Work Text:
Denki Kaminari hates himself.
Well, no, that isn't exactly true.
He doesn't hate himself, for the most part.
Sure, his body isn't what he wants it to be so he has to wear an extra accessory to flatten himself and stuff balled up socks into his pants, but other than the dysphoria, he doesn't hate himself. Overall, that is. He does dislike that he's stupid, and annoying, and incapable of keeping his mouth shut for 5 minutes. He dislikes that he's sensitive enough for his chest to feel tight after saying the wrong answer when he's called on and he dislikes that he still struggles to keep smiling when people ignore him even after all those years of practice.
He does, however, hate this.
He frowns, staring intensely down at the pencil on his desk, the paper he's supposed to be working on sitting blank on the flat surface.
Whenever he overuses his quirk, this happens for a little bit.
"Kaminari?" His gaze shoots up, yellow eyes finding his sensei at his own desk, grading papers. He isn't looking at Denki. "Do your work."
"You got it, Mr. Aizawa." He grins. It feels like a sticker he stuck onto his face. He ignores the small snickers from some of his classmates; they're not malicious and he knows that. It hurts anyway, but that's fine.
He reaches for his pencil and fails to pick it up.
He can't feel his fingers.
It only lasts for a while, so it isn't a major concern, it really isn't, but when he has to train so much, especially the training to up how much of his quirk he can output?
It's…a little annoying, to not feel his fingers and sometimes toes, but he figures being a good hero and not a liability to other heroes by going stupid every time he used his quirk was worth tripping a lot and struggling to pick things up or hold items.
At times, though, it was frustrating.
He wonders if other kids have it easier; they don't have to fight just to pick up and hold onto and use their pencils, as far as he knows, so does that mean they don't have to struggle through a sea of swimming letters and numbers to read the questions? Do they not have to put exhausting amounts of effort into zeroing in on their tasks, every little thing around them begging for their attention? Do they not have to bit the insides of their cheeks to keep from making random noises or odd movements of their heads, clenching their fists to keep from doing more than bouncing their knees or clicking their pens?
The bells rings.
Denki's worksheet is unfilled.
His eyes start to burn a little and frustration makes his throat close; he's an angry crier, another thing he dislikes. Crying out of anger, annoyance, frustration, all of that, he doesn't want to be a crybaby but he is, so it's added to the ever growing list of things he dislikes about himself.
He stands up, manages to roughly grab ahold of his backpack and then fumbles for that stupid paper, crumpling the edge of it when he finally gets a grip. The classroom is almost empty now. The last of his peers are filing out the door when he heads over to Mr. Aizawa's desk to turn in another disappointing future F on his report card. He doesn't make eye contact when he sets it on his desk, starting for the door only to stop cold when his teacher speaks.
"Actually, Kaminari, I need you to stay here for a moment."
His blood turns to ice and his eyes burn even more, so he blinks a few times to keep the tears from falling and then shuffles backwards from the door, turning to face the desk.
He slaps a grin on, raises his eyebrows, and lifts his head enough to look at Mr. Aizawa with more confidence and ease than he actually feels.
"What's up?"
His mom would kill him for talking so disrespectfully to his sensei like that, but he's tired, and he decided a while ago that if he was going to fail a class, he'd make it seem like it was on purpose to avoid the embarrassment of being seen, correctly, as stupid.
Mr. Aizawa wasn't looking at him before, but he is now, and Denki really wishes he wasn't. He feels like he's being observed under a microscope and he tries not to shrink and wilt under his knowing gaze. He feels uncomfortably seen and shifts his weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to lessen the feeling. It doesn't work.
"Is there something wrong?" Mr. Aizawa asks, catching Denki way off guard.
"Whaa?"
"You've been failing to do your work for three days." Mr. Aizawa picks up the most recent worksheet, skimming over the lack of writing. "This one doesn't even have your name on it."
He winces, balling his hands into fists at his sides.
It's fine, he didn't need to panic, he wouldn't panic. He wasn't a baby, he could handle a discussion like this with his teacher.
He swallows dryly.
"Nothing's wrong, Mr. Aizawa." He lies. Everything is wrong. He is wrong. It's unfixable. He's a failure, and he's going to be expelled and never become a hero, and his parents will-
"It takes you a minimum of 10 minutes into class to actually reach for your pencil." Mr. Aizawa points out calmly.
At least, Denki hopes he's calm. He's always been bad at reading people, but it's worse with Mr. Aizawa. His voice is as flat as usual, and Denki usually appreciates the lack of fake politeness or cheer, but all he can really focus on right now is the idea that Mr. Aizawa could be, might be, probably is mad at him.
There's a ringing in his ears and his eyes burn once again, throat tightening until he feels like he's suffocating, chest heavy and his head starting to ache. He's holding his breath, trying to keep it all in until the thought that his parents might be called crosses his mind and he chokes on a sob, covering his mouth with both hands instinctively, head bowing as the tears finally start flowing, curving down his cheeks and wetting his fingers and dripping down onto the floor by his shoes.
Oh god, fuck, no no no- please, he wasn't crying, he couldn't be crying, he wasn't crying in another classroom, what kind of hero was he planning to be? 'The pathetic hero: Chargebolt'? He should change his hero name to cry baby.
"Kaminari," his teacher sighs, her voice dripping with exasperation but loud enough in the room for everyone to hear, "are you really crying in my classroom again?"
The sound of his 8th grade class breaking into giggles and whispers behind him makes his shoulders hunch up to his ears, going still as a statue in front of her desk, which was situated at the very front of the room, drawing all the attention in.
"No, ma'am." He lies, badly. His voice is tight and trembling and he wipes at his flushed and wet cheeks roughly with the sleeves of his uniform.
She clucks her tongue, sighing and leaning forward.
"Kaminari, you can't cry every time you get an F on a test." She says, her voice still loud. "I'm not going to give you pity points. Just do better, I can tell you haven't been studying."
He doesn't say he stayed up all night for the past couple of days trying to get the information from the study guide to stick in his mind or that studying didn't work when he couldn't tell certain letters apart from each other.
He simply bows his head and says, quietly, "I'm sorry, miss. I'll do better."
"Kaminari, I need you to breathe."
He's trying to, why does no one ever believe him when he says he's trying to do everything they ask of him?
He makes a strangled noise involuntarily and digs his bitten down nails into the meat of his palms.
He can barely make out the little stars and things he'd doodled in sharpie on his yellow sneakers through the tears blurring his vision.
"Kaminari?"
He flinches hard and his head snaps up, a little confused when Mr. Aizawa's face is contorted into what could be, might be, probably isn't concern. It doesn't make sense for it to be concern. Mr. Aizawa hadn't even started yelling, had even been nice enough to not call him out in front of his peers, and yet he threw his stupid little pity party over his own actions. He didn't do the work, he suffered the consequences.
Mr. Aizawa should have been annoyed, or irritated, or just plain angry.
His brow was pinched and his mouth had turned downwards into a deep frown, but the words he was saying didn't match up with the anger he was supposed to have.
"Breathe in for 4 seconds, can you do that?"
Denki knows this one. He's done it before, quietly counting to himself in a classroom to calm down from an embarrassing freak out. He lets himself be guided through the breathing exercise, 4-7-8, 4-7-8, finding it notably easier than doing it by himself.
He sniffles a little, eyes firmly on his shoes. He can breathe again, but he still feels like he needs to cry more, which he firmly ignores and he wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Aizawa." He says, his voice a little hoarse. He needs a glass of water or something.
He's not looking at him, but he can hear the frown in his sensei's voice.
"You don't have to apologize for having a panic attack." He answers. "You should sit, those can take a lot out of you."
Denki blinks his wet eyes in confusion, slowly looking up.
"What?"
Mr. Aizawa pauses in rummaging through his desk, glancing over at him.
"What are you confused about?"
Everything?
"Uh," he fidgets with the end of his white button up, which is purposely untucked from his belt, "I didn't- I just…um." He shakes his head. His tongue feels like lead. "I'm sorry." He repeats. It's the only complete sentence he can seem to manage right now, for some stupid reason.
"Denki, don't be an idiot." His mom sighs, blowing out smoke from her cigarette. "I know you can say more than 'I'm sorry', cut it the fuck out, you useless brat. Go do your homework."
He swallows down another 'I'm sorry' for saying he was sorry so much and for asking if she was going to make dinner in the first place and scurries to his room, ignoring the growl of his stomach. It wasn't his parents' fault he'd already eaten all of his snacks yesterday.
"Kaminari." Mr. Aizawa sounds…careful? No, that isn't right. Gentle? Something like that. He sounds like Denki is fragile. "You're shaking."
Maybe he is fragile.
He can't be a hero if he's fragile.
"Sorry." He mutters uselessly.
Mr. Aizawa doesn't say anything for a moment, then he fishes out presumably what he had been looking for earlier, something as big as his hand and black and cat shaped with big green eyes printed onto it. He squeezes it and Denki recognizes it as one of those foam 'Squishy' things. He holds it out expectantly.
Denki blinks.
"...uh-"
"For your hands."
He looks down at his hands, wincing a little at the angry red marks on his palms, and on his wrists since he scratches at his arms during his little freak outs, although thankfully his uniform prevented him from getting to the majority of his arms.
"Oh." Denki hesitates, but takes the toy, squeezing it tight in his hands.
"Are you alright?"
He opens his mouth immediately to say 'yes' and that he's fine, like always, but the look Mr. Aizawa is giving him makes him reconsider.
"Um." He wants to wrap himself in the weighted blanket Katsuki gifted him for his birthday. He wants to quit everything and play videogames with his friends for a million years. He wants to eat a bunch of junk food. He wants to cry again. He is not alright. "I'm…not as good as I could be, I think."
Mr. Aizawa nods.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
Denki is almost startled by that.
"What?"
His brow furrows and he eyes Denki carefully.
"I asked if there was anything I could do to help." He answers. Denki's confusion and bafflement must show on his face because Mr. Aizawa's brow creases further. "It's my job to help you, Kaminari. Why are you so surprised?"
Dozens of report cards and failed tests and homeworks with corrections in red pen all over them flash in his mind and he squeezes the soft toy in his hands tighter absentmindedly.
"It's my fault," Mr. Aizawa's face twists and he feels like he's said something wrong but he barrels forward with the rest of what his parents and teachers told him, "so it's my responsibility to handle it."
The beat of silence that passes feels a little uncomfortable as Mr. Aizawa works through what he's just said, and he doesn't look very happy with it when he's finished. He doesn't look angry , though, so Denki tries not to freak out again.
"Kaminari," he says slowly, his voice softer than usual, and it almost freaks Denki out because Mr. Aizawa is never soft, he's blunt and firm and to the point, "I am your teacher and an adult. You're my student and a child. It is my duty to look out for and help you where you need it. That's what a teacher does. It's not your fault you had a panic attack."
Denki blinks at him again, then blinks a few more times as he feels his eyes start to burn again.
"Oh." He says, voice small. "Sorry."
Mr. Aizawa shakes his head.
"You don't have to apologize for anything. You haven't done anything wrong."
Everything he does is always wrong.
Mr. Aizawa doesn't lie to him, though, not to spare his feelings. He never has.
"I'm not-" He lets go of the toy with one hand to wipe at his eyes. "I'm not trying to guilt you, I'm sorry, I just- I didn't mean to cry, sorry, you don't have to pity me-"
"Kid." His jaw clicks shut and he peers over at his teacher with reddened eyes. "I don't pity people. You're not going to guilt me into saying this stuff." He tells him firmly.
Denki bites back a whimper and goes back to wiping at his eyes. It's hard to hold back from openly crying.
"Sorry." He mutters.
"Do you want a hug?"
Yes.
"What?" He croaks. He must be hearing things.
"Do you want a hug?" Mr. Aizawa repeats. Denki would kill for a hug.
"You don't have to-"
"You couldn't force me to do anything if you wanted to, Kaminari. I know I don't have to, I wouldn't offer if I wasn't willing." He waves him over and Denki hesitantly steps around the desk, closer to him.
It feels like it should be a trap of some sort, a cruel trick, but Mr. Aizawa awkwardly opens his arms and Denki can't resist the urge to practically fling himself forward, latching onto him and pressing his face into the gray fabric of his capture weapon.
Mr. Aizawa makes a small grunt at the impact and tenses slightly, so Denki loosens his grip and starts to pull away when arms wrap around him.
Maybe it's inappropriate but he suddenly realizes he can't remember the last time his dad had hugged him, and the thought breaks the dam, the scarf hiding his face dampening with his tears as a sob forces its way out.
"Sorry." He murmurs, trying to reign himself back in. A hand rubs circles into his back and coaxes another muffled sob out.
"You should probably let it out. It's not healthy to keep that sort of thing in." Mr. Aizawa says quietly.
"I'm getting your scarf wet."
"It can handle a few tears, Kaminari, it's a weapon."
He laughs wetly and it leads into the next sob as he finally lets it go, foam toy he was squeezing before discarded somewhere as he grasps fists full of black fabric. It's better than his weighted blanket. He missed hugs.
It feels like hours later when he loosens his grip for good this time, letting go and awkwardly backing up and wiping his face on his sleeve, but realistically, it was probably only a few minutes.
He opens his mouth to apologize but a look from Mr. Aizawa makes it get stuck in his throat, so he quietly leans down and picks up the cat squishy, holding it out to his teacher.
"I didn't mean to drop it." He says apologetically. "It's hard to control my hands sometimes. Can't feel 'em half the time, hah." He laughs nervously and Mr. Aizawa stills halfway to taking the toy back.
"What?"
He freezes as his words catch up with him, heart plummeting to his stomach.
"Ahh," he shoves the toy out further, "look, I should really go, um, I have, uh, a lot of studying to do, and, um-"
"Kaminari." Mr. Aizawa frowns. "What do you mean you can't feel your hands?"
Denki deflates a little. There's no getting out of this.
Mr. Aizawa takes the toy and Denki stares firmly at the floor, not wanting to see his face when he tells him how pathetic his body is.
"Well," he shoves his hands into his pockets, "when I overuse my quirk a lot, I lose feeling in my fingers and hands and sometimes my toes, but only for a little bit, so it isn't a big deal. I should get better at dealing with it, I know I can't fall behind in my work just because my body is stupid-"
"What?" He looks up and is surprised to see the alarm clear on Mr. Aizawa's face. "Kaminari, that's not-" he takes a deep breath. "Kaminari. Not being able to feel entire parts of your body is not something you should get better at. It's something to be accommodated. Your body isn't stupid, you're just overworking it. It's not built for that because it isn't healthy."
Denki glances at the unfilled worksheet still sitting on Mr. Aizawa's desk, which he catches.
" And its effect on your work is not your fault, but it is something that should be looked at. By medical professionals, and people who can help you." He adds.
"Oh." Denki says, again. "I just thought…" He trails off.
"Denki," his dad scowls, "you have to stop relying on everyone else to carry your weight. Get over yourself, you're not the center of the world."
Denki fidgets, makes an involuntary noise and matching sharp twitch of his head that earns him an eyeroll, then nods his response since his dad had told him only half an hour ago that he talked way too much.
He closes the empty fridge and makes plans to check how much he currently has saved up from odd jobs and working part time. He wonders if it'll be enough to not have to ask his parents to get something to eat; groceries are expensive though. Maybe he can get pizza? Then he could make a few slices last until his parents went grocery shopping again.
"It's my job to help you, Kaminari." Mr. Aizawa reminds. "I want to help you."
That can't be right.
Denki opens his mouth to protest, to thank him, to apologize, but all that comes out is a rushed "please don't tell my parents."
Mr. Aizawa frowns again.
"I won't tell anyone you don't want me to." He says slowly, and Denki can practically see the gears turning in his head, the puzzle pieces slotting together. His frown deepens at whatever picture he's made in his mind. "But you should talk to your teachers about this. We're here to help."
"But-"
"You don't have to handle everything on your own, kid."
Denki shakes his head.
"Mr. Aizawa, I can't-"
Mr. Aizawa reaches and takes his empty worksheet into his hand, picking up a pen from his desk and writing quickly, neatly, 'Kaminari Denki' on the name spot, followed by an 'A' in the corner.
Denki blanches, eyes widening, bewildered.
He's never gotten an A.
The worksheet is blank.
"I didn't…write anything…"
"I'm not going to fail you for being unable to do something you can't do." Mr. Aizawa sets the pen and paper down, crossing his arms. "I'm here to help you."
Maybe he's just being stupid again, but Denki fully believes him.
"Oh." He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then runs his tongue over his braces anxiously. "Oh. I…um. I really should go, Mr. Aizawa."
Mr. Aizawa nods stiffly.
"Then go. Talk to your teachers, and your friends, though. People care about you, Kaminari."
He can't cry anymore, but he would be tearing up if he could, and his cheeks redden in embarrassment, but it isn't bad. He actually lets himself entertain the idea for a second, his mind providing images of Eijiro hugging him and Ashido rubbing his back and Katsuki saying he isn't stupid and Hanta telling him it isn't his fault. It's a nice idea, but it doesn't seem very realistic to him, even less so when it comes to his teachers. He'll try anyway.
"Okay." He agrees. He picks his bag up from the ground in front of Mr. Aizawa's desk and turns, heading for the room's exit. He pauses in the doorway. "Mr. Aizawa?"
"Yes, Kaminari?"
He doesn't turn back to look at his teacher, wiping at his wet cheeks and hoping his eyes aren't too puffy.
He feels lighter.
"Thank you."
"Anytime."