He's three quarters through a set of third year term papers when his phone rings, actually rings instead of just vibrating against the table, and his heartrate skyrockets.
There are two numbers that can bypass all silence settings on his phone: Shouta’s work cell and the pro ward at the hospital. The caller ID flashes “M. G. Hospital” in cheery, innocent LED.
His already accelerated pulse judders in his chest.
Theoretically, a call from his work phone could be nothing serious. It could be a "come get me, I'm in no state to walk home" or something about UA or even just a mix up between phones, though that last one hasn't happened to them in years, not since they were rookies. A call from Shouta’s work cell doesn't have to be a disaster. But the hospital-
A second ring cuts off his spiraling thoughts, and he scrambles a little against the table to pick it up and swipe open the call.
"Hello?" He asks, as if he can't imagine the exact dimensions of the hospital rooms there, as if there haven’t been weeks he's seen the hospital walls more than his own home.
"Hello," whoever has been tasked with calling him sounds rushed, a little nervous, and the back of his brain that isn't stalling out like a bad engine has the space to ask if that’s really a way to start a conversation with a victim’s family. "Is this Yamada Hizashi, hero name Present Mic?"
There's only ever one reason they call him and start with his civilian name.
"Yes." He says, but his blood is already cold in his veins.
He may not know the particulars, but he knows what this is about.
Tonight, he got lucky. Tonight, Shouta either got to the hospital himself or someone, some good Samaritan, found his injured body in the alleyways he patrols and decided to call an ambulance instead of leaving him for dead. Tonight, his husband won't disappear into the night to never come home or answer his phone, he won't be relegated to the stories the underworld tells.
Unless, of course, tonight is the night they ask him to identify a body instead of telling him how long to wait out recovery.
There's noise on the other side of the line, lots of people moving and working in small spaces, just chatter and footsteps. It still makes him anxious even over the phone.
"You’re listed as next-of-kin for Pro Hero Eraserhead-"
"Yes," he cuts off the end of their sentence. He’s gripping the phone with a little too much strength, actively has to release the force from his fingers before the plastic-and-glass starts to creak in his fingers.
"He was just brought in. We have yet to determine the extent of his injuries, but he was admitted for stab wounds to the abdomen. We wanted to-"
"Is he stable?" He asks and hates how his voice shakes. He should really let them get a word in edgewise but, "Will he survive?"
"He is currently stable, sir. Barring any complications, he will recover. You can--"
He hears the words they say. He can come visit, but they may have to take him into surgery, he may not be awake because of the toll that healing quirks take on the body. He stands up, listening to the rest of the spiel with half an ear, and goes to the closet to grab the overnight bag they keep packed for times like this.
He also grabs both their phone chargers. There's no indication for how long they will be there.
There's another commotion on the other end of the phone line, people shouting and running feet.
He can't—he can't deal with that. Not right now.
"Thank you for the information." He says, and he doesn’t even know if he's cut them off at this point. "I'm on my way to the hospital."
They give him the room number and say goodbye, and he ends the conversation and cuts the call on autopilot. He's got one shoe on and his keys in his hand, and he stands there in the suddenly suffocating silence feeling cut adrift, the lead weight of knowledge in his chest that this will, hopefully, not be the last time he rushes to the side of a hospital bed to find his husband.
He slides on his other shoe and goes, forcing his breathing into something like normal. They got lucky this time. He's going to be thankful while it lasts.