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he doesn’t know what day it is.
probably a thursday, he muses, blinking until the world comes back into focus. he’s sitting up in bed, fiddling with his short fingernails because once he gets started on something he gets possessed until he’s finished enough to satisfy his fucked up brain, has to tear the hangnail until it comes off even when it stings. it’s uncomfortable, meaningless. no one is better off for him having accomplished making the length of one nail even with itself, and he’s wasted time he could use doing something meaningful. stupid . he’s meant to be a hero and he can’t even recall the lesson he sat through in class today, doing his best to look like he followed every word when he was mostly daydreaming, doodling on the edges of his paper in a vain attempt to stay focused. focus is such a concise word for a concept that evades him at every turn; just focus, just pay attention. surely it can’t be as hard as it feels.
it’s one of those Moments, one where it takes longer and longer each time he zones out to find his place, where it turns from a moment to a Moment to a wow, when the hell did it get to be three in the morning? that’s not ideal!
he blinks again: finds himself standing in the kitchen. he doesn’t quite recall getting up in the first place, but he’s struck by that frustratingly vague notion he had something to do and it was time sensitive and it’s going to drive him insane until he figures it out. he sighs, softly, doing his best to stay in the moment and hope the thread of necessity that drove him out of bed and into this room will find him in time, if he holds still and closes his eyes and just waits.
it doesn't; he wanders back to his room, frustrated, still plagued by the sense of urgency he can’t really describe as he retraces his steps. sitting on the bed scribbling ideas in the margins of his paper, feeling stupid, feeling his mouth go dry at the prospect of not having his work done by tomorrow morning for class because he can’t even discern what he needs to get done. wanting water, standing and drifting to the kitchen. water! he wants water. he hurries back with his fingers crossed in one hand to make certain he doesn’t forget this time, throwing open a cabinet and making his hand close around a glass before it can wonder what it was meant to hold at three am in the kitchen with a brain that barely retains his name, most days. he feels stupid. his mouth is dry. he wants water. against the odds, he’s elated to remember all three of these things. he’s ashamed to be elated. he forgets, again, what he is doing.
he’s sitting at his desk. he doesn’t know if he has his english writing assignment with him; he remembers reading the bullet points of what he needed to accomplish, but is not sure if he dreamed the entire persuasive argument or through some trick of fate completed it without remembering.
it turns out to be neither; a quick search through his filing cabinet of a bag reveals two lines of a one page minimum paper completed. he ducks his head when present mic tells everyone to pass their papers up, shame heating up inside him until he can’t focus for the pounding in his ears. yamada-sensei didn’t even notice, yet, probably won't until he goes to grade in three or four days (he knows this because school has always been a game of how much dawdling can he get away with before someone gets furious that he doesn’t know how to get it together, how long can he go before turning in his best effort and how good can it be to make up for the fact it’s a week late because he doesn’t understand the parameters and is terrified of turning something in that doesn’t fit whatsoever he needs it spelled out for him and even then it’s a long shot.)
“deku?” uraraka asks, tilting her head slightly at him. he blanches, grabbing the papers from the rest of the row behind him and handing them up with a stuttered apology. she beams at him, assures him, “i know by now you zone out, deku, i’m your friend..!”
“yeah,” he answers, laughing softly along with her. (does not let himself think she is laughing at him, does not.) “yeah, o-of course..”
she lets her gaze gnaw at him a second longer, like she’s trying to get it through his thick skull she cares (which he knows, he does, but no way in hell is he going to admit instead of finishing the assignment he was up for four hours on wikihow teaching himself how to avoid a drowning situation and then a stranded on an island situation and then basic survival stuff because that was the idiotic thing he latched on to and he knows that makes him sound paranoid or lazy or whatever it is people see in someone like him when he doesn’t act normal) before she takes the stack of other papers and hands them off to present mic.
it’s remarkably easy to let yamada-sensei’s voice roll in one ear and out the other, especially considering he’s been trying to talk almost all in english and the conscious effort to decipher meaning is way too much for izuku to handle. he doesn’t let himself drift, but he drifts, anyway.
he’s having a good day, taking a little time to hang out with iida, uraraka, and todoroki at the park. todoroki is taking them through a story (a little reluctantly, probably because he and iida are both focused on him and he doesn’t do super well with being the topic of conversation, which midoriya notices strictly because they’re friends), leaned against one of the poles holding up the swings he and uraraka are seated in. she’s actively swinging, trying to use her quirk to get longer air time, occasionally calling out to them to look—he’s simply sitting in the seat, swaying back and forth and dragging his bright red shoes in the wood chips. he’s finding it a little difficult to pick a line of audio to direct his attention to with the swing squeaking behind him and todoroki’s soft voice in front, but he’s doing his best.
“so, fuyumi was trying not to laugh because it was very early in the morning, but—“ he’s saying before midoriya is possessed by whatever brain demon defies the intricacy of human conversation in order to make him spit out the next series of words.
“oh my god, i just remembered what happened yesterday at like, three am,” he blurts, pausing momentarily when he notices the faint turn down of iida’s expression—disapproval. midoriya’s worst enemy.
“oh. sorry, you, um..” he swallows around a ball of emotion that tastes suspiciously like shame. he’s been alive sixteen years and still hasn’t figured out when to shut up . “you were saying.. fuyumi..” he prompts, trying very very hard not to burst into tears at the prospect of having bulldozed over todoroki’s story.
“it’s really fine,” todoroki assures, not moving all that quickly to continue. he’s just looking at midoriya, and it’s not mean because todoroki doesn’t really do petty with his peers, doesn’t really engage in any kind of negative conversation at all (to the point he will openly agree with something midoriya knows for a fact he doesn’t identify with, as long as it means not initiating an argument).
“you should be more careful not to talk over your classmates!” iida tells him earnestly. it’s extremely iida, extremely normal; he tries to school all his classmates on social behavior. hell, he probably already told todoroki twice this very conversation not to trail off because he and midoriya wanted to hear what todoroki had to say, probably reprimanded even himself for poor etiquette—but all midoriya hears are a million and one voices, directing, shut up already, midoriya! all you talk about is heroes, anyway, and we’ve heard it a hundred times!
“it can wait a moment,” todoroki cuts in, blunt but not unkind, startling midoriya at his good timing. he’s still studying his face (midoriya hopes he didn’t look too much like he was going to cry, while he was zoning out). “if you’ve already forgotten to mention it once, you might forget again. it’s okay.”
“are you guys cool down there?” uraraka calls when midoriya takes too long to talk, dangling upside down where she’s apparently negated gravity on the seat she’s in, tangling the chain around the top bar in the process. (he’s grateful at her interruption; he already forgot what he was going to say.)
“yeah, we’re all good!” he chirps, wanting to cut his tongue out (or something equally dramatic) when it sort of overlaps with iida’s, “just fine! thank you!”
she goes back to her task and he finds his two friends staring at him. he has never been more convinced he’s cursed than the moment he opens his mouth and doesn’t recall a word of what he wanted to talk about.
“yesterday at ‘like, three am’,” todoroki hums, throwing him a lifeline. his ears burn hot with embarrassment; later, he will think about this conversation until the folds of his brain are worn from mulling over if he should take immediate action and fling himself off a rooftop over the interrupting mistake. for now, he runs a hand through his hair to try and shake the heat of shame off his face.
“right,” he says. pauses. remembers. “right, ok, so yesterday a-at like, three in the morning i swear to god kaminari was..”
he’s not having a Moment, necessarily, this time, but he is having way too much trouble figuring out what’s happening at any given moment.
he’s on his laptop, focused, for once—but only because he‘s been at it for hours and he’s really invested in the topic; uraraka and todoroki sit in his dorm, having promised to make minimal judgements about the array of all might merchandise so long as snacks are provided (and thus eating puffy Cheetos).
“hey deku,” uraraka chirps, brushing hair out of her face with fingers stained orange. he’s always a little surprised by the kindness ever present in her voice. “what are you working on, anyway?”
“oh!” he draws himself up a little more, elated she’s asked, biting his lip in thought before he decides whether or not to start. then, after a moment of weighing the probability she asked just to make fun of him versus his human common sense, “i was actually looking into the decline in popularity around, um, mutant type quirk heroes? kamui woods has been down in opinion polls lately and there’s a lot of really interesting—and kind of sad, i mean—information online about the demonization of those kinds of quirks in recent media, like, even video games or comic books and stuff, and now i’m making a spreadsheet to mark the top hundred heroes’ popularity in recent years and—“
he pauses because all of a sudden he has to squeeze his eyes shut, overcome by a wave of dizziness that has him struggling to speak. when he opens them again, todoroki’s brow creases, slightly, and uraraka reaches a hand out to steady him.
“midoriya?” todoroki asks, posture shifting like he’s going to stand. he waves his friends off, confused and honestly annoyed at his body’s latest attempt at self-sabotage.
“i’m fine.” the steel in uraraka’s gaze forces him to remember he’s sort of banned from saying ‘i’m fine’ and he goes to reassess quickly. “i mean, um—i just got really dizzy for a second? but that just happens sometimes..”
his friends continue to stare, both in their varying states of struggling to believe midoriya. he rolls his eyes (noticing a little late that his vision is slightly blurring), waving a hand at them.
“i don’t know, deku, if you’re getting dizzy, there might be something really wrong,” uraraka insists, and he squirms under her (well meaning but extremely intense) gaze. “have you been drinking water? sometimes i get headaches if i don’t get enough water.”
“hydrate or die-drate,” todoroki adds, sagely.
“yeah! i have a water b..” he flushes, realizing his water bottle is still completely full from when he filled it a couple days back. it must have slipped his mind. “okay, but i don’t drink water much anyway?”
“what about food?” she asks.
he considers—if he’s eaten recently, there are usually plates in his room because he consistently forgets to bring them into the kitchen until it becomes enough of a problem the rest of the class will (goodnaturedly, but still intimidatingly—his class as a united front was a lot scarier than any one on their own, even kaminari and ashido threateningly to kill him with the frisbees they eat cereal out of in dark times—) harass him. his room is, however, suspiciously empty.
“um. no,” he settles on, way, way too late, wincing. stupid, stupid, stupid. “sorry?”
“it’s okay,” uraraka reassures, backtracking when he apparently stares too long. it’s not intentional; his brain’s running a lot slower without proper eating or drinking or sleeping, and. yikes. “well—not okay, but i know you’re trying! what was the problem?”
guilt turns to embarrassment, and he rubs at his face like he’s not tearing up over having missed a few meals. “i just, er.. forgot,” he admits, not entirely sure he even says it out loud. “i forgot.”
as school’s intensity picks up, he tries his best to manage the various facets of functioning-while-not-functioning, including, but not limited to: missing meals, having Moments, losing sleep, and struggling to keep up.
everything feels like a tradeoff. he understands the scoring system of midnight’s project only to forget he has to make up that writing he missed for present mic’s class. he loses sleep to fix it and passes out before doing the new stretches aizawa showed him during training. he has to jump through a million hoops just to keep up and even then, he isn’t really keeping up. how can he be trying so hard at everything and have that energy go toward nothing meaningful at all?
“do you ever think,” he murmurs, one day, when it’s just him and todoroki in the common room of the dorms. todoroki sits on the arm of the couch, chin resting on his knee like a curled up gargoyle or something, head canted toward midoriya on the other seat. it’s pretty rare that this room is empty save for them, but not as rare for them to hang out alone. as friends. he has a special bond with a lot of his friends, if he really thinks about it—he can always count on uraraka to have his back, and iida will without fail trust him as a moral compass, and todoroki will knock on his door when he needs to get out of his own head. or to fall asleep knowing someone will wake him if there’s an emergency. or just to talk. or—
“yes,” todoroki answers, deadpan, though the faintest smirk crosses his features at his own little joke. if all midoriya’s life is going to be tradeoffs, he will gladly fail classes to still remember to watch for todoroki’s small smiles.
“sorry,” he mumbles, mostly on instinct years old, because todoroki makes a point of either not accepting his apologies or making him figure out he doesn’t need to say sorry to begin with. “it’s just, like. i think i’m no good at multitasking, but in all of life in general. like i think everything is going wrong, and, uh.. i can put out one fire just to start two more, you know?”
“you’re asking if i, todoroki shouto, ever think about fire?” he quips.
midoriya grins and blows out a breath. “you’re no help when you’re being funny,” he pouts, guilt aching in his chest at the real worry that lights up in todoroki’s mismatched eyes. “not actually mad,” he adds, knowing if it was his friend making the same joke he’d be sitting there analyzing its meaning for an hour. “i just don’t think i’m, er.. like. i’ve been finding it a lot harder to focus on things that matter lately, you know? i—like, i think present mic might actually commit a crime against me because i still haven’t done the writing. and i keep trying to do the writing, i swear, but everything’s always in the way, and then, like—i don’t know. do you know what i mean at all?”
“not really,” he answers, honest as ever after a moment of thought. “do you think it’s stress? i know..” todoroki trails off, another one of those little moments where it becomes apparent he’s not all that used to admitting things. “ah. when i—at the beginning of the term, when i was still being..”
“when you were dealing with a lot,” midoriya supplies. todoroki doesn’t seem able to repeat that one because he simply nods and continues.
“it was more difficult to focus on my studies than to think about everything.. stressing me. do you think that’s it?”
he considers. “no?” he guesses, and then both likes and hates the way it feels to say out loud. “like—agh! i’ve been under way more stress than this, you know? um, at the start of the year when i still couldn’t control my quirk, i was, like.. always thinking about school, i was so psyched i got in. it was stressful because i sort of, uh, kept going overboard and having to see recovery girl and getting aizawa glares. or right after the usj, um.. well, you know, like—no one slept easy after the usj, we were all so on edge, but it was easy to pay attention to all the hero training things. now it just feels like out of nowhere i have to try so hard to put school back in the spotlight, um...”
todoroki seems to be deep in thought. or drifting to sleep. midoriya is fine with either, really; he doesn’t figure there’s a simple answer to all the ways his brain refuses to cooperate. being defective is nothing new, a voice in his head that sounds a lot like kacchan pipes up. he waits to hear something to that effect, something like maybe you should try working harder or that’s exactly what i’d expect, from someone like you.
it doesn’t come. “what about in junior high?” todoroki prompts, standing and moving to join him on the couch for no particular reason. he seems to consider the seating options very carefully before curling up close enough midoriya can feel the cushion shift anytime he does, tilting his head slightly in question as a reminder he’s waiting on an answer.
“junior high?” he scratches the back of his head so his fingers don’t go to rub at the little firecracker scars scattered across his skin, makes his hands stay still in his lap. he tries not to think about junior high. “junior was, um.. kind of a joke? i just did all my homework in class so i could talk or doodle or whatever. i mean, not that..” anyone wanted to listen. “i don’t know. it wasn’t a problem, but now i, like, have to make an effort and i don’t think i’m built like that. i might just be plain stupid,” he concludes through a breath of laughter, noting, frustratingly enough, his hands are fidgeting adamantly anyway.
todoroki purses his lips in a way that usually indicates he’s deep in thought, or that he’s trying very hard not to say something too quickly. midoriya wishes he had that kind of forethinking.
“i don’t think you’re stupid,” todoroki admits, very softly. it shouldn’t make midoriya as happy as it does, to hear someone else—who he respects, who he likes—dismiss that last self-deprecating thought he almost didn’t voice. “is this making it hard to function day to day?”
“i’m barely functioning hour to hour,” he returns, like a joke. it hits a little too close to home, and he sniffles, suddenly way too emotional about how bad it’s getting. he wonders if todoroki studies his expressions like midoriya does; he wonders if he can see him fall apart, can know the stinging in his eyes and throat or can imagine the struggle to tamp it down. “i—i just, like..i don’t even know what to do a-anymore, you know, like..”
todoroki reaches out and stalls midoriya’s hand—he blinks. (he hadn’t noticed it scratching harshly at the scarred skin of his arm, angry red marks staring back at him. just another thing he forgot in the moment. the list is ever growing.) he scoots a little closer, peering at him and taking midoriya’s hand in both of his.
“um,” he says, eloquently. “sorry.”
“no,” todoroki dismisses. simple, to the point. he feels compelled to say sorry for saying sorry and tries not to consider what the root of that guilt is. honestly, so much is happening up in his head that he wouldn’t be surprised if he stopped functioning altogether, rust creeping at his joints until all he can do is sit in his bed and find increasingly creative ways to avoid fixing his life. “i think.. maybe you should see one of the school counselors.”
he opens his mouth to interrupt but pauses at the earnest, open expression on todoroki’s face. he’s not quite facing him, staring at their hands instead, and midoriya wonders distantly if that’s why he took it in the first place: a focal point where he doesn’t need to make eye contact but can still convey a lot.
“when i told you about all my..,” todoroki gestures, movements small so he doesn’t jerk midoriya around but nonsensical nonetheless, “i wanted you to be the only person to know. but it’s—i have a lot. of things.. and even if we talked every day for years it’s just.” he sighs, seeming a little frustrated he can’t articulate his point. “there are things you can’t tell your friends. and it’s.. nice, to have you to talk to. but you don’t point out the ways my thinking and mannerisms and all such are—“
midoriya squeezes his hand, slightly. he flashes a brief todoroki smile. “related,” he finishes. “i don’t come to you to unload and leave. that’s not what.. friends, are for. do you understand my meaning?”
he finds himself silent.
“i like my counselor,” todoroki adds, barely audible. “and since they’re through the school, they’re all screened and everything. they’re meant to help you function as best as you can. i know.. asking for help is not really your wheelhouse. but.” he glances up, barely making eye contact, and then back down at their hands.
“maybe,” midoriya concedes. it’s a little painful to think about. he doesn’t even want to admit how ashamed he is to himself, much less go in to some sort of therapy session and admit he’s barely scraping by on the work he can manage to do. he wonders if they’d expel him, knowing half the time he just skips what he doesn’t understand and invests himself in the things he likes instead. he doesn’t doubt aizawa has kicked kids out for less. “um—how would i..”
todoroki gives his hand a squeeze so gentle he’s not even sure he feels it until it comes with that smile. “i asked aizawa,” he murmurs. “he made it his own personal project to make sure i settled in well. i think he cares way too much.”
“he really needs a vacation,” midoriya agrees, trying not to think about how much easier it is to sort of agree to see a psychiatrist when it’s todoroki’s suggestion. really, it’s something he’s been wrestling with himself for weeks. funny how easy it is to comprehend when it comes from someone else. “i think.. me asking for help might give him a real, um, heart attack? wait, maybe i shouldn’t, like—i feel like it’s a genuine health risk for him. i have to make sure he’s sitting down and not holding anything fragile..”
aizawa doesn’t quite stroke out when midoriya and todoroki hang back after class one day, but he thinks it’s a near thing.
“the school has a counseling network,” midoriya starts off with, biting his lip. his hands are shaking so he crosses his arms, rocking a little on the balls of his feet.
“oh my god,” aizawa says, slowly, his dry drawl light despite the sarcasm lining its edges, “where are the cameras, problem child. get it over with, you got me. i’m punk’d.”
todoroki sort of tenses beside him and midoriya thanks him, silently, for being ready to jump to his defense—but he’s had to have enough talks with aizawa to know (mostly) when he’s joking, and he allows a small smile before he continues.
“i think, um, i’d like—a psychiatrist?” he doesn’t know why he says it like a question when he spent two hours watching himself say the words in the mirror, but it does the trick; aizawa almost smiles, nodding.
“pull up a chair. i have a pamphlet,” he advises, opening a desk drawer and pulling it out in an absurdly short amount of time. he wonders whether aizawa is unexpectedly organized or just anticipates all of class 1a kind of needs therapy.
todoroki tilts his head at midoriya, and his heart sort of flutters at the way he’s silently concerned—soft in the question but firm in the way he doesn’t move an inch without inquiring.
“um..” he fumbles for something to say: he has to make sure to be delicate in how he talks to todoroki, sometimes, because he has midoriya’s same tendency to overthink and come to his own conclusions. “hey, thanks for staying. you can go ahead and get to lunch, now, though. i’ll catch up, er—right after this!”
“are you sure?” midoriya flashes a smile and bobs his head, and with a final unreadable glance, todoroki nods and turns to go.
he turns back to find aizawa watching him. “uh—sorry?” he guesses, because that usually applies.
“it’s good to have a support system,” aizawa returns, by means of explanation, a note of honesty in his tone that touches midoriya more than he cares to admit. he kind of hates how much he looks up to aizawa (because okay, maybe he has issues with his father not being around and maybe it makes him realize he sort of latches on to the several male authority figures in his life as role models), but that’s really not what he’s dealing with right now. “you and all your class—it’s.. i’m glad you’re close.”
“uh.. me too,” he agrees, uncertain how to respond to that as he tries not to make peering at the pamphlet in the pro’s hands too obvious. it’s tantalizing, knowing the path to problem solving is right there in his teacher’s hands.
“now,” aizawa says, and the way he leans in feels like the answer to his months long cry for help, like instead of bearing witness to a hero saving the day he finally is experiencing it, in his own private way. all of a sudden, he hopes aizawa knows he doesn’t have to be patrolling to be eraserhead; he could write a dissertation on his teacher’s quiet, firm form of reassurance—and he might, actually, after this. “let’s get this figured out.”