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Jesus Christ, Izuku has had a long fucking day.
First, don’t get him wrong, he loves his classmates, but sometimes they can be … a lot. Especially when Aoyama decided it would be a great idea to sprinkle glitter all over some exercise equipment so that when somebody’s sweating, that shit sticks.
Which is why when he goes about his daily routine as usual and prepares to bike for a bit on the elliptical, and razor sharp too bright, gets-everywhere plastic shit sticks to him, he gets a little overwhelmed.
The first thing he tries is an insanely hot shower. The lava runs over him, relaxing his muscles, but the feeling of calm is quickly stripped away when his hands begin to get pruny and has to get out. The change in air temperature is like torture. Physically, the sparkles are long down the drain, but he can’t stop imagining it. It’s like a phantom pain, almost. Sensory hell , digging into his thighs and arms and head as he squeezes them all together in a fetal position, rocking back and forth.
Back, and forth.
Back, and forth.
Back and forth.
And then somebody yells for dinner. And the dam breaks. He can’t think at all. It’s not even like a fog obscuring his brain, is fully submerged in freezing water.
Without really asking permission, his hands are pounding against his head in a firm rhythm like a run in the marching band, desperately trying to keep him grounded.
The previously enjoyable texture of his fuzzy blanket turns volatile, bits of fluff feeling as though they’re lodging themselves in every crevice of his pajama-wearing body. He has to repress a shiver at the thought.
All the green-haired teen can cogitate is I can’t do this- I can’t I can’t I can’t I-
“Kiddo?” A gentle, but enthusiastic sounding voice says from outside the door to his bedroom. Not loud, but almost musical.
“I’m gonna come in, alright?”
But Izuku is still panicking and he can’t fucking think for long enough to recognize the tone. The heel of his palms pound against his head.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
“Is it okay if I touch you?”
He tries his best to jerk his head in an affirmative motion, but his eyes are sealed tightly shut and he doesn’t even really comprehend that another person is present until someone is gently guiding his hands away from his head so that they would drum on each other instead.
“Hey there little listener, you're doing just fine,” and that’s when he recognizes the sing-song tone and unique vocabulary that could mean only one person. Present Mic. Fuuuuckkk.
“Just listen to the sound of my voice “ and it’s so smooth that he almost has no choice but to feel a bit calmer, like he’s being lured in by a siren’s call.
“I’m gonna tap a rhythm on your lap, and then you can tap it back, ‘kay?
He manages to make something of a noise of acknowledgement before returning to his own world.
Tap tap tap taptap, tap tap
Tap tap tap taptap, tap tap
“Great job, kid. Let’s try a harder one. Just lemme know if you wanna stop though, A’right?”
A jerky nod.
Taptaptaptaptaptaptap, tap tap tap
Taptaptaptaptaptaptap, tap tap tap
It goes on like that for a bit longer, the blond delicately moving his hands back together a few times when he reaches for his own skull.
Eventually, the panic has left him, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. Izuku’s eyes almost begin to droop, a yawn escaping him, before another rush of adrenaline fills him, realizing that his English teacher is still there. That he had a meltdown in front of his English teacher. And a pro hero. And inconvenienced him.
He peels his eyes open slowly, observing the exaggerated yellow of his Sensei’s hair, let down in a half bun rather than styles using concerning quantities of gel. A classmate must have heard him melting down and called a teacher. He can’t believe he’d interrupted Yamada Sensei’s meal!
Kami, there’s no way he’s making it to graduation now. All the hard work he’d put in to be here and he fucking blew it. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, he’d only be a liability-
“Hey, Midoriya? I can see your gears turning. Talk to me, kid,” and he sounds so sincere that he can’t help but comply.
“I- I’m useless. I worked so hard to be a hero and I’ve ruined it all with a dumb meltdown.”
“Hey, hey, hey, who says you ruined anything?”
But the teen couldn’t help but look at him, mouth nearly agape with confusion.
“Izuku. I need you to really, really hear me when I say this,” he awaits the boys dejected nod before speaking again.
“There is no shame in struggling. Whether that’s with mental health, or neurodiversity, or for no real reason at all. Every hero encounters things that rattle them, but what’s so special, what makes us strong, is that we face them together. ”
The freckled kid looks as though he wants to laugh and cry and scream all at once.
“You know, I’m autistic. Shouta too. Never stopped us from goin’ pro. Doesn’t have to stop you either. And nobody at UA will ever shame you for stimming. And if they do, just let me know, Nezu will be delighted to … handle them.”
A brief chill travels down his spine as he contemplates the chimera’s vast potential for destroying random shit.
But then, Yamada Sensei speaks again, unexpectedly, “Let your mask down. Everyone here who you love, who loves you, loves you for who you are. Not for who social standards expect you to be.
And then his teacher does something he never could have imagined. He lets his legs begin to bounce.
And it’s so freeing that he can’t resist, until he’s rocking again, but now comfortably in control.
A bubble noise emanates from his mouth, lips gently brushing each out to make the unique sound.
His hands flap with happiness and a smile spreads across Yamada Sensei’s face that seems to be contagious.
“Hey, kiddo, I hate to say it, but we missed dorm dinner, and it might be a whole thing for you to make something in the communal kitchen. How ‘bout you come have something with Sho’, ‘Toshi, and I, just for tonight?”
And the offer sounds so sincere he can’t help but accept.