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Izuku wasn’t having a very good day.
That was clear when he had bumped into several different people in the hallways of UA High, waving his arms around in frenzied apology after each time.
It was clear when simple instruction from his teachers (that he enthusiastically enjoyed talking and listening too) weren’t processing fast enough in his head, and put him behind his hardworking ‘heroes-to-be’ peers.
Clear, when the smallest change in plans and schedule made him want to jump 20 feet in the air out of his own skin, while simultaneously having a river rush of tears pouring out his eyes.
So… all in all, today wasn’t a good day for Izuku.
He had gone throughout the day on edge of a total meltdown. He definitely didn’t know why the feeling started, just that they were there when he had woken up that morning. The fog in which he usually woke up with was replaced with the harsh buzzing of “wrongness”. Hard to describe but there all the same, putting a damper on all things ‘good’ that day.
He had gotten dressed, grimacing at the texture of his formal school uniform as he put the scratchy sleeves of his coat over his bruised and scarred limbs.
He had made a scrunched up face at his breakfast as he tried to get past the unusual texture of the leftovers he heated up from the night prior, forcing it down his throat knowing he needed the nutrients for the day at a top hero school.
His trek to the train station consisting of subtle hand stims as well as quiet vocal stims under his breathe as he waited for the correct train to arrive at its usual time.
His stimming made him nervous. No, not the act itself – that soothed the itching feeling just below the skin; which felt like excess energy being pent up enough for him to squirm – it was the thought that anyone from school could see him and judge him. He had experienced enough bullying from his peers throughout his 15 years of living that the very idea that one of his subconscious actions could cause everyone to turn against him made him shiver violently with anxiety.
In truth, ever since entering UA, he had tried his hardest to suppress his more noticeable stims in public, not wanting the inevitable attention it brings. He wanted to be a normal high school student. He didn’t want to be the “quirkless autistic student” he was previously. Although one of those things had changed – being quirkless – the other would never, and he still felt self-conscious and self-destructive due to years of torment and harassment. But that’s something he doesn’t really want to think about. He didn’t like feeling like a burden to those around him, nor an annoyance.
When arriving at school, the feeling of unease under his exterior never went away. It festered and grew with each class he attended, becoming unbearable by the end.
The bells indicating the hours were changing rang in his ears with a shrill overbearing sound, zapping his brain in ways that made him see white. His body locked up and stood ramrod straight with discomfort.
He found himself staying a bit after the last bell, something itching at his mind, playing back and forth within his brain yet not announcing what it is. The unknown. The overwhelming.
His other friends and peers had left, waving him one last goodbye, worry etched on their faces. He wondered to himself if they could notice something was wrong today too.
They probably just thought something was wrong with you, His brain retorts back. He’s stiff, too stiff, the subtle stims felt like they were building up in his body, unable to come out.
He slowly goes to put his notebook into his yellow-strapped bag, placing his hand delicately on the desk. His hand meets the cold particleboard, jolting him from his regular familiar thoughts. His… notebook? Where was it? He bent his body over to look under the desk quickly, his bushy, curly hair getting into his eyes. It’s not there.
He stands straight, looking behind him at the rows of desks lined-up, he whips his head form side to side, eyes scanning the room. It’s… not here? Where is it?
He feels his heart race, picking up beats with every breath. His hands feel sweaty as he anxiously rubs them together in front of his chest, eyes still scanning the room like his notebook would magically appear in front of him. He lets out a shaky breath, opening up his bag again to leaf through the contents once more.
It’s not here. Where is it? Why isn’t it here? Where did I leave it? He thinks back through the day, his brain can’t even remember what he had for breakfast, the day felt like he was going through the motions and not really experiencing. He can’t remember where his notebook is.
It’s the last straw for his already wrong-feeling day. It all had been bubbling up, starting at his toes and reaching his throat, threatening to come out if he didn’t tamp it down.
But he was alone now. He didn’t need to tamp it down; he didn’t need to restrict himself. He didn’t need to be on guard .
His eyes were burning, lips clamped together to hold in his ugly sobs. The lack of air causing him to snort unattractively. The tears start; first slow only a few small droplets running down his freckled cheeks until they gradually pick up speed. Soon, they pool underneath his chin, causing his shirt to grow damp.
He doesn’t know why he’s like this. He wants to be able to function today, he really did, and he just woke up with this ugly feeling crawling up his back, holding his neck. He slowly falls to his knees, then his butt, and he shifts himself backwards until he can feel the smooth cold feeling of the classrooms walls. A hiccup bubbles out of his throat, unable to be blocked.
He hunches over his front, knees and legs splayed out around him. He doesn’t care what position he’s in. That’s not what he’s thinking about right now. He actually doesn’t know what he’s thinking about, his brain is working on high-speed, thoughts rushing so fast that he can’t keep up.
He feels like he’s in the middle of a busy highway, looking around him at the zooming cars, so close to him as they pass.
He’s alone, and he doesn’t understand why he feels this way over a notebook, but he does and he lets himself feel it.
He doesn’t know how long he’s sat there, stewing in his own emotions that he doesn’t know how to place. He’s letting out small gasps of breath, hiccups coming from his chest and throat, and little whimpers of his overwhelming discomfort and sadness.
He rocks his body, first front to back for a while, finding a rhythm that soothes the god-awful itch that lies right below the surface, until he’s full-blown rocking in circles, finding the soothing motions to help ease his racing heart.
This isn’t the first time this has happened, nor does he think it’ll be the last; he’s had his fair share of meltdowns to know he’s over stimulated by today. Just waking up was over stimulating for him this morning.
In the middle of his affliction, he doesn’t notice the door of the classroom slide open, revealing a surprised looking homeroom teacher. He doesn’t know he’s there, he hasn’t looked up, and even the idea that someone is seeing him like this causes his pits to sweat with anxiety.
Quiet, nonthreatening footsteps edge their way to the back of the room, slow and steady. There is a deep breath, one that sounds almost like an irritated sigh, and Izuku finally realizes he’s not alone. He tenses, stops in his rocking and is stuck in his own body.
“Midoriya, “ there is a pause, and the usually grim looking Mr. Aizawa looks at Izuku with worry etched in his eyes still keeping a straight face, “what’s wrong? Did something happen?” he squats down, taking in his disheveled appearance.
Izuku can’t respond. He just can’t. He’s caught. Someone sees the distress he’s been in all day and he’s humiliated. He feels the tears start again, now not knowing if it was because of earlier or his current embarrassment. He didn’t want his teacher to think less of him. He could be a hero, he could. This won’t stop him.
He must’ve mumbled the last part, because Aizawa in front of him sits back on his legs, examining him, looking him up and down. “Midoriya, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” without context, this might’ve sounded like a harsh thing to say, but Mr. Aizawa’s voice at the time was the least threatening it could be. There is a worried tilt right below the surface you can barely notice, but it’s there.
Izuku shook his head, rogue tears falling off his face and dropping to the smooth linoleum flooring. He can’t urge himself to talk, he’s too embarrassed, he’s to overwhelm, and the idea of talking makes his throat close up. He tightens his grip around himself.
He wished Mr. Aizawa hadn’t caught him. He didn’t want him to think differently of him. He was a handworker, and he didn’t want to get anything in between of him and his learning. He didn’t want to think that others looked down at him for something like this, much less his teacher. He squeeze himself tightly, bowing his head low enough that he could almost bury it into his own stomach.
All his nerves felt extra sensitive; the light from the bulbs above hurt his wet eyes, piercing a headache through him right to his forehead. He hated himself for being like this. He just wanted to be normal. He just wanted … he didn’t know. Not this.
Mr. Aizawa’s presence wasn’t overbearing, or overwhelming, it was just there, like a comforting item in a room. Not that he wasn’t a human, he was, and his rhythmic breathing edging Izuku’s to follow was calming his growing anxiety. He hiccupped one last time, a splatter of wet tears falling to the floor as he took a shaking breath. He sucked in air, and shakily exhaled. Aizawa in front of him guiding it silently.
Soon, a few minutes of breathing deeply and following Mr. Aizawa’s calming rhythm, he stopped his ragged breaths. He could breathe normally again, although he still felt shaky and weak from the emotions that had just flowed through his body. His salty tears slowed, no longer flooding his red cheeks.
His grip around himself loosened, but he still felt on guard. He was waiting for Mr. Aizawa to say anything. He was waiting for the inevitable ‘are you sure this is the right school for you?’ or ‘you think you can be a hero like that?’ or even ‘someone like you isn’t fit to be here’ but in never came. Instead, there was a slide of plastic on the floor right where he was looking down.
In his vision appeared a black phone, open to the notes app. He scrunched his eyebrows together confused. Why was he being showed his phone? Was he supposed to call someone? His mom? He didn’t want to tell his mom anything about this. He waiting a few moments unmoving, until he heard a soft sigh,
“Type if you can’t tell me with words, even one word would help,” he gently pushes the phone closer to Izuku with a few fingers.
“Are you scared? Sad? Angry?” He could tell Mr. Aizawa was worried for him. He felt bad for making his teacher worry, and he also felt guilty for being unable to talk.
He reached towards the foreign phone, feeling a deep anxiety fill his arms worrying that he’d somehow drop it and shatter it, completely depleting his teachers trust in him even more. With shaking fingers, he slowly typed out a few letters,
“Sorry”
He places the phone back on the ground, sliding it with his jittery hands.
He didn’t know what else to say other than ‘sorry’. It was the only word that was coming to mind. He was sorry. He was sorry that Mr. Aizawa found him like this, He was sorry that he was taking time out of his teachers day to have to help him, he was sorry for existing. His breath hitched again, causing a half hiccup to arise through the air between them. He reached his hand up to his hair, twisting the hair between his fingers and pulling gently.
Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Mr. Aizawa shake his head, hand coming up to scratch at his cheek then back down to the floor.
“Well, I’m afraid you don’t have anything to be sorry for, kid.” He pauses, taking in Izuku’s appearance. It was starting to look better than when he had first walked into the room. “I don’t know what’s bothering you, but I do want you to be aware that you aren’t in the wrong right now whatever it may be” he swatted at the hand Izuku had stuck in his hair, “stop pulling your hair, you have to be careful and more gentle” he said offhand.
Izuku breathed deeply. He nodded slightly, still looking down at his lap. The slight nodding of his head reminded his head of the comforting stimming motions it felt like, and he felt himself repeatedly nodding his head up and down. He still felt overwhelmed, but at least he could breathe. He was almost glad now that he wasn’t alone, even if he wished his homeroom teacher hadn’t seen him like this. He couldn’t imagine what he thought of him now.
Aizawa took his phone, typed a short message to someone then pressed send. He quickly changed apps, opening a folder filled with pictures.
Pictures of cats.
He once again placed the phone down and slid it into Izuku’s vision.
It made him pause. If he wasn’t so hyped up on his own confusing emotions, he would for sure be almost amused knowing his gruff and ‘emotionless’ teacher had a soft thing for cats.
“Scroll” he hears, and he does.
He scrolls through an entire folder of cats, all different kinds. Different breeds, different ages, all of them ranging from humorous pictures to just straight up adorable. He couldn’t believe someone like his teacher had these.
He didn’t notice that it had actually calmed him down quite a bit until he finished, finding the last picture and pausing, sliding the phone back to Mr. Aizawa.
“Thought you could use the distraction.” Was all he got when he subtly lifted an eyebrow in questioning, not wanting to seem unthankful.
“Alright Midoriya, I’m going to ask you something,” Izuku gulped staring down at his hands. “You don’t have to use words, nod your head for yes, shake for no” Mr. Aizawa was sitting down cross-legged in front of him, he finally could tell because he took a tiny quick glance up. He was far enough away from him that he didn’t feel crowded or threatened. He nodded.
“Did something at school happen today that upset you?” Izuku paused feeling himself lose a little focus. He couldn’t say that anything specifically caused him to be upset, not really. Sure, the little things built to feel like a crashing wave, but it wasn’t anything specific. He shrugged his shoulders, bringing his hands together to play with his scars and fingers. Mr. Aizawa hummed.
Mr. Aizawa leaned back. With a minute of silence, he reaches into his pocket to show a sticky note, placing it between them.
It’s a few doodles. There is a doodle of a fat cat, one of the principal looking particularly feral, and one of Present Mic yawning. They were obviously done in pen, no room for error but not caring if they happened. He looked up at Mr. Aizawa for the first time that wasn’t a quick glance,
“In staff meetings we often need to take notes. They go on for awhile, and I feel like I’ll flip a table if I don’t do something else,” he says nonchalantly. “I’m no good, but it’s better than just writing words” Izuku nods, understanding. He doesn’t quite get why this Is relevant, or what this has to do with the situation, but he thinks it could be one of his teachers logical distractions.
He breathes a few times, easing the shakiness in his shoulders.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is… Things are tough. I don’t know what’s going on for you outside of my classroom, but I do want you to know that you can seek me out if you need to for help.” His teacher tapped his fingers on his knees.
He looked down at the post-it note, feeling himself almost be able to smile. He’s glad Mr. Aizawa doesn’t seem as scary as he did the first week of school. He actually cared about his students as if they were his own kids, and it comforted him to know that he wasn’t being punished for something out of his control like he would have been in previous years of schooling.
His arms went out beside him to flap a little bit, his whole body feeling tired from the amount of emotion he let out.
He nodded his head very subtly, feeling the edges of his lips quirk up into a smile. He looked down at his hands once more.
“Tha-ank you,” He rubbed his palms together, “Sorry for, for taking up you-your time,” he paused “and phone…”
There was a little snort, and Mr. Aizawa got up from his position, still leaning down a bit, “No problem, kid. You didn’t take up my time, and my phone will be alright,” the erasure hero stretched his arms out, cracking his back. He looked back at Izuku, “Tomorrow we will go to class like this never happened. I won’t single you out, and I won’t hold this against you” he paused again to cross his arms. “But, if you ever need help, even if it’s something you claim is ‘dumb’, just ask.” He reaches out and pats Izuku’s shoulder, outstretching his hand to help Izuku up as well.
He took it, nodding, and then wiping his hand on his pants to get rid of the sweat of anxiety he’d been feeling all day.
Mr. Aizawa was at the door, slid it open, then tilted his head out, “It’s after school hours, you need to get home”.
Izuku felt embarrassed about this whole situation, but he couldn’t help but feel better. This had never happened before; nobody had ever stopped to legitimately help him. His old teachers just let him get it out of his system and would often times berate him for becoming so “unhinged”.
It’s a good thing that UA is a lot different than middle school.