Work Text:
Midoriya woke up to pain again.
Not the kind that was normal, the kind he knew, the kind he had been training to expect. This one sat deeper under his skin, an ache that curled around the bones in his forearm.
He laid and stared up at the ceiling of his dorm while the early morning light lit up his room. His arm throbbed in a slow pulsing rhythm. He flexed his fingers and hissed when the pain spiked up his arm.
That was new.
It shouldn’t hurt like this.
He sat up slowly, clutching his arm with his other. The pain crawled up his elbow and sat there. Maybe it was a strain, or he may have slept on it weird.
Maybe he-
His thoughts cut off with a sudden jolt, like someone had plugged a live wire directly into his nerves. His hand spasmed, fingers curling involuntarily. A small cry escaped before he slapped his other hand over his mouth.
His teeth clenched and he trembled hard.
When the pain finally passed, he sagged forward, his heart pounding. His breath hitched as he looked down at his arm again, fearing the time it may happen again.
He reached up, rubbing the spot just below his elbow with two careful fingers. Pressed lightly, then pressed harder, chasing after the pain like it was something he needed to understand.
The sharper sensation grounded him. Just a little.
He exhaled shakily.
Class would start in thirty minutes. Nobody could know anything was wrong with him. Everyone had enough to worry about, they were working so hard, improving so much, Izuku couldn’t drag them down with his unexplained pain.
He was fine.
He could handle it, just like he handles everything else on his own.
Izuku slipped on his uniform, tugging his sleeves down farther than usual, as if he was covering a pain that wasn’t visible. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled hesitantly.
Izuku’s pencil scratches across the page, his handwriting messier than usual. The classroom hums with quiet discussion, just enough noise to remind him he’s supposed to be functioning like everyone else.
He tries to focus on the worksheet. He really does.
But the ache in his hand has been simmering since morning, a dull throb sneaking up his wrist. He keeps flexing his fingers beneath the desk, hoping no one notices.
Aizawas eyes flicked lazily across the room.
Izuku shifts his grip.
Then,
a sudden, sharp nerve-zap races up his forearm.
It’s quick, and brutal. His entire hand spasms and his pencil slips out of his hands, dropping to the ground with a loud clatter that makes him flinch harder than he should. A few of his classmates turn to him but they quickly turn away at the bright smile Izuku forces at them.
His fingers are numb as he leans to pick the pencil off the ground.
The ache returns, sharper this time. Izuku’s handwriting, already bad, turns into barely controlled scribbles.
Please stop, stop for today.
Aizawa’s gaze lands on Izuku and it lingers for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Izuku keeps writing like nothing happened.
Izuku sits at the table, tray untouched. His friends chatter around him about something dumb Kaminari said earlier, but the buzzing in his hand is making it hard to track the conversation.
Uraraka leans forward, concern sneaking into her smile.
“Deku? You okay? You look tired.”
“I’m fine.” he says too fast, the word sharp and brittle.
He softens his voice immediately. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
She studies him for a second, long enough that he feels exposed. He looks down at his tray before she can ask more.
His right hand curls around the chopsticks, tries to.
Pain shoots through his fingers, stiff and angry.
He switches quickly to his left hand with a nervous laugh.
“Training messed me up more than I thought,” he jokes, hoping the humor masks the strain in his voice.
Kaminari laughs. “Bro, same. My shoulder’s been popping all day.”
Izuku nods like he relates, even though his stomach is twisting.
He takes small bites, tiny, careful ones. Anything bigger makes his hand tremble when he brings the food to his mouth. He keeps his right hand hidden under the table, curled into a fist where no one can see the way it shakes.
Iida notices him eating slower. “Midoriya, are you sure you’re alright? You’re unusually quiet.”
“I’m just tired,” Izuku repeats, quieter this time.
Izuku was the first to get out of evening classes. He wrapped around corners too quickly.
His hand hasn’t stopped buzzing since lunch. The ache has crept up into his elbow now, a deep, throbbing pulse that makes his fingers tingle like they’re filled with sand. Every time he tries to flex them, a sharp twitch fires up his arm.
It’s getting hard to pretend.
He keeps his sleeve pulled down, fist buried in the fabric as he walks the empty hall towards Recovery Girls office.
Izuku slips into her office silently. His pulse is uneven. His fingers throb in that same off, buzzing way that’s been following him since morning.
He hopes she’s not here.
She is.
“Midoriya?” Recovery Girl looks up from her paperwork, surprised. “You’re back already? What happened this time?”
Izuku walks in, shoulders small, “Um… I think I maybe overdid it, with my quirk again…?”
“Mm. Come here, dear.”
He sits on the edge of the cot, heart beating too fast, palms clammy. He offers his arm out reluctantly, trying to keep his face neutral.
She takes his wrist gently, turning it toward the light. At first, she’s calm. Doing her routine, efficiently.
Then her expression shifts.
A tiny crease forms between her brows. She presses lightly along the tendon. Izuku flinches without meaning to.
“Hm.”
That’s all she says.
But it’s the kind of hum that means something is wrong.
Izuku swallows. “Is it bad?”
“Hold still,” she murmurs.
She examines further, up the inside of his forearm, around the joint, along the muscle. Her confusion deepens. She leans closer, squinting.
“This isn’t from strain.”
Izuku’s stomach drops.
He tries to laugh it off. “Maybe I hit something during training?”
“No.” Her tone sharpens, not unkind, just certain.
“This isn’t impact. This isn’t overuse.”
She turns his wrist again, slower this time.
“This looks… internal.”
Internal.
The word hits him like a stone dropped into his chest.
“Oh,” he says, voice thin.
She glances up at him, worry flickering behind her eyes. “Midoriya… have you been feeling numbness? Tingling? Sharp pains?”
“…Maybe.” He looks away.
“Tell me the truth.”
He hesitates too long. That’s an answer on its own.
She sighs softly and begins applying a cool salve along his wrist, gentle but precise.
“Whatever this is, you need to rest it. No training. No pushing yourself. No repeating whatever caused this.”
Izuki nods, staring at the floor. “Okay. I’ll rest.”
“You promise?”
A beat.
“I promise.”
He doesn’t mean it.
She pats the bandage, satisfied enough.
“Come back tomorrow. See if the pain worsens, and I want to make sure it isn’t something serious.
He nods again, gathering his things, avoiding her gaze with practiced ease.
As he steps out of the office, he flexes his fingers experimentally.
The pain flares, sharp and angry, worse than before.
His promise breaks the second the door closes behind him.
Izuku thinks he’s being careful.
He waits until after classes, until everyone else has drifted off toward the dorms. His wrist still aches, but the restlessness in his chest is worse, that clawing desperation to do something, to move, to keep going so he doesn’t have to think. So he sneaks into an empty training room. Just light practice, he tells himself. we Just enough to feel in control again.
He stands in front of the dummies and adjusts his stance. His right hand twitches, instinctively readying for a punch. The instant he shifts weight onto it, a hot spike of pain shoots up his wrist. He sucks in a breath but doesn’t stop. He draws his arm back.
“Midoriya.”
The voice freezes him mid-motion.
Aizawa steps out from the shadows like he’s been there the whole time, one hand wrapped loosely in his scarf, expression unreadable.
Izuku's stomach drops so hard he feels dizzy.
“H-hello, Aizawa–sensei,” he stammers, pulling his arm back behind him like that could hide anything.
Aizawa stares at him, eyes tired but sharp enough to cut through every lie he hasn’t said yet.
“Recovery Girl told me to keep an eye on you.”
Izuku forces a laugh that wobbles. “It’s not a big deal, she just… just said I should rest a little, that’s all…
“That’s not what she told me.”
Izuku stiffens.
Aizawa walks forward slowly, stopping just close enough to make escape impossible. His eyes drop to Izuku’s right hand. The moment he sees how Izuku is holding it, stiff, slightly curled inward, bandage peeking out from the sleeve, his jaw tightens.
“Show me your hand.”
Izuku doesn’t move.
“Now.”
Izuku swallows, then reluctantly extends his arm. Aizawa takes the wrist gently but firmly, turning it just enough to see the swelling beneath the wrap that Recovery Girl put on. Izuku flinches.
Aizawa’s voice goes flat.
“She said this was internal damage.”
Izuku’s breath stutters.
“And she said,” he continues, gaze locking onto Izuku’s, “you were not to use this hand at all. No training. No strain. Nothing.”
Izuku looks at the floor. His throat feels tight.
“I… I can still do some things. I didn’t want to fall behind.”
Aizawa releases his wrist with a soft exhale, the kind that means he’s more frustrated with the situation than with Izuku.
“You’re hurting yourself.”
The words hit him harder than any punch could.
Izuku’s shoulders collapse inward. His eyes sting.
Aizawa studies him for a long moment, tension fading into something closer to concern.
“You don’t have to tell me everything right now,” he says. “But you need to stop pretending you’re fine. I’m not asking.”
He gestures toward the door.
“Come on. I’m walking you back to the dorms. And you’re not training until Recovery Girl clears you.”
Izuku nods weakly.
As they leave the training room, his right hand throbs in time with his heartbeat, harsh, insistent, angry, and all he can think is…
I didn’t want anyone to notice.
But of course Aizawa did.
He always does.
Izuku doesn’t turn the lights on when he gets back to his dorm.
He closes the door quietly, leans his forehead against it, and just… stands there. Breathing. Trying to ignore the pulsing ache in his right arm, hot, sharp, insistent. Like it’s reminding him of every mistake he made today.
Aizawa’s voice echoes in his head:
“You’re hurting yourself.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. His throat tightens.
He didn’t mean to.
Not like that.
Not in a way anyone was supposed to notice.
He pushes off the door and walks to his desk, sitting heavily. His right arm throbs again, a lightning bolt of pain that makes him bite back a hiss.
He lifts his left hand, staring at it.
It’s steady. Unswollen. Normal.
His right one isn’t.
He flexes his fingers experimentally. Pain shoots up his forearm. He sucks in a shaky breath.
He wants it to stop.
Just stop for one minute.
One minute of silence in his body, in his head.
He stared at his left arm again, his thoughts drifting somewhere he knew they shouldn’t go.
If something else hurt more… maybe this pain wouldn’t feel so loud.
Maybe if the left side screamed, the right side would shut up.
Maybe he could breathe.
A part of him knew his logic was stupid. But another part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it would work.
He presses his palm to his forehead, fingers trembling. “No… that’s not… I can’t…”
He knew of ways to harm himself, he knew he had a pencil sharpener he could easily break apart in the drawer next to him.
The urge curls around his ribs like a hand squeezing.
He shakes his head quickly. His eyes burn.
“No. No, Izuku, just stop thinking about it.”
But the idea doesn’t go away.
He clasps his left wrist with his right hand, too tightly, and pain flares, making him flinch. His breath stutters. The ache feels worse than ever, vibrating up his arm in angry pulses.
He squeezes his eyes shut and whispers into the dark,
“Just this once..”
He reaches out-
Stops.
His fingers hover above the handle, shaking
violently.
He drags his hand back to his chest, curling around it like he’s holding himself together.
Tears slip down his face before he notices.
“I just want it to stop,” he whispers, voice cracking.
“Please, just stop…”
Izuku swallowed hard while staring up at the ceiling.
He thought about the pencil sharpener in his drawer again. He knew the dull blade in it wouldn’t do much.
He thought of Recovery Girl again. How much she had helped him since he had gotten to U.A.
…
..
Recovery Girl had given Izuku a safety knife a couple months ago. He could just use that. He would just have to find it.
He stood up quickly and frantically looked through the drawers of his desk. Only finding his notebooks and papers.
Fuck.
Izuku quickly turned towards his bedside table and gripped the knob on the top drawer before opening it.
Nothing.
He fell onto his knees and opened the bottom drawer. He scanned the drawer.
His eyes lit up.
It was a small, derma safe knife. Meant for cutting bandages.
He picks it up slowly.
It feels too heavy for something so small.
Like all the thoughts he’s been avoiding have pooled inside it.
His grip tightens around it. His palm is clammy. His fingers tremble so hard he almost drops it. He stares at it, breathing unevenly, pulse thundering in his ears.
He hates that holding it makes the world go quiet for a second.
He hates that it feels like a solution when it isnt.
He hates that he can’t let go.
His right arm throbs sharply, the pain pulsing up to his shoulder. Instinctively, his eyes flick to his left arm, the one that doesn’t hurt.
As if something possesses Izuku, he pulls the sharp metal secured in plastic and it doesn’t take much effort.
He doesn’t know when he started, or when he stopped. But he knows the sting gave him a sense of relief from the pain in his other arm. As if his body forgot about it. He sits there, going through the repetitive motions over and over again, not processing the amount of blood that was collecting on his arm, or the amount on the floor.
His heavy breathing mingled with his muffled cries.
“Fuck!”
He cried out in pain as he threw the blade across the floor, the metal clank against the wooden floor echoed in the small room.
His mind started to clear and his already watery eyes filled with a new round of tears. He looks down at the cuts he’s made on his arm and his face goes pale. He quickly stands up and pulls out bandages from the drawer and heads to the bathroom. He frantically turns on the water and places his bleeding arm under it, wincing when the water landed on his cuts.
He looked up at himself in the mirror and grew dizzy. He turned off the water and soaked up the blood still oozing out with a rag before taking it off to check the damage again. He grew even more dizzy. He didn’t know he cut that deep.
He leaned against the bathroom wall to steady himself.
How could he do this to himself?
Nobody should ever know he did this to himself.
Nobody could.
Izuku wakes up only because the pain wakes him.
A hot, burning throb pulses along his left arm with every heartbeat, while the ache in his other arm still lingered. The bandages feel too tight and too warm. The adhesive tugs at the raw skin every time he moves.
He winces the moment he tries to sit up
Why did I do that…?
The thought flickers, soft and shameful.
His uniform feels wrong on his body today.
Too many textures, too many seams touching him.
“Act normal. You’re fine.” He whispered to himself before heading to class.
He most definitely did not feel normal. He felt
exposed. Like everyone can see through his sleeve. Through his skin. Through him.
He keeps his left arm glued to his side.
Keeps his eyes low.
Izuku’s breath was shallow, and he was nauseated while staring up at the board. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, and he doesn’t think he ate dinner last night either.
And the loss of blood last night didn’t help much either.
The ache of both arms was overwhelming as he sat through the lesson. He kept twitching and playing with his fingers, careful to not move in a way that would mess with his cuts.
But every ache, every sting, every brush of fabric felt louder than the lecture.
He tried to keep his breathing steady
He tried to keep his secret close to him.
But with every passing minute, it gets harder to pretend that one arm wasn’t aching, and the other one wasn’t burning tremendously.
The sound of Aizawa's phone ringing echoes throughout the classroom.
He pauses mid sentence to pull it out and glance at the screen.
A flicker of recognition crosses his eyes.
He steps aside, answers quietly.
“…Yes? …Now? Alright. I’ll send him.”
He hangs up and looks directly at Izuku.
“Midoriya. Recovery Girl wants to see you.”
The whole class jolts.
Bakugou’s head snaps up.
Heads turn towards Izuku.
“O-oh! Probably just a quick check in!” Izuku lies before flashing a smile that fools no one.
Uraraka frowns.
He stands, tries not to wince from either arm, and rushes out before anyone can ask questions.
The office smells faintly of mint and antiseptic, clean in a way that makes Izuku feel dirty just standing in it.
“H-hello…again..” Izuku quietly says to Recovery Girl.
“Hey dear, I wanted to check up on your arm again! I'm sorry to take you during class, but I didn't think I'd get to you any other time.” Recovery Girl smiles gently at Izuku.
“Oh.. It’s fine! Don’t worry about it!”
“Do you mind having a seat here?” She pats on the exam bed.
Izuku is hesitant to oblige, but he does in the end.
Recovery girl lifts up his right sleeve and presses down on parts making Izuku bite on his lip. Her brows scrunched deep.
“This is still inflamed,” she says, pressing a little above his elbow.
Izuku flinches.
She sighs. “You’re sure you didn’t use it?”
He nods too fast. “Mhm. I- I’ve been really careful.”
A small, tired hum leaves her. She doesn’t believe him.
“Let me check your other arm, i just want to make sure nothing is wrong with both.”
Izukus blood runs cold.
“My- my left? It’s fine! Really! I feel totally—”
“Izuku.”
Not stern, just concerned. Which is worse.
“Arm. Please.”
His stomach drops.
His heartbeat rises into his throat.
Slowly… painfully… he extends his left arm, sleeve still covering everything.
Recovery Girl reaches for the cuff.
Izuku jerks his arm back, too violently.
Too obvious.
Her eyes sharpen.
“I see,” she says quietly. “So something is wrong with this arm.”
“No- no! I just- it’s nothing, it’s stupid—“
She doesn’t wait.
She gently but firmly takes his wrist.
And before he can react, she pushes the sleeve up.
Silence.
Not soft silence.
the thick, suffocating kind.
The sleeve is barely halfway up when Recovery Girl stops breathing.
For a moment she doesn’t speak.
She just… looks.
Part of the poorly wrapped bandage slips off, revealing medium sized cuts.
Her eyes follow the lines on his skin, fresh, red, swollen in places from the bandages rubbing. Tiny flecks of dried blood near the edges. The kind of cuts that don’t come from accidents. The kind of cuts she’s had to treat before, but never thought she’d see on him.
Izuku couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, he just stared.
Her voice drops to something heartbreakingly gentle,
“…Oh, Izuku.”
His throat tightens. He wants to hide his arm, hide himself, hide everything.
But she holds his wrist steady. Not angrily, Not harshly, just firmly enough to keep him from fleeing.
He finally was able to breathe, and it was heavy and ragged.
“I-I…I’m sorry…” He whispers in a tiny, broken voice.
He thinks he’s on the verge of crying, or maybe he already started crying. He doesn’t know.
“Don’t apologize.” Her eyes flick up, soft but unbearably sad. “You don’t apologize for being hurt.”
He looks like he’s about to cry, and she notices, so she changes her tone.
“Let me clean these properly,” she says.
She moves carefully, almost reverently, as she unwinds the messy bandages he wrapped himself in. Every pull of adhesive makes him flinch.
She notices.
She slows down.
When the last layer is off, she exhales a tight little breath, like she’s holding back her own shock
“These are recent.”
He nods, small, ashamed.
She gathers supplies, disinfectant, gauze, fresh sterile bandages. She works with practiced hands, but her movements are slower than usual, like she’s trying not to hurt him, but also trying to process what she’s seeing.
When she cleans the cuts, Izuku hisses sharply.
She pauses.
Looks him dead in the eyes.
“I’m not going to pretend this doesn’t scare me,” she says softly. “You’re a good boy. A sweet boy. And you’re hurting more than you’re telling anyone.”
Izuku looks away.
She cups his hand with her own tiny, warm one.
“You deserve help. Not punishment.”
His eyes well.
“D-don’t tell Aizawa,” he whispers, terrified.
She pauses.
Then, gently,
“I have to report this, Izuku.”