Chapter Text
A week filled with naps.
That thought had been crossing Aizawa's mind since the work-study week had been discussed, about four weeks ago, when the academic year began.
He had just driven his hellish class to the central station, made sure everybody was fully packed and boarded on their trains, and was now back to the emptiness of his classroom, fully intended to dive on his bag with no timer set for the entire day.
A week filled with naps in dead silence. No classes, no tests, no problem children.
…That's what he had hoped for, five minutes ago.
The illusion of peaceful days crashed under a loud bang to his door, followed by someone actually entering his classroom and closing it with an even louder bang.
Aizawa stiffed. His eyes opened under protest.
If he pretended he was dead, would they just go away?
The silence that proceeded gave him a yes, so he closed his eyes again and paid no mind.
His ears though, sharpened by years of underground work, where the faintest noise may reveal the source of chaos and uncover an enemy's position, alerted him of breathing sounds that were becoming quicker and heavier as time passed by.
Goddammit.
The breathing was held abruptly, and Aizawa had to think for a fraction of a second if he had actually cursed out loud. No, he hadn't bothered to even move yet, let alone use his vocal chords. Reopening his eyes, he noticed that his desk completely blocked his sight from the door. He'd have to actually stand up to see what was happening.
For fucks sake.
The breathing sound came to a stall again, but this time followed by the sound of a corpse sliding down the door, hitting the ground with a light thud.
Aizawa groaned, finally making use of his chords and urging his muscles to drag him out of the yellow bag. A small part of him pleaded with himself to ignore the brand new source of problem and head back to sleep… But neither the hero Eraserhead nor the educator Aizawa could actually ignore someone hyperventilating in his room – even though it probably (certainly?) wasn't one of his kids this time.
Aizawa rose from the ground, still half zipped to his bag, to finally view the source of noise that had stormed onto his room.
A girl, no possibly older than his 1-A kids, pale as a sheet, hands locked around her temples. Before even looking him in the eyes, came her voice pleading:
“Erase my quirk.
Erase it. Erase it, please.”