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“. . . ido . . . ey, ca . . . id? Mi . . . eed you . . . ease, Prob . . . swer me.”
Izuku could hear someone talking, but he couldn’t focus enough to find out who it was or what they were talking about. His eyes were open, but all he saw were blurred colors shifting into each other. There was a darker color moving closer, taking over the majority of his vision. This blob was probably the person who’d been talking. Whoever-it-was made another sound that the teen couldn’t decipher. Then Izuku felt something warm take his hand and hold it, gently. It reminded him of how his mother would hold him after a particularly bad day, so he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let it pull him out of the haze his mind had flown to, dragging with it his senses.
The first sense to return, though it was slow and took its time, was touch. The thing holding his hand was another hand; calloused from years of hard work. And he was sitting in an uncomfortable chair.
The second sense that came back to him was smell. He smelled . . . coffee. Why could he smell coffee?
Next, his eyes lost the fog that had kept him from seeing who the person was, gradually allowing the lines that formed the objects in the room to take shape until he could clearly see the form of his teacher kneeling next to his desk.
Aizawa’s eyebrows were drawn together in what some people might assume was concern. However, Izuku didn’t know the emotion dancing in the man’s dark eyes, since growing up they'd never been directed at him. There was a softness in them that made Izuku think of his mother once again. They were so gentle and kind and the green-haired boy wanted nothing more than to just stare at them forever because they made him feel safe.
But there was something else his eyes were seeing. Something his mind hadn’t caught yet. Something important.
Something . . .
If he could just focus . . .
His heart told him it was crucial he-
Oh.
Aizawa’s mouth was moving.
Izuku needed to listen.
. . .
Dammit, his ears weren’t working.
Or, rather, he wasn’t registering whatever his teacher was saying. Izuku hadn’t been that fazed out in a while. It always took longer for his hearing to come back to him, sounds would fade in and out or disappear entirely. Sometimes it took days to return. How was he going to tell Aizawa about this problem? If only he had his-
“-notebook.”
Izuku felt the word form in his mouth, a single breath enough to push it out. As soon as the word entered the real world, Aizawa’s eyes widened in shock, like he hadn’t expected Izuku to respond. Which only prompted a question to appear in the teen’s head: How long had he been out of it?
Before he could truly think on that question, however, Aizawa pulled the hand he was holding up to his face, closed his eyes, and just held it there. Izuku could feel the man’s heavy, almost ragged breaths blow against his skin. After a minute or two (or however long it was--time meant nothing to Izuku when he fazed out) Aizawa reached for the yellow backpack under the student’s seat (with the hand that wasn’t holding Izuku’s) and pulled out one of the many notebooks the kid carried around.
Izuku frowned in concerned confusion as a trembling hand placed the book on the desk. He felt (or did he remember?) that there was a pen in his pocket and pulled it out without much trouble. Flipping through the notebook until he landed on a blank page, Izuku thought carefully before writing anything down, wanting to be as concise as possible so as not to take up too much more of his teacher's time.
Can’t hear you, he settled on. Surely that would be enough to satisfy Aizawa’s demands. The man frowned at the kanji and began speaking, his voice a low hum in Izuku’s ear. With a single look from his student, Aizawa’s mouth snapped shut. He took the pen from Izuku and wrote: Sorry. Has this happened before?
Not in years, the teen admitted. To be honest, he’d completely forgotten that this had been a prevalent part of his life.
How long will it last? Aizawa asked.
Izuku shrugged . Dunno. Could be minutes. Might be days.
Let’s hope for minutes.
Izuku nodded and the two of them sat there for what may have been five minutes (or not. As far as Izuku was concerned, time was like a weird soup) before his emerald eyes flitted over to the classroom window where he saw that the sun had already set.
“How long-?” he began saying, but cut off at the warbled noise he heard coming from his mouth. Since he knew what he’d been about to say, he could hear the words more clearly. But it wasn’t enough to actually talk with confidence. He took the pen back and Aizawa waited patiently while he wrote his question.
How long have I been like this?
The man sighed and gently rubbed his thumb along the back of Izuku’s hand before responding. I don’t know exactly , he began, but you were unresponsive after classes ended and that was almost five hours ago. Aizawa paused, biting his lip as he contemplated something. Izuku saw another sigh leave him, then the hand holding the writing utensil moved against the paper. What’s the last thing you remember?
Izuku hummed, brows drawing together in concentration. The last thing he remembered . . .
Well, he remembered waking up . . . Getting ready for school . . . Everyone sitting in their assigned seats before Aizawa showed up to start class . . .
There was a lecture . . .
He might’ve seen the teachers switch once or twice . . .
Izuku's free hand flew up to his temple. Did he remember having lunch? Did he have lunch? He must have. Probably. Most likely.
Right?
His eyes screwed shut and he pulled his other hand (and Aizawa’s) to the other side of his head to massage his temples. He hoped that these actions would help to focus his mind on remembering his day, but soon after felt Aizawa slip free of his grasp and grip his shoulders. Izuku’s eyes opened suddenly to see his teacher’s concerned face accompanied by the low hum of his voice. He couldn’t exactly hear what the man was saying, but he was able to read lips (to an extent), and somehow his previous knowledge of what Aizawa was like helped fill in the gaps:
“It’s okay if you don’t know.”
Izuku stared at him, seeing an understanding in those dark eyes he’d only ever seen in All Might. His vision blurred and he blinked, thinking he was fazing out again, only for something wet fell onto his cheek.
Aizawa wiped the tear away with the pad of his thumb. He turned back to the notebook and quickly wrote, may I hug you? before turning his attention back to Izuku to wait for an answer.
Izuku barely started to nod when he was enveloped in Aizawa’s strong arms, the smell of coffee filling his nose and the sense of safety flowing through him as if his teacher had injected it like a drug directly into his bloodstream. Once again, the low humming sound that was Aizawa’s voice filled his ears, but Izuku didn’t need to read lips to know the general idea the man was trying to get across.
It’s okay.
You’re okay.
You’re safe.
I’ve got you.
I’m here.
I am here . . . for you.