𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐘.
(n.) a moment when you suddenly feel that you understand, or suddenly become conscious of something that is important to you.
𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 - sydney suzuki learns that home can be a person, too.
✧.* i. midoriya / original chara...
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— "WE LET SHIGARAKI get away, and as a result, villains have broken out of half a dozen prisons."
atop the stretcher, aizawa lay unmoving, bandages stretched into his hair and wrapped over the gauze pad covering his eye. his voice was just as gruff and low as it always was, despite being laced with a deep exhaustion through each shakily drawn breath. present mic was absolutely certain that the erasure hero would be fidgeting uncontrollably to quell his nervous disposition if he had the strength to do so.
the blond was seated upon a stool to the left of aizawa's bed, slouched with his elbows on his knees and hands clasped. "those escapees are committing crimes left and right 'n we don't have the resources to stop 'em. the public's really laying into us about it."
present mic's eyes flickered down upon the silence following his statement, expression scrunching in a visceral, almost tangible pain.
"we did what we were supposed to do. we gave everything we had, fought with our lives on the line, and this is still how things turned out. we let kayama, sam, and the others die—"
"let's not do this right now." aizawa sharply cut off the other's words, turning to face him with a softened expression. "tell me how the students are holding up."
present mic's jaw clenched as he glanced up, before nodding slightly and fixing his gaze to the floor.
✧
deeply tranquil, the subsequent days were filled with the faint whirring of my heart monitor and the rustling of bandages as nurses tended to my comatose body in their gentle care.
i could hear their whispers of workplace gossip as ballpoint pens swiftly rushed against paper, stethoscopes pressing into the inside of my elbow, needles piercing my veins. the doctors seemed to be able to create thousands of conversations with the topic of heroes and villains and vigilantes alone, their endless strings of words winding through the sterile labyrinthian hallways. meanwhile, protestors lined the streets, shouting about crimes and loss of faith as they held high signs of painted cardboard.
no peace, never will be, they said.
my eyes fluttered open however many days later. i sat up despite my muscles lacking the energy to do so, the river of my recognition being almost immediately interrupted by a sharp bite of pain blossoming from each wound. i wrapped an arm around my waist and pressed with as much strength as i could gather, though the pressure did little to ease each sharp stab.
