Work Text:
Shouta sighed, leaning back in his uncomfortable desk chair for what was probably the twentieth time that night. His back screamed at him to take a break, so he did. He stood from his chair and stretched his limbs, dragging himself over to the break table for a cup of coffee.
He grimaced at the cold liquid. Ugh, instant coffee was the worst.
“Hangin’ in there, Aizawa?” one of his coworkers- a man in his late twenties whose name Shouta couldn’t be bothered to remember- shot a half-assed smile at him.
“Mngh,” he grumbled, downing the rest of the cup in one go and chucking the empty plastic receptacle into the garbage. He dropped back down into his chair and let out a heaving sigh.
“Tough call?” the man asked.
“You could say that.” Shouta dragged a hand down his face. God, he needed sleep.
Two weeks into the job and he was starting to hit his limit. Why had he gone through ten weeks of training again?
Right- he had to do some sort of mandatory mental health volunteer hours. God, the Hero Commission sucked sometimes.
Still, he supposed there were worse things than working at a crisis hotline center.
He sighed again. His phone rang, and he begrudgingly picked it up.
“Hello, this is the Center for Suicide Prevention. My name is Shouta.” There was a sniff from the other end. Shouta tapped his fingers idly against the keyboard, listening carefully. “What name can I use for you during our conversation?”
“Shouto is fine.”
“How old are you, Shouto?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Alright, that’s perfectly okay. Thank you for answering. Are you thinking of killing yourself?”
“I-” Shouto seemed to shift positions, wherever he was. “It’s complicated.”
“Have you ever attempted suicide in the past?”
“No.”
“Do you know what time you’re planning to kill yourself?”
“No,” Shouto shifted again, “it’s just a thought.”
“And do you have anything in the room that you’re thinking of using to commit suicide?”
“N-not that I want to kill myself with, no.”
Shouta frowned and scrolled up to the list of questions. He really hated categorizing people based on how at-risk they were, but that was the most logical way to work in this kind of situation, and it wasn’t like the questions were bad- they just seemed a little heartless.
Shouta inwardly scoffed. Heartless? Since when did Aizawa Shouta use the word ‘heartless?’
“Are you in any immediate danger?” he asked.
“I… don’t know.”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
“My… my father wants to hurt me.”
“Is your father in the house with you right now?” Shit- Shouta racked his brain for the memory of the abuse training he’d received weeks ago.
“Yes.”
“Where are you, and where is your father?”
“I’m in my bathroom,” Shouto answered, voice lower than it was before, “my father is downstairs.”
“Alright. Are you having thoughts of harming yourself or others?”
There was a beat of silence on the other end, and Shouta wondered for a moment if he’d hung up, before:
“Yes.”
“Have you harmed yourself in the past?”
“Yes.”
Shouta’s heart gave a little tug. The boy on the other end sounded too young to be self harming. “Have you harmed yourself yet?”
“No.”
“And is there anything in the bathroom that you could use to harm yourself with?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what those are?”
“There’s… a bottle of pills under the sink. And a razor on the floor next to me.”
“Can you try to put distance between yourself and those objects?”
“I… don’t want to open the door,” Shouto admitted, breaths picking up, “my father will hear me.”
“That’s okay,” Shouta said, typing up Shouto’s answers- he was relatively low-risk, much to Shouta’s relief, which meant that hopefully he wouldn’t need to call the cops. “Why don’t you try to put them away in a cabinet? Would that work?”
“I suppose,” Shouto shifted. Shouta heard the sound of muffled footsteps and the gentle creak of a cabinet door opening on the other end, before Shouto returned to the phone. “They’re in the cabinet.”
“That’s good,” Shouta said, “can you think of anything that happened today that might have set you off?”
“Father called me a failure for messing up in training,” Shouto admitted, “and I… he mentioned my mother. She’s… not doing well right now.”
“Is your father attempting to harm you currently?”
“He’s shouting at my sister,” Shouto answered.
“Is your sister in immediate danger?”
“He won’t hurt her.”
“Are you in any danger, Shouto?”
“H-he wants to…” Shouto seemed to gulp, “he wants to hurt me.”
“Is he going to attempt to kill you or inflict serious harm?”
“I don’t know.” There was a bang on the other end. Shouto let out a whimper. “I don’t want to call the police.”
“We don’t have to call the police,” Shouta placated, “but, if you’re able, could you please send me your address? If something happens, I’d like to send an ambulance to your house.”
“They won’t come,” Shouto said, voice lower than before, “Father pays them off before they get here. He makes me recover at home.”
Shouta drew in a baited breath. “Alright. Why don’t you send me your address anyway?” He tapped his fingers against the wooden table and felt his knee bounce up and down of its own accord.
Shouto complied, sending Shouta his address. The rest of the conversation wasn’t something Shouta ever wanted to remember.
God, those choked-off screams as Shouto’s father burst into the bathroom and started to beat him was something that he’d never be able to get out of his head for months.
But in the end, Shouto managed to crawl back to the phone (which Shouta knew only because he said he had) and said he wasn’t horribly injured, and that he didn’t feel like hurting himself anymore. Shouta’s stomach flipped at that, but he agreed to let the kid go.
God, why did he sign up for this?
Luckily, Shouto was his last call before his shift ended. He packed up his things, downed another cup of coffee, and headed out for two hours of patrol before he was due home.
He hoped Shouto was able to get out of that hellish household sooner rather than later. For now, though, there was nothing Shouta was able to do on his end- he’d done all he could with the information that had been provided.
And unfortunately, that was the best he could do.
.
.
.
Two months into the job, and the feeling of regret and initial horror at responding to his calls had ebbed away into something more… productive. ‘Productive’ was an ugly word, but it was the most accurate.
Regardless of word choice, Shouta was now able to handle taking upwards of fifteen calls per shift without having a mental breakdown or having to cry on the front steps of his apartment building for twenty minutes. He was able to push down those feelings of did I actually do anything to help? and oh god I wasn’t able to stop them in time, which he supposed was good, considering his line of work.
Every so often, though, there would be a call that just absolutely crushed any progress he’d made at stifling his emotions.
One such call happened to be from a young teenager who wanted to go by the name “Hitoshi.”
“Hello, this is the Center for Suicide Prevention. My name is Shouta. What name can I use for you during this conversation?” The words came easy now- he barely had to look at the script. He only had to type up the answers and review them every so often.
“D-do I have to use my real name?” came the high-pitched reply.
“No,” Shouta answered, frowning a bit, “you can go by whatever name you’d like. This call is completely confidential.”
“O-okay. Will you make me hang up if I use a boy’s name?”
“Of course not.”
“C-can you call me Hitoshi?”
Shouta sighed a little at that, trying not to let his emotions ebb into his voice. Is this kid trans? he wondered for a moment before he turned back to the conversation. “Of course, Hitoshi. May I ask how old you are?”
“Th-thirteen.”
God, Hitoshi was just a baby. The fact that little kids (well, the fact that anyone, especially little kids) felt compelled to call the Suicide Prevention Hotline broke his heart.
“Can you tell me why you’ve called the hotline?” His manager had added that to the script after a few suggestions during a meeting. It’d worked out pretty well so far, in Shouta’s opinion.
“I- I want to hurt myself,” came the quiet admission.
“Do you have a plan to kill yourself?”
“N-no.”
“Have you ever attempted suicide in the past?”
“O-once.”
“Can you tell me about that, Hitoshi?”
“I-I cut my wrists,” Hitoshi whispered, “I tried to bleed out in a bathtub. M-my foster mom caught me before I could.”
He was in the system, too? God, this poor kid.
“Thank you for answering. How long ago was that?”
“S-six weeks ago. They put me in a hospital for a month and moved me to another home.”
“Alright. Do you have anything you could use to kill yourself with?”
“Um… I have a boxcutter blade.”
“Is there any way you can distance yourself from the blade?”
“Y-yeah, but I don’t want to. Having it with me calms me down.”
“You don’t have to get rid of it just yet,” Shouta gulped, throat suddenly drier than it ever had been. “Is there anything you can replace the blade with?”
“I- would a blanket work?”
“Yes.”
There was muted shuffling on the other end, something creaking as Hitoshi moved. The child presumably retrieved a blanket, and came back to the phone a minute later. “I put the blade in my drawer.”
“That’s good,” Shouta praised, “now, is there anything that happened today that could have set you off?”
“M-my foster dad, he… he put a muzzle on me for asking a question. He said I was worthless.”
“Was there any reason he put the muzzle on you, or was it just because you asked the question?”
“I asked if I could have dinner,” Hitoshi sniffled, “and he started yelling. He said I should… slit my wrists if I ever wanted to help society. He said it’s because I’m a villain and my quirk is bad.”
His speech had become awfully childish- a coping mechanism, Shouta remembered from one of his training classes. Regression was common in those with mental health issues, especially those whose symptoms were particularly bad.
“Mr. Shouta?” Hitoshi asked, “do you think I’m a villain?”
Shit, those courses had not prepared him for such a loaded question.
“You’re not a villain unless you commit horrible crimes,” Shouta answered carefully.
“But I have a villain's quirk,” the boy weakly protested.
“There’s no such thing as a villain’s quirk, Hitoshi,” Shouta affirmed, “your quirk is what you choose to make it.”
Hitoshi sniffled, hiccups coming from the other end of the call.
“Are you safe right now?” he decided to ask after a moment.
“Y-yeah, I think so,” Hitoshi answered, voice deeper than it was a moment ago, “I don’t wanna cut myself anymore.”
“That’s good,” Shouta replied, “why don’t I let you go, then? You can do some activities to calm you down, and if you need to, you can call the hotline again. Is that alright?”
”Yeah. Th-thank you.”
Shouta’s heart tugged again. “Of course. Take care, Hitoshi.”
The boy hung up first, and Shouta breathed a sigh of relief. Thank god he hadn’t wanted to kill himself. Kids were always difficult to talk down, and it was heartbreaking, the abuse and neglect those children went through.
He rested his head on the table, allowing himself to breathe for a moment.
The phone rang again.
He lifted his head up and answered the call.
“This is the Center for Suicide Prevention. My name is Shouta. Can I ask what name you’d prefer to use during this conversation?”
And the night dragged on.
.
.
.
Three more agonizing months followed. Hizashi had recommended that he see a therapist in his off time from work. He agreed, and now he saw a therapist once a week.
It helped, he supposed- he wasn’t bearing the guilt of the deaths he wasn’t able to stop as harshly as he had before.
Even after all the work he’d done, though, he still wasn’t able to get Hitoshi’s cries out of his head. There was just something heartbreaking about hearing a little kid sob over the phone because he wanted to hurt himself.
No matter. He had to focus on his job. He couldn’t afford to reminisce over the past.
“Hello, this is the Center for Suicide Prevention. My name is Shouta. Can I ask what name you’d prefer to use during our conversation?”
”Um, Mina.”
“Okay, Mina. How old are you?”
”F-fourteen.”
“Thank you for answering. May I ask why you’re calling us tonight?”
Mina hesitated. ”I overheard this boy at my school talking really bad about himself and I don’t know what to do.”
“Can you tell me what you overheard?”
”Um… well, I was at lunch, and I heard him talking to his friends. He was saying how he hates himself, and he wishes he wasn’t so useless. He start… he started muttering to himself after they left, and he was saying how he felt like he wanted to die.”
“Did you hear anything else? A plan, a time, a place?”
”N-no.”
Shouta tapped his fingers against the desktop, stretching out his legs. “Is it possible to tell the guidance counselors at your school what’s going on?”
”No,” Mina cut in, sharper than before, ”one of my friends was shipped off to the hospital because she talked about her self harm. I don’t trust them to not do the same to him.”
“Psychiatric wards aren't always a great place,” he agreed, “but it’s still imperative that you tell a trusted adult.”
Mina sniffled. ”I know, I’m just… scared. My parents don’t get this kind of stuff, and I don’t know what his parents are like. The teachers at our school don’t know anything, either.”
“Why don’t you talk to him about it?” Shouta suggested, “and try to get him to talk to someone?”
Mina paused, seemingly thinking it over. ”Oh… okay. I guess that’ll work. I don’t know when I would talk to him, though.”
“Why don’t you talk to him during lunch?”
“I don’t know if I’d be able to get him alone.”
“How about after school, then?”
”Okay. I don’t know how to talk to him, though.”
“Just make sure that he doesn’t feel cornered, and use sympathy when you talk to him. Suggest that he should talk to a therapist or another trusted adult, or get him to call the crisis hotline.”
”Okay, Shouta-san.”
“Does that sound like a reasonable plan?”
”Yeah. Um, thanks, Shouta-san.”
“Of course. Take care, Mina.”
“You too.”
Shouta sighed, hanging up the phone. He rubbed the back of his neck, attempting to ease out a knotted muscle that had crept in some time ago. He stretched his limbs, waited for the phone to ring again, and picked it up.
The night carried on, and Shouta could only hope that Mina was able to get help for her friend.
.
.
.
It was Shouta’s final week- after this, he’d have completed an entire year as a crisis hotline operator.
He wasn’t too sure how to feel about that. Hizashi said he should be proud. Shouta couldn’t help but feel a smidge disappointed. He genuinely liked working at the hotline, for all the stress it gave him. That feeling of accomplishment he got after saving a life or talking someone out of something drastic always outweighed the guilt he felt when he wasn’t able to do that.
Shouta sighed, stretching his arms above his head. His back cracked in protest of the movement, pain shooting up his spine. He winced, rubbing the tender area.
The phone rang through his wireless headphones, and he picked it up.
“Hello, this is the Center for Suicide Prevention. My name is Shouta. What name can I call you by during this conversation?”
There was a sniff on the other end. ”Deku.”
Shouta frowned at the name- was it a nickname? ‘Deku’ sounded like an insult.
“Can I ask how old you are, Deku?”
There was a choked cry from the other end. “I-I-”
“It’s okay if you can’t tell me. Thank you for telling me your name. Can I ask why you’re calling tonight?”
“I- I don’t wanna live anymore.”
Shouta’s heart gave a little tug. God, this was gonna be an emotional call, wasn’t it?
“I’m sorry you feel like that, Deku. Do you have a plan to kill yourself?”
”Y-yes.”
“When are you planning on killing yourself?” Shouta’s fingers tapped nervously on the keyboard, the palms of his hands as sweaty as they always were when taking calls like these.
”I dunno. Tonight, I think.”
“And do you have a method planned out?”
There was a choked-off cry from the other end, and a rush of static.
“Y-yeah.”
“Can you tell me what that is?”
Deku sniffled. ”I’m on- I’m on the roof of my apartment, an-and I have a bottle of pills and a knife.”
That explained the static on the other end- it was windy outside.
“Is there any way you can separate yourself from those?”
Deku let out a cry. ”I just want it to be over.”
“Can you tell me anything that could have led up to you feeling this way?”
The boy chuckled, a dry, humorless laugh. ”K-Kacchan told me th-that I should… I should take a swan dive off the roof. H-he thinks I’m worthless.” Deku sobbed. ”
“Is Kacchan a bully?”
”He-he’s my old friend. But-but he hates me now.”
“Why do you think that?”
“B-because I’m quirkless, and I’m just a useless, fucked-up Deku.”
Shouta tried to ignore the burn of acid at the back of his throat. This kid was quirkless? God, he’d dealt with suicidal kids before, but he’d never dealt with a quirkless suicidal kid.
“Just because you’re quirkless doesn’t mean you’re useless, Deku.”
Deku sniffled, a watery cough coming from the other end. ”Nobody else seems to think that.”
“Why don’t you tell me about that?”
”Nobody likes me. I’m just a fuck-up. Kacchan thi-thinks so, and so does everyone else. My teachers hate me, and-and they don’t do anything when I get hurt. My mom treats me like I’m made out of glass or something! N-nobody believes in me, and I’m worthless.”
Shouta’s heart skipped a beat. He swallowed back a pang of pity for the young boy and scrambled to find the right words to reply. “Nobody is worthless, Deku. Anyone who tells you that is wrong.”
Deku let out a humorless laugh. ”Try telling that to my class, Mr. Shouta.”
Shouta tapped his foot against the ground. “How are you feeling now?” he decided to ask, switching the topic.
“Sh-shitty, still.”
“That’s completely understandable,” Shouta replied, “would you mind me asking what region you live in?”
“Sh-Shizuoka.”
Shouta jotted down the location. “Thank you for answering that. Do you still have the knife and pills with you?”
”Yeah.”
“Is there any way you can distance yourself from those now?” He knew he was repeating things from earlier, but he hoped that Deku might reconsider now that they had been talking for a few minutes.
Deku sniffed. Another burst of static crackled in Shouta’s ear. There was a rustling sound on the other end. ”I-I threw them over the edge. Oh god, what did I do-?”
“That’s alright,” Shouta placated, “I’m proud of you for having the courage to get rid of them. You’re still on the roof, correct?”
Deku sobbed loudly. ”Oh god, my mom- my mom’s gonna hate me for this! What did I do?”
“Deku,” Shouta addressed, tone firm but not unkind, “please slow down for a minute. Can you listen for a minute?”
The boy sniffled, and Shouta didn’t bother to wait for an answer.
“I need you to inhale, hold, then exhale, alright? Inhale for one, two, three, four-” there was a shaky attempt at a gasp on the other end. “-hold for one, two, three, four, and exhale for one, two, three, four.” Shouta repeated the exercise until it sounded like Deku’s breathing was under control.
“Is it possible to leave the roof?” he decided to ask now that Deku was significantly calmer.
Deku’s answer was little more than a hushed whisper, a breath of sound against the wind. ”Okay.”
Shouta let out a silent sigh of relief as Deku heeded his word, sending a mental prayer towards the ceiling. The static on the other end of the line stopped, and in its place was a set of hollow footsteps. “May I ask how you’re feeling now?” Shouta asked once the footsteps stopped.
“I’m… I feel better than I did,” Deku replied, “Th-thank you. I… I don’t think I wanna die anymore.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Shouta breathed a sigh, “where are you now?”
“I’m on the top floor of my apartment building,” Deku responded, voice quiet, “I… I don’t know if I can go back downstairs.”
“That’s okay,” Shouta reassured, “you don’t have to go down just yet. What’s important is that you’re out of harm’s way.”
Shouta and Deku talked for another thirty minutes after that, with only one minor hiccup (Deku was tempted to go back up to the roof at one point, before he promptly descended into another panic attack). Shouta let Deku lead the conversation, every shitty thing about his life coming up- everything from his diagnosis, his father leaving them to go to America, and the start of all the bullying, up to the recent suicide baiting and destruction of personal property by his classmates. Shouta felt more and more anger seep its way into his body, searing hot and vengeful, with every word that Deku spoke, but he remained calm throughout, careful to not let his emotions seep into his voice.
It was… exhausting, to say the least. Shouta wound up staying overtime, and he ignored the constant vibrating of his phone in his pocket.
Eventually, though, Deku became exhausted, and claimed he wanted to sleep. He thanked Shouta, cried a little more, and hung up the phone.
And so, with a heavy heart and trembling knees, Shouta packed up his things and went home.
Only a few more days, he told himself on the train ride home, rubbing sleep out of his bleary eyes and fighting to stay awake. He dragged his feet the entire two-block walk back to his apartment, climbed the stairs, and fumbled for his keys, pushing his way inside. He managed to drop his bag by the door and slip off his shoes before he trudged over to the couch and collapsed on top of his husband.
“Are you okay?” came the unusually soft query. Moonlight shined through the blinds, casting a dull light over Hizashi’s face. Shouta turned his head to press his face into Hizashi’s stomach.
“Yeah,” he sighed, “rough call.”
Hizashi laid a delicate hand on his back, rubbing his aching muscles in small, soothing circles. “Wanna talk about it?”
Shouta sniffed. “It- Hizashi, it was a quirkless kid- he was in middle school, and he- he wanted to die.” Shouta couldn’t stop his over-dry eyes from welling up with tears. He pressed his face further into Hizashi’s stomach. “His dad left, his classmates started bullying him, and he was suicide baited so many times- I barely managed to talk him out of it.”
Hizashi was silent, hand moving up to card through Shouta’s greasy, matted hair. “That’s- god, what’s wrong with people these days?”
“I don’t know,” Shouta huffed out a watery, humorless laugh, eerily similar to that of Deku’s barely forty minutes ago.
The pair sat in silence, Shouta muffling his tears in Hizashi’s shirt while the other man combed his spindly fingers through Shouta’s hair.
“We should really get to bed,” Shouta mumbled after a little while.
“We should,” Hizashi agreed, “why don’t you take a shower and get changed? That might help you feel better.”
“Alright,” Shouta agreed, heaving out a great sigh and lifting himself up. Hizashi paused, taking Shouta’s arm, and rolled up his sleeves. Shouta glanced away as the taller man brushed his fingers over thin, faded scars. Shouta glanced back at his husband, conveying his confusion through the lift of an eyebrow.
“I’m so, so happy that you’re still here,” Hizashi mumbled, a note of sadness in his tone, tracing the faded white lines with his fingers. “Oboro would have been happy too.”
Shouta hummed. “Yeah.”
Hizashi traced over the scars for another moment, then pulled Shouta’s sleeve back down. Shouta decided to stand first, stretching out his limbs as he did so.
“I’m gonna take that shower now,” he announced, “don’t wait up for me.”
“I’ve already stayed awake this long,” Hizashi said, “another twenty minutes isn’t gonna have much of an impact.”
Shouta opened his mouth to protest, but quite honestly, he was exhausted, and pressing the issue would only make Hizashi even more stubborn. He didn’t have the energy to have a back-and-forth with him right now, so he did the logical thing and nodded.
“Alright,” he said, slumping off to the bathroom.
He flicked on the light and stared at himself in the mirror. He frowned at his reflection, which was somehow even more haggard than usual. He rubbed at the dark circles under his eyes and traced a hand over his overgrown stubble. I’m beginning to look like Tony Stark with all this facial hair, he mused, opening a drawer and rifling through its contents until he happened upon a semi-dull razor. He switched out the blades, careful to avoid nicking himself. He splashed water over the lower half of his face (he did not need shaving cream, believe it or not) and started the only partially-painful process of shaving his facial hair.
He turned on the shower not long after that, and he let the warm water wash away the stress from the day’s shift.
God, that poor kid.
Shouta could only hope he was doing okay.
Sometimes it seemed like hoping was the only thing he could do.
.
.
.
Shouta figured that he’d never get into contact with anyone he’d talked with while working at the hotline center. Those calls were anonymous, after all, and most of them had given out only a first name or an alias. It was highly unlikely that he would ever talk to any of them ever again.
The key word, of course, being “unlikely.”
Shouta tilted his head back, squirting a drop of medication into both eyes. God, he needed a nap. At least his students this year were motivated, which was more than he could say for last year’s class.
He got irrationally angry just thinking of the class from last year. The majority of them were in the hero program for shits and giggles, and the rest were too scared of their quirks or simply not motivated enough to push themselves.
He wound up expelling eighteen out of his twenty students, and one more had dropped out because of the workload.
At least his students were actually willing to try their best this year.
Which, of course, was not always the best, especially in the case of Midoriya Izuku.
He felt like he recognized the boy from somewhere, but his appearance brought nothing to mind. He stared at the table where Midoriya sat with his new friends, eyes narrowing. His fluffy green hair and equally green eyes did nothing to jog his memory. He was so plain-looking that Shouta wasn’t sure if he’d just seen him in passing or not.
He sighed. It didn’t matter- he needed to eat lunch sooner rather than later.
As he turned to walk out of the cafeteria, thoughts plagued with the manner in which Midoriya was treated on the first few days of school, particularly by Bakugou. They were childhood friends, or they had at least known each other from middle school. It was clear that they weren’t on amicable terms, if that nickname was anything to go by.
Deku. Where had Shouta heard that name before?
He opened the door to the teacher’s lounge, lips pressing together at the sight of All Might in his shrunken form huddled on the couch. There was a bucket at his feet. Shouta wrinkled his nose at the sight of the blood puddled in the bottom of the pail.
Hizashi wouldn’t be eating lunch with him this year- Nedzu had switched up the schedule after complaints from the students in Class 3-B that they didn’t enjoy having English first period. Which of course meant that Hizashi was now forced to cram his lunch in the time he had between classes.
It was illogical, but Shouta had no say over the schedule. It was simply something they’d have to put up with. Besides, All Might wasn’t terrible company, right?
As if on cue, All Might hunched over and spewed blood into the semi-full bucket.
Shouta nearly gagged. Okay, maybe he wasn’t the best to have around.
Still, even though Shouta would never in a million years admit it, the company was nice, even if that company was limited to a dying hero in his late fifties who kept spewing blood every five seconds. He’d take what he could get.
He settled down at the table after a quick trip to the fridge to retrieve his lunch. If he had it his way, he would have had a couple of juice pouches, but unluckily for him (and luckily for his physical health), Hizashi insisted that he actually pack something that would sustain his energy throughout the day.
It was illogical- juice packs were sugary enough to keep the shakiness that came with low blood sugar away, and he really didn’t like eating on the job.
Nevertheless, he ate his chicken and rice in silence, the ticking of the clock the only thing to be heard throughout the entire room.
“Ah, Aizawa- when did you arrive?” All Might- well, Yagi, he supposed- asked, making his way over to the table.
Shouta raised an eyebrow. “A few minutes ago.”
“Don’t let me interrupt you, then,” the man grinned, blood staining his teeth.
Shouta sighed, poking at the lukewarm chicken with his fork. He swiped a finger along the condensation on the lid of the tupperware, flicking the water off a moment later. He felt his muscles tense at the sound of a soft knock on the door.
“I’ll go see who that is,” Yagi said, standing up straight from where he was previously hunched over. He limped over to the door, pulling it open just a crack to see outside.
“Ah- All Might! I didn’t know you’d be in here!” came the distinct stutter of one of Shouta’s students.
Shouta narrowed his eyes. Midoriya? How did he know about All Might’s true form?
“It’s not a problem, Young Midoriya,” Yagi grinned awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, “Aizawa is in here too, if you’d like to come in.”
“Ah- Aizawa-sensei is here?” Midoriya sputtered. Yagi opened the door further, enough so that Shouta could see Midoriya’s hunched-over, trembling form. There was a tension in his body that was normal for the boy- Shouta would have to work with him on not being so high-strung all the time. It did make him wonder what had happened in his past to make him like that, if there was a reason at all. People with strong quirks typically didn’t have a defensive stature every second of the day.
“Midoriya,” Shouta greeted, stiff but not unkind, “isn’t it your lunch period?”
It wasn’t a guess, and both teacher and student knew that much. “Um,” Midoriya shifted awkwardly, eyes flitting off to the side, “I… I wanted to talk to you about something, actually.”
That got Shouta’s attention. He hid his surprise under the guise of an eyebrow raise. “Oh?”
“Um…” Midoriya fidgeted with his hands, picking at his cuticles, “H-Hound Dog told me to come talk to you about it. He… actually brought me aside a couple days ago, but, well, it kinda took time to work up the courage, you know?” Midoriya was rambling again. Shouta stood, making his way over to the anxious boy. “And- and I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and I-”
“Midoriya,” he cut off whatever he was about to say, “it’s alright. We have time to discuss it now, if you want.”
“Oh, okay,” Midoriya picked at his nails again, “A-All Might? Is it okay if you, um… I don’t-”
“It’s okay if you don’t want me in the room, Young Midoriya,” Yagi placated, “I’ll go have my break in the upstairs lounge.”
Midoriya nodded, face flushed. Yagi patted his shoulder, stepping around the boy to leave the room. The man closed the door behind him, and Shouta gestured to the couch. He moved the bucket off to the side and sat down on the chair opposite from the couch. Midoriya sat, stiff as a board, and tapped his fingers wildly against his leg.
“What is it you wanna talk about?” Shouta asked, effectively breaking the metaphorical ice.
Midoriya seemed to snap to attention, wide eyes fixated on Shouta’s. “Oh, um… I don’t know how to say this, but…”
“Take your time,” Shouta said, crossing his arms. He stole a look at the clock. They had twenty minutes- plenty of time to hash out whatever it was that Midoriya needed to talk about.
His student stilled his fidgeting, tense fingers coming to rest by his sides. He seemed to be deep in thought for a moment or two, before asking:
“Can I be a hero if I have depression?”
Shouta blinked. That was his question? “If someone has the right supports, yes. Most heroes have some form of mental illness. There’s no shortage of stressful and traumatic situations in hero work.”
Midoriya chewed his bottom lip, fingernails digging into his legs through his uniform pants. “But what if it isn’t caused by something on the job?”
“That makes no difference,” Shouta replied easily, “it’s not a matter of where the disorder comes from- it’s a matter of how you handle it.”
His student nodded, eyes glued to the floor. “Why do you ask, Midoriya?”
“Well,” Midoriya picked at a few lint balls stuck to the side of his pants, “I… I have a history with mental illnesses. H-Hound Dog pulled me aside and said I should tell you about it, y’know, um- as my homeroom teacher and such.”
Shouta nodded, fingers drumming absentmindedly against his arms, “That makes sense. Do you feel comfortable disclosing that information, or would you rather keep it to yourself?”
“N-no, it’s okay,” Midoriya ducked his head down, shoulders hunching a little, “I’m okay with sharing.”
“Alright. Just don’t feel like I’m pressuring you to tell me, okay?”
“Yeah,” Midoriya nodded jerkily, “um… I have really bad depression. I think my therapist said it was called ‘Clinical Depression’ or something. I…” he paused, adjusting the collar of his uniform, “I also have anxiety. It’s pr-pretty bad.”
Shouta nodded, a wave of understanding coursing through him. He himself had both depression and PTSD, so he could understand what Midoriya was going through.
“Are you on any medications that could affect your work?” Shouta asked, straightening up when a wave of pain panged through his back.
“Um, I’m on Amitriptyline for depression, b-because it also helps with my headaches that I get from anxiety.”
“Does that have any side effects that I should know about?”
“It makes me really tired, but it usually doesn’t affect me during the day.”
Shouta nodded. “That’s good to know. Thank you for coming to me about this. I know these things aren’t easy to talk about. You’re seeing a therapist, correct?”
Midoriya nodded. “Yes.”
“For both anxiety and depression?”
“Yeah- separately.”
“Good,” Shouta hid a hint of a smile behind his capture weapon. “Is that all you wanted to talk about?”
Midoriya paused, worrying his lip between his teeth. Shouta raised an eyebrow.
“Um, did you by chance… work at a call center?” he asked, voice meek.
Shouta’s eyes snapped open. “Yes,” he answered, trying to hide his surprise behind a forced neutral expression, “how do you know that?”
“Um,” Midoriya shifted awkwardly, adjusting his tie with reddened hands, “I… may have called a hotline center about a year ago? And um- someone named ‘Shouta’ answered. I didn’t know if that was you or not.”
“That was probably me,” Shouta nodded, “you called the Center for Suicide Prevention?”
Midoriya looked down, as if that was something to be ashamed of. “Yeah. Um- I just wanted to say thanks. You… really helped me out at a rough time.”
“I’m glad I could help,” Shouta said, mind racing to figure out when Midoriya called. He didn’t remember anyone named Izuku or Midoriya- then again, he took over ten calls per shift, it wasn’t statistically likely that he would remember one specific call. “I don’t think I remember you calling, though.”
“Ah…” Midoriya’s voice trailed off, before he seemed to snap back to attention, “I called as Deku?”
Oh. That made sense. Shouta remembered that call. How could he not? He cried over it, which is something he rarely did. A flash of pain struck through his chest. The memory of that call was not a pleasant one. He’d had to talk the kid down from suicide, coach him through two panic attacks, and listen to his ramblings about being bullied for his lack of a quirk.
Wait, bullied for- what?
“Weren’t you quirkless?” Shouta asked, hands clenching the fabric of his pants.
Midoriya’s cheeks flushed a vibrant red. He ducked his head down. “I was.”
“And now you’re not.”
“Yeah.”
“How’d that happen?”
“I was a late bloomer.”
Late bloomer his ass. Quirks rarely showed up past the age of eight- he’d never heard of anyone whose quirk had showed up after that. It was impossible.
Midoriya seemingly noticed this confusion. “Um, according to my mentor, my quirk would have blown my limbs off if it had manifested before my body was ready. I did some training before UA.”
“When exactly did your quirk manifest, exactly?”
“Um, the morning of the entrance exam?”
Shouta nearly face-palmed. “Fuck, so that’s why your control is so horrendous- god, and here I was thinking you just never bothered to train it.”
Midoriya flinched. “Um, is this a bad time…?”
“A bad time for what exactly?” Shouta asked carefully.
Midoriya fidgeted with his hands, still adamantly refusing to make eye contact with Shouta. “Um, well- I was talking to a couple of the others- Ashido-san mentioned something to Kaminari-san about calling a hotline, and I got curious- um, apparently, Todoroki-san and Ashido-san both called in at some point? And some guy from Gen Ed, too- we all wanted to say ‘thanks,’ but Ashido-san was too nervous and Todoroki-san just refused.”
“Ashido and Todoroki called?” Shouta thought back- he vaguely remembered a call from a kid named ‘Shouto,’ but he couldn’t say he recalled Ashido’s. “Huh. I suppose I should just set up a mandatory guidance meeting for your entire class.”
Midoriya flushed. “O-only if it’s necessary!” he squeaked, “I don’t wanna be the reason they have to go!”
“Relax, Midoriya,” Shouta sighed, “it’s routine. Hero students have to keep up their mental health as well as their physical health- they’re equally important. I would have set it up regardless, though normally I wouldn’t bother until after your first internships.”
Midoriya seemed to relax, if only a little bit. His shoulders untensed and his hands switched from nervously fiddling with his collar to clenched on his lap. “R-right, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Shouta cut in- god, this kid- who hurt him to the point where he thought he needed to apologize for everything? He glanced at the clock again. “You’ve got about ten minutes left of lunch. You should go down to the cafeteria with your friends. I’ll call Ashido and Todoroki aside later, maybe that Gen Ed student too, if we can find out who they are.”
Midoriya nodded, standing up. He smoothed out his uniform as he stood, pulling it down where it had previously been bunched up. Shouta stood not long after and made his way over to the boy. He reached a hand up, slow (in case the kid didn’t want to be touched), and when he saw no sign of refusal, he patted the kid’s head. Midoriya squeezed his eyes shut, but didn’t protest the movement.
“Go back to lunch,” he said after a moment, tucking his hand into his pocket.
“Yes sir!” the student nodded, scampering off. He made sure to close the door behind him, leaving Shouta alone in the faculty lounge with his half-eaten meal still on the table.
He sighed. His class this year was a headache. At least they were determined- they had something going for them.
He sighed behind his capture weapon. They’d figure something out. For now, though, Shouta wanted to finish his lunch and take the time to process the conversation.
He sometimes wondered how the people he spoke to were doing- one of the things about being an anonymous hotline employee was that you’d never be able to tell if the people were actually okay afterwards.
He was glad, in a weird way- he got closure on at least four cases.
That was more than enough for him.