Work Text:
Shouta had learned that certain feelings for him were bigger than others. So were noises, and visuals, and tactile sensations that would brush against his skin. He knew very well that for him, things were different.
Learning to live with it, though, was very distinct from simply acknowledging it.
Living with it was his sleeping bag—it was his jelly pouches, his simple hero costume, and the best of the best was his capture scarf resting softly around his neck. It was always there to burrow into and make him feel like the world maybe wouldn’t crumble.
When Shouta woke up, he could immediately tell it would be a bad day. The only thing indicating that to him was Hizashi’s foot—which was innocently pressed against his shin, but felt like someone was suffocating him in a hug that was too tight. He jerked his leg away, getting out of bed comically fast. The sudden nature of his alertness woke up Hizashi, bed-head and all.
“Wuzzat for?” His husband slurred, barely away and squinting at his highly stimulated form in their bedroom. Shouta found that he didn’t have the words to explain, but he never needed words with Hizashi—he always found a way to understand how Shouta absorbed the world.
The blond shoved his glasses on his face, sitting up properly while throwing his hair in a low bun and out of his way. Just by looking at Shouta—half awake and blinking slowly—he still managed to read the other perfectly.
He didn’t say a word, only nodded and crawled out of bed. Hizashi didn’t give him a kiss on the cheek like he did most mornings, already fully aware that Shouta got up so fast because their skin brushed and he didn’t like it.
Shouta had always felt that Hizashi was too good for him. His ability to read and apply Shouta’s needs to his life without a single complaint and perfect compliance left him feeling like he had taken this amazing, wonderful man for granted. He didn’t return the favour in a way he thought was suitable, and like whatever he did in return didn’t even compare to what his husband put up with every day. Textures, sounds, bright lights, and harsh chemicals controlled most of his day, and in-turn Hizashi’s—but there was never a single annoyance voiced.
His morning shower was warm enough, but it seemed like that’s all the world would do for him today. Exiting their bedroom got his shirt caught on the doorknob, which irritated him further. The way he could get so riled up and stay riled up was enough to keep him angry. He hated it—because he couldn’t vocalize any of it because it was happening. A sickening, frustrating loop that left him feeling hollow but so full.
Making coffee was usually his mercy, but not that morning. The machine was taking too long—so long that by the time it sputtered the liquid into his cup, Hizashi had finished his ridiculous hairstyle. Typically, when his routine was flawless, they would be out the door when his hair was done. But no, not today, because today was not on his side, and the universe wanted him to know that.
Part of his routine was Hizashi talking about what the day would be. He loved the sound of Hizashi’s voice—it was something so comforting and familiar and always there—and the way he would give certain words special inflections made listening to it a satisfying rollercoaster. But this morning, it seemed those inflections would grate on his ears, crawling under his skin to make him feel dirty. His hands cupped over his ears, and he shut it out.
Hizashi stopped speaking almost immediately. Shouta also hated the silence.
His husband tried again, but in a whisper. “Too much?”
Shouta nodded. Hizashi copied him.
“That’s okay. I’m sorry, Shou.” Hizashi stayed quiet, and he felt safe enough to put his hands down, grabbing the finally full cup of coffee. “I was just saying we can leave when you’re done. Please take your time. I’ll be in the living room.”
And that was that.
—
While Shouta had his things that were overly complicated and overwhelmingly loud, he also had his things that were irritatingly muted. He couldn't tell when he was hungry, or tired—or when he had to use the bathroom, or when he was simply in a good mood. Everything his body took in either made him want to crawl out of his own flesh, or burrow deep into it because he didn’t know what the newest feeling in his chest was.
Sometimes, neither of those things happened and he was just fine. Most of the time when people asked how he was, he was fine–-in the mornings he was fine, the food he was eating was fine, patrol was fine, class was fine—
But class was not fine.
When he slid the door open, his students were rowdy—far too rowdy and rambunctious for the morning he had where everything was simply askew. Shouta hated askew.
Because something askew wasn’t fully out of place, only a little bit—but he had always been an all-or-nothing, black-and-white, yes or no, no maybe, type of person. Askew was only sort of in his head, and his whole morning had been sort of.
The room was the all, the black-and-white, the yes. The room was all of it all at once and making the transition from maybe to all-encompassing was too much. Despite the issue, he stayed quiet and went to his desk. His word count was still zero like it was with Hizashi.
Pulling his things from his bag was difficult because he was shaking—the first sign to him that today was quickly spiralling downwards. He dropped a few pencils, and missed a zipper when opening his sleeping bag. He couldn’t wait to crawl into it and ride the morning out. It could bring him to lunch if he was lucky, because training was on All Might today, not him, and was this afternoon, not this morning. At least his schedule was on his side.
Someone let out a loud screech—probably Kaminari, since Shouta had learned early on that the kid had a rather impressive vocal range if he wasn’t trying—and it felt like the end of the world. His eyes were suddenly blurry, and he couldn’t stop himself from clenching and unclenching his fists, then twisting his fingers together. He was already stimming and he hadn’t even said good morning to his students.
What a mess he was.
The lights felt like they added another disgusting variable to his sensory issues, so he dropped down to sit on the floor by his desk—using it to hide some of the light fixtures from his line of sight. It felt really good.
But Shouta knew he was hiding. That is what he was doing. He was hiding. The teacher to his wonderful students who had overcome things you could only see in a historical textbook, was sitting and hiding because of the lights and the noise. Those two things shouldn’t be lining up, not to him. But he simply couldn’t.
Shouta didn’t know how long he sat there for—only that suddenly it was quiet. The voices of his students weren’t overlapping with one another and making the lights brighter anymore. He felt safe enough to lift his head, and in doing so, he saw the many concerned gazes of his young students.
The first to speak was Izuku—caring, observant, resilient Izuku. Over the course of the year, Shouta was equally inspired as he was horrified by the determination Izuku wielded. He loved how focused the boy was on his studies and mastering his quirk, but he also wished he wasn’t so self-sacrificing about it. Shouta knew he’d find a balance.
“Are you okay, Mr. Aizawa?”
Even though the boy didn’t speak louder than a socially acceptable inside voice, Shouta still felt the sounds as if they were being blasted into his ears from a few centimetres away. He visibly flinched and his hands found his ears for the second time that morning. Great.
Shouta had always questioned if anything he taught his students stayed in their heads and didn't just go in one ear and out the other. He had heard fellow teachers talk about it before—how hard it was to teach teenagers and actually have them absorb the real-world things they were learning. The things they were being taught were rather important if they wanted to be successful heroes, but Shouta knew they were also just teenagers who had been through a lot, and so sometimes listening and studying weren’t always the most important things to them.
But Shouta could feel them quiet even further, and the lights got dimmer—someone must have turned the lights down. His head already felt quieter. Yaoyorozu’s voice was soft as she assured him that they had some of the others running to get Present Mic.
The teasing had been relentless, and the set-ups to see their teachers’ marriage in action were near-constant, but in this moment, Shouta couldn’t have been less upset that his students knew who he was married to.
His husband was there within minutes—immediately crouching down and attentive to Shouta. But he felt like Hizashi was too attentive and he didn’t like it, which felt ridiculous considering he knew he was struggling and his husband would help and find the answer.
Despite himself, Shouta kicked. He kicked his husband in the knee, causing Hizashi to wobble on the balls of his feet where he was crouching. Hizashi showed no reaction, nor did he reprimand Shouta for his outburst. He simply took it, caught his balance, and shuffled back a little bit—recongizing it not as an attack, but for the request for space that it was. Shouta still felt like he didn’t deserve Hizashi.
He allows Shouta to stim—to rock, to make fists and loosen them—but he doesn’t allow him to dig his nails into his palms while making his fists, nor does he let him tug at his hair or punch his legs that were tucked against his chest. Any time he called out a gentle reminder, Shouta lashed out—a swat of a hand, a swing of his foot—and he took it. Hizashi knew why it was happening, but he also knew it wasn’t anything to take seriously because Shouta was struggling.
Shouta didn’t like to struggle and that made it even worse. But it was all happening all at once and now he was doing all of it in front of his students and the embarrassment dug deeper than he ever thought it would.
To Shouta’s own relief, he didn’t have it in him for much longer. The lights were still bright, but he was tired. There was no more noise rubbing against his skull, and Hizashi felt far away enough that it was okay, but close enough that Shouta liked the distance. A middle ground had suddenly appeared and Shouta was in it. The middle ground didn’t feel like his neutral feelings of fine, but it was better than what had just happened so he took it for what it was.
Hizashi stayed where he was, and kept his voice down. “Do you want to go to the teacher’s lounge and rest your eyes?”
It was Shouta’s favourite question. He liked that Hizashi didn’t call it a nap—because Shouta had told him that napping felt like he was a toddler who needed to sleep throughout the day, and it felt infantilizing. Hizashi had taken that small piece of information to heart and started telling him to rest his eyes. It was much more delightful.
Shouta nodded to his question, so he stood up and didn’t spare a glance at his students before walking right out of the classroom. Hizashi could deal with the repercussions of what he’d just done. They both knew that until he woke up, his word count would remain at zero.
Hizashi turned to the class once the other man was gone. “I expect all of you to never speak of what your teacher went through ever. Got it?”
Of course, there were questions. The class had always been a curious bunch.
“But what was it?” Kaminari asked from his desk.
“None of your business.”
“Is he hurt?” Yaoyorozu questioned from her spot. “He didn’t hurt himself, did he?”
Hizashi gave a small smile and shook his head. “I wouldn’t let him do that. He'll be okay, Listener.”
Many more questions came forward—all of which Hizashi avoided with enough reassurance that they eventually stopped prying. He knew Shouta would want to explain it one day, maybe, but until then, that was fully his choice, not Hizashi’s.
To gather their attention one more time, Hizashi claps his hands together and gives a bright smile.
“Alright, little listeners! What I want you to do for the rest of the block is any unfinished work, ya hear?” He kindly instructs. “I have my own class so I can’t monitor you, so can I put my trust in your class reps?”
Both Iida and Yaoyorozu nod, and the rest of the class willingly follows suit.
“Wonderful! Please keep Aizawa’s privacy in mind, and don’t go off the walls, yeah?”
When he was satisfied that they got the memo, Hizashi strolled out and shut the door behind himself, leaving the students to follow his orders (or otherwise).
Class 1-A had seen many versions of their teacher—determined, angry, proud, tired, and many other versions that maybe he hadn’t even realized were noticeable. They had seen their teacher risk his life, calm them down, reassure them of their abilities, and even help them with their homework. He was a versatile man—but they had never seen him break down and be brought to his most emotional self.
A version of him that was so vulnerable and torn open seemed nearly impossible. Mr. Aizawa was not vulnerable. He was not an open book. But he was subtle enough that if you wanted something other than a blank stare and an awkward wince instead of a half-smile, you could find it with a little digging.
None of them knew what to do with the information except for keep their mouths shut, sit down, and hope he’d be back tomorrow.