carry me?

No one thought much of it, not that Izuku could blame them. He cried, he cried a lot actually. He could probably flood a desert with how much he cried. Cried for himself, his family, cried for the people who could not be saved. Screamed for them. Tilted his head to the heavens, warm waters cascading down the sides of his face. The scenes were dramatic, displayed overhead, like a projector in his head, talking about the inevitable outcomes.

He never told anyone about them, spoke not a word to any soul. Imagery, red imagery. Nothing he really wanted to explain that he saw, nothing he wanted to admit he saw. Izuku would let them find out about a few other things before he’d let them take a look at the scenes, their intensity not ceasing especially after the Kamino Incident.

Bodies, there were always quite a few of them. Sometimes, depending on the night, they were his in conjunction with a few other people. Sometimes he knew them, other times he didn’t. It was randomized, and at this point Izuku didn’t know if he preferred it that way or not. That echo of occasionally, of sometimes, and what it meant for him. What it meant for others.

Then there were the days where it was especially heinous.

Instead of bodies, it was watching. Being alive. A hand reaching for them, for him, for everyone. His mind replayed the scene that unfolded during the Kamino Incident, the what if’s. What if they couldn’t move? What if his plan hadn’t worked? What if Bakugou had gotten grabbed before they could do anything?

Every thread, like a needle, pricking at his skin, scraping barbed wire. He could make a thousand comparisons, and knowing Izuku, he would. But none of them could fully describe the way his chest constricted at the thought, the reality of having lost once. Bakugou was taken as a result of a series of idiotic decision making on his part and on part of a few others, he had figured early on. That was an irrational thought most likely, but he couldn't help but think it.

There was no way his brain would let him forget that one tiny detail, however, the one that referred to him in particular. The reality of his irrational state of mind, and what it could have cost him. The things Izuku wouldn’t forgive himself for, and while he didn’t have to contemplate it, there was that inkling. A tiny fragment. And it was that bit that wouldn’t let him stop thinking about the possibilities that--were of course--no longer possible.

Izuku’s eyes cracked open, confused, dazed. He became acutely aware of the blanket pillowing underneath his head. He scrubbed an eye tenderly as he raised himself up to a seated position.

There was a weariness in his bones, the same kind that often settled in him after nightmares. He figured one day he’d get used to it, accustomed somehow. Malicious thoughts were just that, thoughts–it just so happened to make him feel like a punching bag, which was somewhat funny in a way. There was only one other thing that made him feel like that at any point in time.

And he found he would have preferred the other thing compared to this.

Izuku got up, staggering tiredly a little as he did so. The room was dimly lit, night light in the corner. He glared at it momentarily, if only because it wasn’t doing it’s job. Dark rooms may have made it worse but the night light wasn’t doing much in the way of making it better. Once he decided the light had come to understand that it had failed him, Izuku shuffled out of the room and toward the common room. The couch seemed much nicer than the bed at the moment.

He plopped down none too gently on the couch when he got there, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his sweater. Legs hung off the side edge of the couch, his head resting over the back. There were still hesitant flashes of those dreams and what they carried in their wake, but it helped, being outside, fresh air. As fresh as ventilation could get anyway.

Izuku let his eyes drift shut, taking in soft breaths as his ears picked up the movement of socked feet against the floor. He didn’t bother opening his eyes, instead focusing on how the movement got closer, louder, headed in his direction. He still refrained from moving, the result of being too exhausted to do so. And it wasn’t until he could feel whoever it was hovering over him that he finally opened his eyes, blinking tiredly.

“Why are you a-awake?” Izuku heard himself ask, speaking slowly.

“Says the dumbass who’s awake,” Bakugou returned, eyes narrowed into a glare that Izuku found didn’t affect him as much the more tired he was.

“ ‘M fine,” Izuku murmured, “You should g-go to sleep.”

Izuku’s eyes closed at some point, because he didn’t realize that Bakugou was still talking until he heard the following words come out of his mouth.

“–were you crying?”

Izuku managed to crack an eye open at that, scrutinizing Bakugou as if he had uttered the foulest series of words known to man. Which he couldn’t have, if only because Izuku was used to all of them. Was he really that delirious?

Instead of questioning it, deciding to acknowledge just how utterly exhausted he was–too much to start digging into things he knew better than to ask about, Izuku responded, “Huh? C-crying?”

Bakugou only watched, waiting for a proper answer, one Izuku wasn’t sure he had.

“Kacchan, I a-always cry,” He said instead, laughing before wincing, slight movement gave him a headache it seemed.

“That didn’t answer my question, dumbass.”

Delirium made him bold, Izuku found. An annoyed groan leaving his mouth as he slipped sideways, ending up curled into the armrest of the couch, his back to Bakugou.

“You a-ask dumb questions.”

(quietly blasties) “I wouldn’t fucking have to if you just answered like a normal god damn person.”

“Buh,” Izuku complained aloud, shifting so that he could look up at Bakugou properly, “It’s too e-early.”

He could vaguely register Bakugou shaking his head, or maybe it was his vision shaking. He couldn’t tell anymore, Izuku wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell anymore really. He just wanted to relax, to rest–and the moment Bakugou showed up, he felt himself relaxing. Even with his rather obvious glare of disdain or whatever it was that he was doing with his face.

Nose crinkle thing. That.

“Too early for what, exactly?”

“Questions. Maybe t-tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.”

That’s when Izuku turned his back to him again.

He felt something grab at the front of his sweater, a hand of some kind, probably Bakugou’s. Not his, that’d be weird. Said hand curled into the fabric of his clothing, tugging him up forcibly. Izuku came up with a noise of disgust, between a whine and a groan, something he didn’t often hear himself make in terms of sounds.

“I’m not keen on fucking listening to you bitch about you didn't sleep enough for the shitty test we’re taking later,” Bakugou explained as Izuku slumped forward, just barely looking at him out of the corner of his eyes. “So you’re going to fucking bed, got it, Deku?”

“This isn’t my f-floor, though.”

“No shit, really?” Ah, there it was, the sarcasm.

Night terrors, Izuku realized very, very briefly, were a powerful thing. In his haste, panic driven as he was already by pure nature, he’d run from his room earlier. He had bolted upstairs and into the nearest bedroom, and while Bakugou had initially gotten on his case about it, he had settled with a just don’t talk or make noise that makes me remember you’re here. That still didn’t explain why he had bothered to come out to find Izuku though–so maybe he had cried a bit.

Anyone would cry though, thinking momentarily to the nightmares themselves before his brain decided it no longer wanted to think and Izuku felt his body slump further against the couch again. Maybe he’d come out to kick him for making noise, that wouldn’t have been far-fetched right?