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One. Four. Five. Five. Five.
Jirou repeats it like a mantra, a prayer, whenever she finds herself tossing and turning around in her bed, unable to sleep.
One. Four. Five. Five. Five.
Sometimes, she says it out loud, just to hear herself speak.
There is something about these numbers, these sounds, that calm her.
It’s never enough to chase away the nightmares but it’s enough to not come running out of her room, quirk at the ready, whenever something changes.
Because sometimes One becomes Two and Five becomes Four, sometimes Five becomes Four and Five becomes Six. Sometimes One becomes Zero but it happens on Tuesday and Friday evenings and it always comes back at five in the morning and nineteen becomes twenty and Jirou repeats it again.
One. Four. Five. Five. Five. For twenty.
It took her a month before she’d stop leaving her room for every shift inside the Class A dormitory.
Two. Three. Five. Five. Five.
Because sometimes One becomes Two, with the addition rummaging in the kitchen. Before, back when she’d still leave the comfort of her room at every creak and whoosh, she’d follow the sound right into the end of the 3rd floor hallway and she’d listen for any other noises. She’d crouch by the staircase, earjack already finding it’s place in the wall, and listen. Faintly, she’d hear the low humming of the lights and the quiet whistle of a kettle and she’d settle the drumbeat that is her heart.
She’d hear the opening and closing of cupboards, the clinking of mugs, and if she listens, really listens, she’d hear a tired sigh, a quiet sniffle, maybe even soft mutterings and muffled explosions.
One. Four. Five. Four. Six.
Upstairs she’d hear two people holding each other close. She can’t see between walls but she can hear between them, even when the walls are thick and the rooms are soundproofed. She’d like to think it’s due to the cracks beneath the doors that lets her hear past the barriers and she is grateful. She never asks what happens behind closed doors – she only listen for the steady breaths.
One. Four. Four. Five. Five. One.
Sometimes, one person makes their way to the rooftop. It’s in these moments that she holds her breath. She listens, listens, in case something goes amiss, in case there’s a ripple, a different sound, a dozen other sounds, or the loss of one, but nothing ever really comes, and when she hears footsteps come down at three am, she breathes a little better.
Twenty.
She reminds herself that there are twenty people in Heights Alliance, sans herself.
Twenty heartbeats that are alive and well.
Twenty heartbeats that are steady.
One on the first floor where Aizawa-sensei is.
Four on the second floor.
Five surrounding her.
Five above her.
And another five more just above that.
Very rarely will this number go above. Very rarely unless Eri or All Might or Present Mic is with them.
But she knows the sound of their heartbeats as much as she knows her own and it doesn’t scare her as much as it used to.
There are twenty heartbeats in her home.
She counts it right before she goes to sleep, just as anyone would count a sheep.
One. Four. Five. Five. Five.
And she would count it each time that she would wake, whether it be for the sound of an opening door, or the whistle of a kettle, or Aizawa-sensei’s patrol, or Shouji-kun walking down the halls to check on every floor.
One.
Four.
Five.
Five.
Five.
And Jirou is safe.