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Shouta cannot sleep.
This is normal, he rationalizes, and he knows it. It is rare for him to be able to sleep in the later hours in the morning, once his shift is done. He only has around four hours to get as much sleep as he can, and it’s not rare for him to find himself unable to rest and resort to snoozing in his sleeping bag while teaching. This is normal, he rationalizes.
But these past few days have been anything but normal.
There is a small child passed out in Shuzenji’s office. That same child nearly rewound one of his students to the point of nonexistence. Several students, including two of his, have been gravely injured. One promising young hero’s Quirk has been completely erased. A pro hero is dead.
Shouta cannot sleep.
Despite everything, this is normal. What’s also normal is him getting up, regretting it instantly as all chances for rest are wiped away, and deciding that if he cannot sleep he might as well make some coffee and prepare for the day. So that’s exactly what he does.
What’s certainly not normal is heading down to the 1-A dorm’s kitchen and seeing a head of messy, curly green hair there as well.
“What are doing you up.” He asks, only it comes out a lot gruffer and snappier than he really intended. His problem child flinches, as if he hadn’t seen Shouta. That’s odd; Midoriya, for all his self-sacrificing faults and often reckless behavior, was one of the most observant students in his class, and Shouta was standing right in front of him.
“Sorry- sorry, sensei.” Midoriya says, but he breathes the words out like a gasp.
Shit. How could he have forgotten? Midoriya was interning under Sir Nighteye’s agency, of course he would find it difficult to sleep after watching someone die. It always was.
“It’s fine.” Shouta walks over to the kitchen, noticing that Problem Child used the kettle to make himself a cup of tea. Instead of wasting energy and getting out a whole new pot, he decided instead to simply pour himself a mug. “Just make sure that you don’t overdo yourself in training today; you’ve had a long week. Don’t overexert yourself so much.”
Midoriya nods, but it seems as though he barely heard him. Grabbing his still warm cup of tea, Shouta walks over to the couch his student is on. He sits down a comfortable distance from him, and the teen doesn’t make any moves to move closer or further from him.
There is quiet, for a time.
“...Aizawa-sensei?” His problem child’s voice is soft, so soft Shouta wondered if he spoke at all.
At the lack of response, Midoriya continues. If Shouta cared about whatever question it would be, he would have said something.
“Did… did you ever... lose anyone?”
Shouta freezes.
In an instant, apologies fly out of Midoriya’s mouth before the hero can react further. “I’m sorry! That was a really insensitive question, I shouldn’t have- I mean- I was just wondering, but you really don’t have to answer- I mean, if you want to, then that’d be fine, but-”
“Problem Child.” Shouta reminds him, forcing his body to relax. “Breathe.”
“Right, right, sorry.” Midoriya says, a nervous, defensive, self-deprecating smile on his face. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” It really isn’t, but Shouta can’t bring himself to reprimand someone who’s experienced more horror in the last two days than most pros experience in two decades. He’s rational, not cruel.
They sit in silence that is far more uncomfortable than before.
“I did.” Shouta’s voice cuts through the air like a knife, and the kid’s body tenses as his head whips around to face him, the look in those green eyes startled.
“Oh.” Midoriya says, sounding more surprised at the fact that the hero answered him, and not at the actual answer itself. “When did-”
“I was a little older than you are.” Shouta takes a sip of his tea, savoring the warmth and honey-like flavour. “He was a… a friend in my class.”
“I…” Problem Child begins, and Shouta knows instantly what he is about to say. “I’m sorry-”
A choked off gasp. A thud. A crack. Deafening silence.
A voice, words that were never spoken at all.
“Don’t be.” The underground hero leans back on the couch, already wishing he was back in the cold embrace of sleep. “It was a while ago. There’s nothing either of us can do.”
And god, hadn’t that been a horrible realization when he was younger? The mortifying knowledge that someone who had always believed in him, had always cared about him, was always going to be a much better hero than he ever could, was gone. Yamada and Kayama were still there, of course. But they weren’t the same. No one was ever the same.
“How did you… um…” Midoriya’s voice is even quieter than before. Shouta hadn’t thought that was possible, especially for someone who couldn’t stop talking when he began to ramble out questions about someone’s Quirk and how it worked. “How did you get over it?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Plenty of pros, especially ones who had teams with friends or siblings, lost someone important to them. No one ever knew how to “get over it”. To tell Midoriya anything but the truth would just be cruel.
So he doesn’t.
“You don’t.” He says, the words soft, but blunt. Honest, but not unkind. “You have to accept it, and try to move on.”
“Oh.” The kid says, and Shouta hears more than a little disappointment in his voice. He decides to show him some mercy.
“...It can… help,” he begins. “To talk about it with someone.”
Despite the blanket draped across his shoulders, Midoriya freezes.
“Oh.” He repeats, voice hardly a whisper, and it’s remarkable how the same word can have so many different emotions behind it.
God, he cares about these kids too much. They were absolutely going to be the death of him some day. And yet, somehow, he doesn’t mind. It had been a while since he’d wanted someone to protect like he wanted to protect the students of Class 1-A, and that one in General Studies. It feels… nice. To keep them safe. To want to keep them safe.
Even though he is pretty sure his grey hairs have multiplied over the past months since the USJ incident.
Midoriya looks at him - or rather, the space right next to him - in a way that could almost be described as longingly. Shouta lets his arm drop in what he hopes is a slightly inviting gesture.
He decides that it must have been, given how Midoriya slowly, fearfully, but surely finds his way by his side and shakily rests his head on Shouta’s shoulder.
The boy is trembling - god, was he always this small? - and Shouta puts his arm on his shoulder.
“Are- are you sure?” Problem Child asks.
“Midoriya. Why would I ever say something I didn’t mean?”
“You’ve done it before. I was sure I was gonna be expelled on the first day of school.” His student mumbles out, almost defensively, and oh. That’s a good point.
“That’s a good point.” Shouta says, voice half a grumble, and Midoriya laughs a little bit.
They stay like this. Shouta’s never had anyone do this before, not ever in the dorms. Most of the students would rather go to their friends for comfort than their teacher.
But Midoriya wouldn’t do that. Because Shouta had seen the kid’s middle school records, had seen Quirkless written on it like a brand. Even if he would have been comfortable going to friends at an ungodly hour such as this, Shouta doubted that anyone would truly know what it’s like to lose someone you look up to. Only Iida could have a semblance of it, and even then Ingenium was still alive.
“...Thank you,” Midoriya whispers, after what feels like hours. Perhaps it was. Shouta’s arm wraps around him a little tighter, a little softer, a little gentler.
“Of course.” He says, and means it.
Midoriya cannot sleep, and this is normal. It will have to be, for the next while until he can move on. But. Sooner or later, he will be okay. He and that child in Shuzenji’s office will be okay, and Kirishima in the hospital will be okay, and that boy the redhead was interning with will be okay, and that boy who had lost both his Quirk and his mentor in one day will be okay.
For now, they are not okay. This is normal. But they will be.
They will be.