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It takes Izuku three days to even be able to bear turning his calendar onto April. He knows that it may be a little bit pathetic, but that thought doesn't erase or ease the absolute dread sitting heavy in his guts as the end of March drags by, or as he starts having to label his dates with a four on his school work.
(It is dark hands, inky and as broad as Izuku himself, curling around his guts, crushing and tugging, agonisingly aware that he is going to hurt, to fail, to die-)
Overall, though, he's managing pretty well, he reckons. He doesn't have any truly horrific nightmares, nothing worse than usual at least, nor does anything send him spiralling into a flashback. Shouta is caught off-guard in a Heroics lesson with the First Years on the seventh, but holds himself together well enough until he's in private, Izuku not hesitating to leave his own class to go and press their shoulders together, to curl Shouta's fingers around their knife's grip, to murmur a story about how Yaomomo and Bakugou got into a debate about clothing and fashion today. It was enough. It almost always is.
They maintain this rough equilibrium without too much strain up until the tenth. Izuku would be lying if he pretended that he wasn't on-edge that day. Poor Shouji nearly gets a knife to the inside of his elbow when one of his hands strays just into Izuku's personal space, but his eyes are kind when Izuku apologises, the promise of no such apology being needed a very genuine one.
The night is bad. Izuku, both out of stubbornness and out of not wanting to bother Shouta if the man does manage to get a good night's kip, starts off the evening in his own room, curled up tight under his blankets, letting Twig purr him into reality.
For a long while, he just blinks at his room, shadowed, home, safe yet haunted, before eventually drifting off.
He wakes up with a scream lodged in his throat like rubble, sharp and pointed and blood-drawing, shattered by the punch of a Nomu, and with Twig scrambling to get out of his suddenly too-tight arms. All he can taste is his hero's blood, all he can feel are his bones giving way beneath grasping hands and how his own fist is buried in the guts of one of his best friends, too-hot, slippery, the awful stench of bile and blood and viscera burning his nose.
He's dying, he's dead, every single one of his classmates have been failed or killed at his hand, and Shouta will never, ever be able to forgive him for this.
And fuck, neither can Izuku. He knows that it's all his fault.
Without thinking, without even really managing to breathe, Izuku is stumbling out of bed, tripping headlong over capture weapon tangled around his legs- tripping over the blankets knotted around his legs, catching himself on forearms and hands, jamming one of his fingers somewhat but he doesn't really care, not when he's already scrambling to his feet again, grasping at his door in the same moment that it's shoved open, pale light flooding in.
Shouta, not gasping, not dead, is standing there, Hizashi behind him, both wide-eyed. Oh, right, Izuku had screamed, hadn't he?
"I'm fine," he immediately insists, more out of habit than anything else, even whilst he falters, not reaching out but leaning in close all the same. Shouta is meeting him halfway, and the shadows in those eyes are heart-breaking to see.
"You were already awake."
"I was. Woke up half-hour ago. Shitty dream." It's both a reassurance and something awful, how Shouta's voice is trembling just as terribly as Izuku's is. What a pair they make, truly.
"Almost surprised you managed to sleep at all."
"Tell me about it."
Shouta draws away then, but only when Izuku's arms go looser around him. Being able to stare at the harsh shadows and soft, aching set of his hero's jaw hurts, a too-familiar sort of pain for Izuku because he never, ever wants Shouta to be upset or hurting or stalked by nightmares just as bad as his own, as inevitable as that fact is.
"Want to build a blanket fort, loves?"
"In the lounge?" Izuku checks, because he knows that Shouta is almost guaranteed to prefer that over the men's bedroom, at least for tonight. The smile Hizashi offers up, then, speaks of every ounce of adoration the blond has for them both, for how grateful he is that Izuku, too, tries to look after Shouta just like Hizashi himself does.
'Love you Hi-chan,' Izuku mouths over Shouta's shoulder. It has the man's expression going even more molten, but he doesn't reach out. Not right now.
Izuku hates it, but he is incredibly glad for it all the same. He thinks that any hand reaching for him or Shouta right now-
It's almost impressive how much a mere four seconds can affect someone.
But he shrugs those thoughts away as he follows the men through the house, all of them scooping up pillows and blankets and duvets and even one of Shouta's spare sleeping bags, piling them up in the living room under the light of one of the lamps, a soft, golden-suffusing thing, no harsh shards of light, just the sweet gradient between sunshine and shadows. It feels safe.
Doubly so once they're all pressed shoulder to shoulder below the canopy of the blanket fort-stroke-nest they've built. It's lots of calm breathing and warmth. Hizashi is doing that humming thing he does, the one where he reverberates something low and soft and melodic, never repeating the tune of it, not letting it loop. Their Sunshine is so good to them.
Just to reinforce that, Hizashi loops a long arm around both of their shoulders, letting the back of his hand rest atop Izuku's shoulder in a way that'll probably make the man's arm go numb sooner rather than later, but is still very much appreciated.
"Hey, Shouta, remember the fourteenth?"
"I do," the man huffs, a bitter edge that Izuku can't blame him for. And, well, he would apologise for bringing this up, but it's important. He needs to make sure Shouta knows,
"I'm not sure I ever said thank you, not properly. But it meant a lot." There are some details he doesn't mention, how it kept him together, how without Shouta he would have gone absolutely, genuinely mad, how Shouta's faith in him was all that allowed Izuku to have faith in himself, back then.
Those are all things that his hero knows intimately well. They don't need articulating. Doubly so when doing so might just have Izuku fracturing at the tremulous, strain-weak seams.
"You did, I think," Shouta murmurs, more soft than wry, and his voice alone eases something in Izuku's chest,
"And you never needed to."
"Maybe, but still."
"Then I didn't say thank you for that morning on the seventeenth. You made it as easy as it could have been." Izuku considers that for a moment, before nodding,
"Okay, deal."
Izuku slumps the tiniest bit further into Shouta then, a wordless gratitude to share between themselves.
Neither of them bring up the nightares that they have clearly both had tonight. Nor do they talk anymore, particularly not about the loops, that one tiny acknowledgement more than enough for them both, particularly today. Or tonight, rather. They have enough unintentional reminders to be dealing with for having any further, in-depth conversation around it.
It makes for a... for an okay remainder of the night. Not truly restful, not really, although Shouta and Izuku exchange a relieved glance when Hizashi's faint humming peters out entirely because they hate the blond losing sleep for them, even whilst they greatly appreciate the kindness of it, the love of which it's born from.
For their part, Izuku and Shouta doze in rotations, nothing concrete or organised, but it feels wrong to sleep and leave the other two vulnerable, so whenever one of them wakes up, they make sure they don't fall back asleep unless the other of them is awake and just about aware enough to be able to protect them. Sometimes they're both awake, heads thunked together or passing their knife back and forth.
Together, they steadfastedly ignore the early hours of the loop-caught date passing by. They just have to survive. It's far from an unfamiliar goal.
They stay in the faculty room during the actual day of the eleventh. It was their original plan, one much-considered, several other options talked through to an almost illogical degree, but they both knew full well that being in Class 2-A would, despite the differences, be too much of Class 1-A, exactly a year ago. It wouldn't be worth the strain of going. And, quite frankly, it might well be unfair on the rest of the class, including those Shouta has to teach throughout the day, particularly if one or both of them do have a freak-out.
So the faculty room it is. Shouta's classes are covered, Izuku has work from his teachers for the day, and they huddle up together in their favourite sofa, lots of blankets and coils of capture weapon everywhere. They have strawberry milk, nutrient pouches, and the nearest window cracked open to give them a faint breeze of fresh air.
Together, and with the support of everyone else around them, they're okay. They stay unbroken.
The rest of the day remains, all things considered, pretty decent. Izuku drifts off for a little while after lunch, belly full and both Shouta and Hizashi in the faculty room, thanks to a free period on the blond's part. He wakes up before the nightmares can sink in, because Hizashi's hair is tickling along his neck and cheek from where the man has ducked down to press a brief kiss to Shouta's temple.
Izuku just pouts, sleepy, up at the man, and grins unabashedly when Hi-chan ducks even further down to kiss his forehead too.
"Have a good afternoon, you two."
"You too, Hi-chan." Shouta grunts whilst Izuku speaks, a soft thing that is very much an agreement, wordless though it may be.
Going home at the end of the day is a relief, it has to be said. Izuku can feel it like fresh air in dust-choked lungs, like bursting out of too-cold water to breathe safely once again. His shoulders are lighter, his heart no longer double-thumping at the slightest provocation. Shouta, too, is clearly more relaxed, and that helps Izuku even more than his own calm.
Overall, it wasn't a disaster, and that, perhaps falsely, gives Izuku the confidence he needs to decide that he wants to try attending school the next day, despite now having had two consecutive nights of bad dreams. It's not juu ichi anymore, the eleventh has passed, it's okay. He's got a capture weapon and long, undercut hair and their knife tucked into his belt, not to mention that he can't avoid his class mates or room forever.
So he goes, that morning, arriving with Shouta at his side, bumping their shoulders together before splitting off for their desk and podium respectively. And, to be fair, he's pretty okay. A few deep breaths, a hand on his capture weapon, a few smiles and small talk with his friends. It's enough to keep him steady.
Shouta leaving isn't great (he's Izuku's hero, his to protect, to stand beside, to die for-), but it's fine. They send a check-in text every half-hour, and in the brief break between first and second lesson, Hi-chan spams them both with a round of brand new cat memes, some home-made. It's okay.
Until it isn't. Until the little comforts aren't enough anymore, and the little reminders are too much.
The dual lines of the two (juu, juu ichi, juu ni- except it's still juu ichi, why is it juu ichi again, that was yesterday, surely-), start to blur together whenever he looks at them, nothing major, but that instance of his attention skimming over the corner of the board where the date is written and his brain, or his eyes, whatever, not fully processing it. The two lines become one. And it's the eleventh again, and he's stuck.
He tries not to look at it. But his attention is drawn back, time and again, squinting at the lines for far too long, forcing himself to see the two separate lines, but not quite believing it. Untrusting that he's really free like he needs to be. Like he should be. And it's ridiculous, he knows, because his hair is long and heavy, a braid over one shoulder, and his fingers drift down to the grip of the knife at his belt. Logically, he is fine, and so is everyone else.
But Kirishima startles at a noise outside, and it has Hardening shuddering briefly through his hair, spikes that Izuku can only see in darker shades of red, the scar beside his eye extended further, deeper, bloodier. The fading edges of a warp gate disappear just in time for Izuku to blink and remind himself that he's here, in the classroom. His fist isn't a broken, bloody thing from Hardened sparks, and Kirishima's neck isn't snapped.
Uraraka raises her hand to answer a question, or ask one, he doesn't know, but he can only see those fingers swollen, bloody, so burnt that their red is almost metallic, bursting apart at the seams, no hint of fingerpads left.
Ojiro turns to stare out of the window, and Izuku finds no respite in looking away or closing his eyes. No matter what he does he only sees the shatter and swell of a broken cheek bone, of an eye that is closed but he knows would be blank if he could see it, because nobody can be bent backwards over a solid wall at that angle and survive. It's odd how someone taller than him, mature and steady and strong, suddenly looks so much like a child. Are those the broad shoulders of a man, a hero, or are they the still-slim shoulders of a teenager?
They are both, perhaps, but always too much of a child for Izuku to ever think of anything else when that vision assaults him.
Through it all, there is a heavy, cloying smell lodged in his throat. It is salt water and burning wood and iron, sharp, acidic, ferrous. It is death. There's a certain quality to it, something he doesn't know how to quantify. It's not rot, not decomposition, none of them have been dead long enough for that, but there's an edge to it all regardless, a smell that clings. Lingers. Izuku knows that no matter how times he showers or throws up or tries to override the scent, he'll never be free of it. Not really. He can smell it, even now, blinking reality over the top of his flashbacks.
Izuku needs to get out. He needs to go now.
By sheer strength of will, albeit with a dash of practice to unlock his tight throat, to frogmarch coherent syllables onto his reluctant tongue, Izuku raises his own hand, mechanically requests to be excused, and walks out without hearing a response, although it has surely come.
He's still walking, too-calm, when he blinks and realises that he's made it to somewhere unfamiliar within the school. Which, actually, kind of helps. Sure, they're the same corridors, same floor tiling and lighting, but it's a different part of campus visible outside of the big windows, and the stripe painted along the wall, punctuated by doors, is a dark, vivid shade of purple. The Business Course wing, then.
That tiny little bit of logical analysis of his surroundings helps even more, and he takes a breath, a second, a third. Then promptly nearly chokes because he drags in a deep stench of blood, iron-sharp, and it feels like it's running down his throat, clogging in his nose, but he hasn't bitten his tongue, his nose isn't broken, it's just his memories, he knows.
Acknowledging that fact with half his brain doesn't stop the rest of him from convulsing with it, shuddering into himself, gagging.
By some miracle, he doesn't throw up, fingers digging in too-deep into his sides, hunched over, just breathing shallowly, ignoring the underlying scent of death that he can feel clinging to him, marking him, pooling in every one of his rose gold not-scars.
And then he forces himself to move again. He needs fresh air and unfamiliar surroundings and to text Shouta that he's okay, just needs a few minutes. That's a tangible, realistic list of things to achieve. Fresh air, surroundings, text Shouta. Three things, in that order. He can do that. He will. Izuku is meant to be a hero, he didn't break an entire fucking year ago, he won't damn well do so now.
He sticks to the outside wall, to the windows, having briefly debated going up into the vents for speed but knowing that, in all realism, the enclosed space when he's already on the tremulous border of panic, the one he first started to use during the loops, looking for the first set of stairs down to the ground floor. Fortunately for his continued sanity, it only takes him a little while, five or ten minutes perhaps, to get downstairs and then outside, fleeing into one of the many little courtyards on the UA grounds, sticking fairly close to the Business building, but hopefully not visible from the windows.
Flopping down in between a few trees, he pulls his phone out, not even having to drag in a deep breath as he flicks to his chat history with Shouta.
Izuku: [I'm okay but left class. Outisde purple bding.]
Shouta: [need anything??]
Izuku: [N]
Shouta: [alright, Izuku. ring if you need]
Izuku: [Will do]
He finds himself smiling slightly without even really thinking about that fact, reassured as always by Shouta's mere existence, let alone how he always knows the right thing to say, the steady promise of always being there, of being able to rely on each other. Shouta doesn't care if Izuku is short with him; he just wants to know that Izuku is okay.
The trust it takes in Izuku to not press more, the faith it requires to just be able to take Izuku saying that he's okay at face value, particularly when Izuku has a long, and sometimes still-continued, history of denying his own hurts, letting his own wellbeing suffer in order to avoid worrying or hurting others. It's beyond appreciated.
Izuku knows full well how hard it is to push aside half-unnecessary worries for the sake of someone else's comfort and space, how difficult it is to not smother someone out of sheer concern and adoration. But they have worked damn hard to bring their co-dependency down to something healthier, and this has been a major step in that. (Sometimes Izuku needs nothing more than Shouta with him, a steady heartbeat and familiar calluses and a voice rumbling reassurances into his hair. But there is something to be said for self-regulation, for being able to bring himself down from a flashback or panic attack. They can't always be at each other's side.
But Izuku knows, with every single fibre of his being, that his hero is always there for him, will always come should Izuku call for him, and frankly even when he doesn't, because Shouta still has that uncanny ability to sense when Izuku isn't okay. And he couldn't be more grateful for that fact. Just because he can survive without Shouta, now, doesn't mean that he wants or needs to.)
Satisfied that Shouta knows roughly where he is, and knows that he's okay, Izuku just turns the volume on for his notifications in case anyone tries to get his attention, and flops back on the grass, revelling in the otherwise-annoying itch of the longer blades where they tickle at his neck and hands and creep beneath his collar, sleeves, trouser legs. At least it's present. And the aggravation means that his attention stays at least partially on the itch of it, which is better than on the faint itch of blood he can still feel on his hands, across his mouth, at the back of his throat.
Yeh, definitely better grass than the blood of the people he so fiercely loves.
After a long minute of calm, he gives in and pulls off his shoes and socks as well, placing them neatly beside himself so that he can dig his feet into the ground somewhat, the earth a cool, solid-giving texture between his toes. It helps everything feel that bit more real.
He doesn't quite fall asleep, in the next timeless while that he just exists, letting the breeze carry the very faint sounds of some random class through an open window to him. The voices aren't particularly familiar, but they're chattering away. Must be a discussion-based lesson.
The fresh air and cool ground do him good. The calm does as well, the half-familiar setting where he's content that he's close enough to his people that he could get to them in an emergency, but also that he's got some space away from what triggers him, particularly on days like today.
It's not until what must be nearly lunch-time that he moves again. A single text comes through on his phone, and upon reading Shouta's offer of eating lunch together if wanted, location irrelevant to the man, Izuku smiles yet again, texting back an offer of the faculty office if Shouta's up for that, and snorts when the hero just sends back a thumbs-up emoji. Honestly.
Izuku spends a few minutes just scugging his feet over the grass, then, trying to get rid the worst of the dirt and blades of grass stuck to them, before shoving his socks back on and unlacing his shoes so that he can actually put them back on properly.
The corridors are still empty, although judging by how generally louder the classrooms he walks past are, everyone is already hitting that almost-lunch energy, and Izuku walks deliberately quickly back towards where he's fairly sure the Heroics wing is. He might not have been in the Business wing before, but he knows that it's the pillar 'behind' theirs of the main building, so he just heads towards the front of the building, glad to find that it does indeed put him back in Heroics, at which point it's easy enough to go up two floors, then another to the third floor as that's where the Heroics faculty room is, alongside the third year classrooms.
He doesn't even bother knocking; over the last, well, over the last year and a day, technically, the staff have gotten well-used to him coming and going mostly as he pleases, and he has long-since proven his own ability to keep quiet about any of the conversations he overhears. Plus, well, living with two of the teachers makes him privy to several of the course-wide and class-specific context regardless.
"Hey, Midoriya."
"Hi, Snipe-sensei," he greets in return, glad that the man is the only teacher already in the room. Snipe-sensei has always been fairly relaxed around him.
"Want a cookie?" Izuku falters slightly, before grinning unabashedly. Snipe-sensei's baking is amazing, and his big, chewy-centred chocolate cookies are perhaps one of his best things he makes. They're certainly one of Izuku's favourites, anyway.
Given this, he really can't help but accept, albeit rather politely,
"If you've got spare, yes please."
"Course I 'ave! Here kiddo, don't go tellin' your Aizawa, now," the hero winks at him, and Izuku laughs without really meaning to, accepting one of the cookies from the proffered tupperware.
"He'll smell them. And thank you."
"...Darn." But Snipe-sensei is laughing already,
"Good thing I've got plen'y then!"
Izuku just smiles, inclining his head in a second, silent thank you, and pads over to curl up in one corner of their sofa, shoes toed off once again. If he also lets his capture weapon slip out from beneath his uniform shirt, then it's not a terribly unusual sight, really, so he knows that none of the faculty, once more of them arrive to eat their own lunches, will mind.
Within an impressive thirty-seven seconds from the lunchtime charm sounding out, the faculty door is opening, Shouta already striding through, pace unhurried but notably faster than his usual amble.
His gaze is immediately on Izuku, sweeping over his curled-up form, taking on the no-longer-trembling hands and the visible capture weapon and the few crumbs of chocolate cookie at the corner of his mouth. But then he's staring Izuku in the eye, and the teen can see the exact second, a full breath later, that Shouta relaxes, clearly content with the clarity and 'I'm okay, I promise, I didn't break' that he finds there.
"Fancy seeing you here," he snarks, just for the way that it makes Shouta roll his eyes, shoulders slumping even further.
"Little shit."
"Language," Izuku smirks, letting fondness and sharp amusement trace his features. His hero doesn't miss a beat before flipping him off, dark-silver eyes warm,
"Like I said: little shit."
"You love me anyway."
Shouta grumbles something unintelligible, except he also reaches over to brush delicate knuckles along Izuku's hairline, an affection so completely molten, so utterly adoring, that Izuku nearly bursts out into tears. He's emotionally overwrought, okay, that's all.
Instead, he smiles up at Shouta, a thing as much in his eyes as in his expression, and pats the sofa next to him.
"Sit down, Shouta. It's hardly logical to stand around all day."
"And you'd know lots about logic, I'm sure," the man huffs, except he's busy flopping down beside Izuku, kicking one leg up to lay across Izuku's knees, slumping the rest of himself somewhat sideways so that the angle won't strain. Silly man.
Izuku is so very, very loved, and he loves his family in fierce return. Even on days like these, it's worth it.
They held on, they didn't break, exactly for moments like this, and Izuku couldn't be more grateful that they dragged each other through that absolute hell a year ago for the sake of this.