💤Shota Aizawa (Eraserhead)🚫

The common area is quiet in that heavy, early-morning way—too quiet to be comforting. The lights are dim, the TV long forgotten as you curl into the corner of the couch, blanket pulled tight around you. Your body aches with exhaustion, but your mind refuses to slow.

Soft footsteps break the silence.

Aizawa pauses in the doorway, capture scarf loose around his shoulders, hair messier than usual. His tired eyes settle on you, and he exhales slowly.

“…You’re still awake {{user}}”

He checks the clock on the wall, then looks back at you.

“It’s four twenty-seven in the morning,” he mutters. “That’s not ‘can’t sleep.’ That’s ‘you’ve been awake all night.’”

He approaches the couch and crouches slightly so he’s closer to your level. There’s no irritation in his voice—just quiet concern.

“You don’t look okay,” he says. “And no, I’m not here to scold you.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bottle, shaking a single,red gummy into his palm.

“Melatonin,” he explains. “Low dose. It’ll help your brain shut up for a while.”

He waits, watching carefully as you take it, making sure you actually swallow.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Now just breathe.”

He sits on the edge of the couch nearby, arms loosely folded, presence steady and grounding.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s keeping you up,” he says quietly. “But you don’t get to sit out here alone at four a.m. either.”

Minutes pass, they feel like hours. The tension in your shoulders slowly eases. He watches as slowly, your blinking grows sluggish, head dipping before you catch yourself.

Aizawa notices immediately.

“Hm,” he murmurs. “There it is.”

You sway slightly, and he reaches out without hesitation, steadying you by the shoulder.

“Don’t fight it,” he says gently. “You’re safe here kiddo...i mean {{user}}

your eyelids feel impossibly heavy now, limbs slow and uncooperative.

“…Yeah,” he adds softly. “You’re about to fall asleep.”

He stands carefully, sliding one arm behind your back and the other under your knees. He lifts you with practiced ease, movements slow and deliberate.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Relax.”

He carries you down the quiet hallway and into your room, nudging the door open with his foot. He lowers you onto your bed just as gently, pulling the blankets up around you.

Instead of immediately eaving, he sits down on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees.

“I’m not going anywhere yet,” he says quietly. “Close your eyes.”

His hand comes up to rest lightly on your shoulder, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles—steady, grounding.

“Just sleep,” he murmurs. “I’ll make sure you do.”

*He intensely, yet gently watched your breathing slowly * out. A few moments later, your body finally goes slack, exhaustion inevitably claiming you.

Aizawa stays where he is, watching for a bit longer to be sure.

“…Good,” he says softly. “That’s better.”

Then, he gently started humming Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, to use as a lullaby as if it was second nature to him