Shota Aizawa noticed things.

It was his job, as both a pro hero and a schoolteacher, to keep tabs on anything suspicious. But when you've been a hero for twelve years, anything becomes suspicious, from the slightest twitch in a man's fingertips to the pace of his steps. Shota had trained over the years to make snap judgements, to react, to stay on guard. A skilled hero never believed he was safe. A skilled hero never believed all was well.

So, Shota noticed things. He noticed how Yagi was starting to sag in his chair. He noticed the sweat gleaming on his face, even though the room was chilly. He noticed how he was trying to type one-handed on the keyboard, because his right arm was in a heavy cast, but his fingers were shaking in their bandaging. He noticed how often he bowed his forehead into his palm and closed his eyes. He noticed the change in his breathing, the too-deep rise and fall of his chest beneath his loose-fitting yellow dress shirt. He noticed the glass of water on his desk was completely full, the bento box next to it still wrapped up and untouched. It was 2:45.

Shota was shocked that he was even here. The foolish man was still fresh out of the hospital, but he had been on 22 TV and radio interviews in the past few days, swarmed by the press and paparazzi every time he stepped foot in public, and was now sitting here in the teachers' office trying to type up lesson plans with one hand. Shota didn't know why Nezu agreed to let him come back to work so soon. He imagined Yagi probably begged and pleaded until their mousey principal finally relented.

Well, if Yagi wants to work himself to the bone, I can't stop him. He's probably trying to cope, in his own foolish, self destructive way.

Shota rubbed the crust from his eyelids, wincing as his fingertips pressed against his eyeballs. They always felt bruised inside, sore, like an overworked muscle. The scar against the dent in his skull still hurt. He pulled a bottle of eye drops from his jumpsuit pocket and tilted his head back, trying not to involuntarily blink before the medicated droplets hit his irises. He returned his attention to his too-bright computer screen and proceeded to grade papers, pushing Yagi out of his mind.

The only other people here were Yamada and Kayama, all focused on their own computers. The room was quiet, save for the clacking sound of fingers on keyboards, the hum of the air conditioner, and the faint pulsing beats of music from Yamada's over-ear headphones.

And the sound of Yagi's breathing, which became audibly heavy and wet.

Shota glimpsed movement from Yagi's desk. The man abruptly stood up, knees wobbling, a hand pressed to his mouth, and stumbled to the door. He was off-kilter. His good hand dropped to the doorknob, wrenching it open, and he was out of sight before Shota could speak. He didn't close the door behind him.

Yamada and Kayama were watching, heads poking up from behind their monitors.

"Is he okay?" Yamada's voice was, as usual, too loud. This time, it was because he failed to turn his music off.

"He looked kind of sick." Kayama clicked her tongue and stood, wandering over to the door to poke her head into the hall. Shota watched her back as she leaned around the wall. He couldn't see her face, but he saw her shoulders tensing in the too-thin fabric on her arms. Whatever she saw or heard wasn't good.

"Oh… oh yeah, I can hear him throwing up from the men's room." She returned her attention to the room. Her eyes met Shota's.

"What?"

"You should check on him."

"I'm busy. Ask Mic."

Yamada's head disappeared back beneath his monitor. The sound of music blared even louder from his headphones. Shota could see his hand smoothing against the odd swoop of his slicked-back, spiked hair. He was deliberately ignoring them.

"He's emetophobic." Kayama explained in a sigh, a hand on her hip.

"A what now?"

"He's afraid of sick people."

Shota remembered now. Poor Present Mic had a more high-strung personality than anyone he knew, and was prone to anxiety. There were quite a few things he just couldn't deal with. He seemed to remember this 'emetophobia' issue coming up once or twice while they were students together, years ago.

"So you check on him." Shota said, tilting his head at Kayama.

"It's the men's room."

"Not like that's stopped you before."

"Yes, but I think I'd just embarrass him. Look, Eraserhead, you're low key. Just go in there and make sure he's not choking to death. Please?"

Shota groaned and rose from his chair. "Just like you to rope people in to things." He said under his breath in a deadpan tone.

Kayama laughed, slapping him on the back as he passed.

Shota entered the men's restroom. This one only had two stalls and one sink. It was adjacent to the teachers' office, so at least Yagi didn't have to go very far. Shota's bloodshot eyes scanned the floor. In the crack between the walls of the stall and the floor, Shota could see Yagi on his knees where he was kneeling on the tiles.

Yagi retched a hollow trickle into the Western style toilet, the miserable sound reverberating in the bathroom. Shota saw him crossing his ankles and twisting his feet. As he listened to him cough and spit and wheeze his breaths, he realized how much pain Yagi was in. Those weren't just the sounds of a sick man. He was in agony.

At least he's breathing.

Shota crossed his arms and leaned his back against the wall. He wasn't going to go in there and hold his hair. Yagi would probably find it embarrassing. Instead, he kept track of the time on his phone, waiting for the sounds in the stall to abate. He busied his hands by gathering up some of those cheap, brown paper towels that were always stocked in bathrooms, folding them into neat squares.

It took seven and a half minutes before Yagi finally stopped dry heaving, and Shota heard the toilet flush. The man in the stall struggled to his feet and opened the door. His chin was streaked with blood, spatters of it on his tie, the tips of his bangs stained red. Shota guessed it wasn't possible for him to do much to keep himself from getting hit with backsplash, when he only had one hand to work with.

Yagi startled when he noticed Shota. "Ah… how long have you been standing there?" He sounded like he had been deepthroating sandpaper. His shoulder leaned heavily against the wall of the stall.

Shota handed him the paper towels. "A while."

Yagi looked embarrassed, averting his gaze. He took the paper towels and wiped his mouth and chin, then returned into the stall. Shota watched him kneel back down. Was he going to be sick again? Shota peered over the man's shoulder. At this distance he could smell an acrid scent clinging to Yagi's clothes, revolting and unmistakable.

Instead of vomiting again, Yagi seemed to be wiping the rim of the toilet with the paper towels. It looked like a crime scene, blood on the seat, rolling down the side of the ceramic, spattering the tiled floor. Yagi was just making it worse, smearing the vivid crimson around the porcelain white surface.

"I can just let the janitor know. Leave it, Yagi."

The sick man muttered something apologetic under his breath and tossed the bloodied paper towels into the nearby trash can. Shota heard his bones pop as he stood. He debated reaching out to help, but it seemed Yagi was managing on his own, using the wall for leverage. He moved out of the way as Yagi dragged himself to the sink, turning on the water. With one hand he tried to cup it under the stream and splash it on his face, then take a haphazard sip of the tap water that had pooled in his palm, swishing it and spitting it back out.

"Need to see Recovery Girl?" Shota asked.

"No. It's my meds. The painkillers are on a higher dose than I'm used to. And it's reacting to stuff I already take. It's made me nauseous." Yagi took another sip from his palm. "This is embarrassing. Sorry, Aizawa."

Shota ignored his apology. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah." Yagi spit into the sink. "What time is it?" He asked hoarsely.

Shota checked his phone. "2:56."

Yagi coughed and straightened. "Shit. I'm going to miss class." He started for the door. Shota followed. He was on his way back into the teachers' office. When he stepped inside, both Yamada and Kayama were watching uneasily.

"All Might? Feeling alright, big guy?" Kayama's voice was forced casual, concerned. Yagi completely ignored her as he headed to his desk in the corner of the room.

"Where's my notes…" Yagi muttered under his breath as he tossed things around on his desk. He found what he was looking for, tucking a blue folder under his arm. He spun on his heel.

Shota crossed his arms, standing in the doorway, blocking the foolish teacher's exit. Yagi squinted at him, looking worn out and frustrated.

"Aizawa, I'm fine."

"There's blood all over your tie. And in your hair."

"Ah…" The man looked down at himself, grimacing. "So there is."

"What are you expecting to accomplish? That you'll teach for an entire hour without spewing blood all over the whiteboard?"

"It's not a big deal. I'm already feeling better-"

"You're not teaching class. I'm taking you home." In one swift motion, Aizawa removed his keyring from his pocket, jingling his car keys.

Yagi coughed into his hand. "But-"

Shota waved a hand in Yamada's direction, trying to get his attention. Yamada nervously peeled back one earcup of his headphones.

"Mic. Can you take over for Yagi?"

"Uh- sure, I think I can do that. Yeah, no problem. Don't worry about class, All Might!" Yamada said good-naturedly and flashed a too-wide smile. Shota knew that look. The man was on the edge of fight-or-flight. Better to get Yagi out of the room sooner rather than later.

Shota yanked the folder away from Yagi's limp grasp before he could protest, then slapped it on Yamada's desk. "Do the best you can with that. If you don't know what to do, you can always just let the kids leave early. I don't think they'll complain." He picked up a small trash can from nearby, which was full of wadded up paper, and handed it to Yagi. "If you barf in my car, you're cleaning it."

Shota and Yagi never called each other by their hero names. It was a habit that Shota had developed ever since he had seen the man's true form for the first time. It was when the principal, Nezu, had introduced All Might to the faculty of U.A. when he began his tenure. The world's greatest hero was here to teach at the school- and he had a big secret.

Shota remembered it vividly. The teaching staff of U.A. were herded a dimly lit conference room with no windows and the promise of absolute discretion. When All Might shrank and deflated in a billowing cloud of steam, revealing a pathetic skeleton of a man in his place, the shock among his peers and colleagues was palpable.

All Might and Toshinori Yagi were two completely different men.

Now that the hero, All Might, was retired, quirkless and no more, Shota had to grapple with how he felt about the man now. The other teachers kept calling him All Might. The students, too. But Shota couldn't reconcile the All Might he knew- and loathed- with the shell of a man who was following him out to the parking lot. So he was "Yagi." And Shota was just "Aizawa" to him in turn. Not Eraserhead. Shota could only guess Yagi was trying to be polite and speak to him on the same level.

He had to walk slowly. Yagi was aching, he could see it in the hunch of his shoulders and the languid, dizzy pace of his steps. He vomited twice on the way here, once in the elevator, and again while they headed into the parking lot. If it wasn't for the trash can that Shota insisted he carry, it would have been a bit of a mess. He was shocked the man still had stuff to lose, though it wasn't much but bile and blood.

They made it to Shota's car. It was black, rusty and a bit beat up, a few visible bullet holes in the windshield that he never got around to getting properly repaired. Inside, it smelled musty, due to a good handful of times heavy rains leaked moisture into the carpeted floor mats and chairs. A few scattered receipts and half-filled energy drinks took up space in the cupholders.

Yagi didn't complain as he belted himself into the passenger seat, the trash can placed between his feet. The man was so tall he nearly hit his head on the ceiling of the interior.

"Where do you live?" Shota asked as he readied his phone's GPS.

Yagi muttered out an address, his forehead leaning against the glass of the passenger door window.

Shota drove in silence, occasionally glancing over at the other man, making sure he didn't seem to be taking a turn for the worst.

Five minutes later, Yagi spoke. "I've been wondering something for a while."

"Mmm?"

"S-sorry, this is a little awkward, but. I can't figure it out on my own, so I figured I'd just ask. Are we friends?"

Aizawa scoffed.

"Oh, that's not a good sign," Yagi laughed weakly. "It's just, ah. I've been wanting to be friends with you all year. You're a case I haven't quite cracked."

"You can call it whatever you want, Yagi. But I still don't like you."

"Such brutal honesty! Well, at least I'm not left wondering anymore." Yagi paused. "You mind filling me in on why?"

Shota took a breath, drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel. He didn't want to have this conversation. But Yagi deserved an answer. "You're a damn liar. You lie. All the time. Almost every other word out of your mouth is a lie."

Yagi blinked. "I- pardon?"

"Ugh. You're such a good liar you even convinced yourself. Right now, for example. I was rude to you, but you're pretending not to care."

"Ah…"

"You were lying about your limits in the teacher's lounge earlier. You were lying to our students when we held the conference last week. You've been lying to every single reporter, on every single interview-"

"Okay, I get it, I get it-"

"-down to that stupid fake smile-"

"-Aizawa, you're speeding-"

"-and every time we ask you if you've eaten anything more than a cup of tea-"

"-Aizawa, slow down-"

"-or if you've taken your meds, or if you've slept-"

"-Shota!"

"-and when I drop you off at your apartment, I don't know if I'm going to come back later to find a corpse shriveled up on the floor, because you won't-"

"Look out!"

The cat came out of nowhere. Shota swerved a split second too late.