's not very impressive, considering he looks and sounds like he's about five seconds from being sick again.
"Don't bite the hand that feeds you," Hizashi huffs indignantly.
"Don't talk about food while I'm puking my guts out."
"It's an expression! A figure of speech!" At least he gets Aizawa talking. The last thing he needs is for him to launch into some kind of full-blown panic attack. "Just – fuck, man, do you want me to get somebody else?"
"No," Aizawa groans, "just you is bad enough."
"I'm glad to see you're feeling well enough to start pissing me off again," Hizashi grumbles. Un-fucking-believable that Aizawa has the energy to insult him in his state.
Aizawa falls silent for a few minutes. He only reaches up to flush the toilet, shifting slightly in hopes of finding a more comfortable position. Looks like they'll be stuck here for a while. Hizashi sits on the hopefully clean floor cross-legged and watches him like a hawk.
Ten minutes. That's how long it takes for Aizawa's carefully crafted mask to crack and crumble apart like a sandcastle washed away by the tide.
"I could have – I could have done more," he whispers without looking at Hizashi.
Hizashi pretends he doesn't see the way his eyes are shining.
"No way," he says softly. "You did everything right. Nobody can fault you. It's a miracle he wasn't DOA."
"I should've – I don't know, I – I must've missed something. There must have been something we could've done." Aizawa buries his face in his hands, and Hizashi feels his shoulders shake beneath his own.
"There wasn't," he says, but it falls upon deaf ears.
"The checklist – fuck, I don't think we were following the guidelines like we should've, we should've... We should've cracked his chest, or – or maybe we should have –"
"Hey!" Hizashi interrupts him sharply. "No! No, we shouldn't have. It pains me to say this, but you're actually good at what you do. Aizawa, not even the best doctor in the entire universe could have saved him. His injuries were too severe. Nobody survives with that lactate or potassium. And you know that. You know that."
"Mmh." Aizawa blinks a few times and rubs his forehead.
They fall back into silence, but it's not nearly as uncomfortable as it had been.
"How are you feeling?" Hizashi asks after a while. It sounds lame even to his own ears. He's losing his touch, clearly. His entire selling point is being good with patients.
"Great," Aizawa croaks.
Hizashi quirks an eyebrow. "Try again."
Aizawa gives him a weak glare before he concedes with a quiet groan. "Nauseous. Embarrassed. Dizzy."
"I've seen worse," Hizashi's lips turn upwards. "My first day as an attending I literally got drenched in –"
"I really don't want to know," Aizawa says flatly. Hizashi winces in sympathy when he pitches forwards and heaves, spitting out saliva. Aizawa hasn't swatted his hand away, so Hizashi decides it's safe to keep it on his back. He draws small circles with his fingers until Aizawa deems it okay to lean back, out of breath and somehow even paler than before.
"Jeez," Hizashi murmurs, handing him a wad of toilet paper to wipe his mouth. "You're really going all out, huh?"
Aizawa accepts it reluctantly and wipes his mouth with a shaky hand.
"Think you can handle some water?" Hizashi asks, "actually, I don't care. I'm getting you some water. Doctor's orders. Don't move!"
He nearly stumbles over his own feet on his way out of the bathroom. Hizashi rushes past Togata, who waves and tries to stop him, appeasing him with a quick "later, I'm in a hurry," and unlocks the door to their lounge hastily. He digs up a bottle of cold water from the fridge along with a handful of candy and one of Aizawa's disgusting jelly pouches.
Aizawa hasn't moved when he returns. Honestly, Hizashi had almost expected to have hallucinated the whole ordeal, but Aizawa is still curled up in the cramped stall. His eyes are drooped closed, and he only stirs slightly when Hizashi opens the door. There's a look on his face that makes Hizashi's chest ache with sorrow. It's more than sadness; it's so... Desperate, somehow, frightened. Aizawa only mumbles a quiet protest when Hizashi bends down to press two fingers against his neck. His heartbeat flutters against Hizashi's hand like a caged hummingbird, a little to fast, but regular.
"Water," Hizashi says firmly. He untwists the cap and offers Aizawa the bottle. Aizawa takes a few shaky sips and wipes the sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Better?" Hizashi asks quietly. Aizawa gives him a non-committal shrug. Hizashi hovers as he climbs to his feet, ready to brace a fall – for a second, he fears he might have to, because Aizawa sways dangerously, but then he finds his footing.
"Here," Hizashi says, "if you feel like eating. I'm sure you don't need to tell me you need sugar and electrolytes."
Aizawa eyes him dubiously and slides the jelly pack into his scrubs. "Thanks."
Hizashi watches him trudge over to the sink and rinse his mouth, splashing cold water into his face afterwards. Some color returns to his pasty skin, and Hizashi's shoulders sag in relief. No matter how much of an asshole Aizawa may have been, he must have a heart, right? He cares. He must care, otherwise he wouldn't have reacted so violently.
Aizawa stays slumped over the sink for an eternity, and Hizashi is reluctant to leave. It seems far too likely that Aizawa will faint and somehow manages to aspirate on his own vomit, so no leaving. Somehow, Aizawa would probably find a way to sue him post-mortem.
"How late is it?" Aizawa asks hoarsely. His voice sounds like it's been put through a meat grinder.
"Uh, dunno," Hizashi glances at his phone, "six."
"Two more hours left," Aizawa concludes.
"Two more hours left?" Hizashi parrots, then he realizes what Aizawa is talking about. "Oh, no. No, no, no, nope, not happening! Don't even think about it!"
He steps into Aizawa's way when he turns to exit the bathroom and studies him closely. He literally looks like he's knocking on death's door. He looks sicker than the fucking leukemia patient Hizashi had seen today.
"Go home, Aizawa."
"Don't patronize me."
"I'll report you to the board," Hizashi threatens. "Go home. I'll cover your patients."
He can basically see the gears turn in Aizawa's head as he thinks over the pros and cons. Thing is, there are only pros. It's not like he'll be chewed out for leaving when he's in no state to be practicing medicine.
"Okay," Aizawa finally says. He even squeezes out a quiet thank you.
"I won't tell anybody about this," Hizashi says softly, then he steps out of the way. "If you were worried."
Aizawa narrows his eyes at him, as if he's only just realized that's a possibility, but he doesn't reply.
Hizashi watches him slink out of the bathroom and slam the door closed.
He's not entirely sure where this leaves them.