Chapter Text
The return to the dormitories was...silent.
The silence between them was a heavy shroud, thicker than the night itself. It wasn't the comfortable silence of two people understanding each other without words, but a deafening emptiness, filled with the unsaid, with barely suppressed terror. Izuku walked with his eyes fixed on the ground, his face pale and marked by a fatigue that went far beyond sleep deprivation. Every now and then, a shiver shook him, not from the cold, but from something much deeper, something that gripped his soul. He was silent, impassive, a puppet with broken strings, and Shota watched him sideways, his usually impassive face furrowed by lines of genuine concern. His dark eyes, usually so sharp and penetrating, were heavy with wakefulness and a fatigue that seemed chronic, but now they also revealed a contained desperation, a sense of helplessness that plagued him more and more frequently.
Every step echoed in the silence, a hammer striking a raw nerve in Shota's chest. This wasn't the first time. It wasn't even the second, or even the third. The weight of what this return represented, at this hour, tightened his stomach, a cold, poisonous bite.
Finally, the lights of the 1-A dormitories appeared on the horizon, a beacon in the fog of his exhaustion. But instead of relief, Shota felt another wave of tension. He knew what awaited them. Despite the hour, there was a palpable awareness among the students, a collective anxiety that had vibrated for hours, ever since the news—or lack thereof—began to spread.
As soon as Shota opened the sliding door, a flurry of voices and worried faces hit them. The entire 1-A class rushed toward them from the hall and corridors, like a rushing wave. Questions, murmurs, and exclamations overlapped in a chaos of youthful anxiety.
"Sensei! Midoriya! What happened?" "Are you okay?" "Where were you, Deku-kun?" "Why did you disappear?"
The voices were a whirlwind of anguish, but every student's eyes were filled with a fear that went beyond simple curiosity. They had understood, or at least sensed, the gravity of the situation.
Shota, his patience frayed like an old sheet, raised a hand in a gesture that was both warning and pleading. His voice, hoarse and filled with unbearable weariness, cut the air like a sharp blade. "Silence!"
The buzz suddenly ceased, replaced by a silence filled with anticipation and fear. The students backed away slightly, their youthful energy dulled by the gravity of the situation. Shota didn't offer any explanations, not now. He couldn't, not in front of Izuku, who remained a hollow shell, his gaze vacant. Instead, he placed a hand on Izuku's back, gently but firmly guiding him away from the curious and terrified crowd. "Come on, Midoriya. To your room."
Izuku didn't resist, letting himself be led like a child. His inertia was more frightening than any scream.
As Shota and Izuku headed down the corridor, they realized they weren't alone. Behind them, like determined shadows, a small group of students followed. There was Hizashi, his eyes unusually serious, his usual exuberant demeanor completely absent, worried about his husband, and the boy in their care. Then came the students: Eijiro, his always open expression now contorted into a grimace of deep concern, knowing full well what had happened; Hanta, his affable smile faded, replaced by an unusual seriousness; Denki, who usually approached difficult situations with awkward humor, now had wide, fearful eyes; Shoto, calm and dignified, but with a palpable tension in his shoulders and a gaze that never left Izuku; Katsuki, his hands clenched into fists, his brow furrowed in a look of silent anger that barely masked a burning fear; and Hitoshi, his dark eyes scrutinizing Izuku with an almost painful intensity.
They entered Izuku's room, a small refuge that at that moment seemed to offer him no protection. The room was tidy, almost impersonal, devoid of the chaotic energy one would expect from a boy his age, but filled with
A series of All Might posters that now seemed almost mockery, symbols of aspiration and pressure that were crushing the boy.
Izuku sat on the edge of the bed, his back straight but his shoulders hunched, a picture of static vulnerability. Shota positioned himself in front of him, almost kneeling, to meet his eyes, though Izuku avoided all eye contact, staring at a vague point on the floor. The others gathered around, creating a tight circle of tense bodies, their presence a mixture of support and, for Izuku, perhaps additional pressure.
The silence returned, heavier than before, broken only by Denki's labored breathing and the faint rustle of someone's clothing as they shifted nervously. It was Hitoshi Shinso who broke the oppressive silence, his voice low but sharp, filled with a frustration that went beyond simple anger.
"So, Midoriya?" Hitoshi began, stepping forward, his expression a mask of impatience. His violet eyes were fixed on Izuku, trying to pierce the barrier he'd erected. "What do you have to say now, huh? That you don't need therapy?"
The question was a poisoned dart, aimed at hitting a raw nerve, provoking a reaction. Hitoshi, with his history of misunderstandings and prejudices due to his quirk, knew the burden of isolation and the futility of denying a problem. He wanted Izuku out of his shell, even if it meant using harsh words. But Izuku remained motionless, impassive, a stone wall. Not a blink, not a change in expression. His indifference was almost more chilling than any visible desperation.
Shota felt a punch in the stomach. He'd hoped, even for a moment, that the presence of his friends, Hitoshi's question, could move him. But Izuku was frozen. He sighed, a hoarse sound that betrayed his exhaustion and deep anguish. He was their guardian, their teacher, their protector. He should have been strong, but right now he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"Izuku," Shota said, his voice softer than it had ever been heard in class, but with a gravity that chilled the blood in everyone's veins. He made sure he had her attention, even though his eyes were still downcast. "This... this is the fourth time."
The revelation fell on the room like an unexploded bomb. A collective gasp ran through the group. The gravity of Aizawa's words was undeniable. Four times. Not an accident, not an isolated moment of panic. Four times. This signified a pattern, a desperation too deep to ignore.
Shota continued, his voice now firm, professional, but with an undertone of pain that made it even more powerful. "Four times you've tried to take your life, Midoriya. Four times we found you, just in time. We can't let this happen again. I can't let it happen." His dark eyes burned with iron determination. "If you continue like this, I have no choice but to send you to mandatory therapy. Daily sessions. It might mean removing you from the academy for a while, until you can address your issues in a safe environment."
Shota's words were harsh, but they were the truth, the raw, painful truth. They were also a threat, a desperate ploy to force Izuku to react. But Izuku didn't seem to listen. The mention of mandatory therapy, of removal from the academy, the threat of losing everything he'd fought so hard for—nothing seemed to penetrate the armor of despair that enveloped him.
Slowly, with a ghostly grace, Izuku rose from the bed. His gaze was still blank, his body rigid. His intention was clear: to leave, to escape those words, those looks, that crushing pressure. He just wanted to disappear, to dissolve.
But Katsuki wouldn't let him.
With a lightning-fast movement, Katsuki grabbed his arm, his grip unshakable, though not violent, but filled with brutal desperation. He pulled Izuku back, forcing him back onto the bed. Katsuki's crimson eyes burned with pure rage, but it was a rage that hid boundless terror. It was the fear of losing him, of failing once again, of not being able to stop this boy who, in his own way, he still considered "his."
"No, Deku!" Katsuki roared, his voice reverberating through the room like an explosion, louder and more penetrating than anyone expected, as if trying to pierce the fog that enveloped Izuku. "You're not leaving here! Now sit down and listen to us!"
The sudden violence of Katsuki's voice, combined with his iron grip, finally shook something in Izuku. A flash of fear crossed his eyes, a genuine emotion
After hours of numbness, his body twitched, a small flicker of life in his lifeless shell. That reaction, however small, was a crack in the dam.
Seeing Izuku's reaction, however fearful, his friends felt encouraged. It was an opening, small but significant. Eijiro, Shoto, Denki, and Hanta moved, trying to bridge the gap with their words, their presence.
Eijiro was the first, his voice warm and honest. He moved closer, placing a gentle hand on Izuku's shoulder, trying to convey his support. "Midoriya,man," he said, his usual smile now grave. "We're here for you, you know. We're friends. You don't have to go through this alone. It's only human to ask for help." His grip on his shoulder tightened, a gesture of sincere loyalty. "We can talk about anything. Whatever's inside you, we're here to listen. I promise."
Then it was Shoto's turn. His voice was low and controlled, but there was a deep emotional resonance in it, the echo of a pain he knew well. His two-toned eyes stared at Izuku with a calm, determined intensity. "Midoriya," he said, using his most composed tone. "You're not a burden. You're not alone. We all have our problems. We're classmates, we're a team. You can count on me, on us. If you need anything, anything, I'm telling you straight, ask. Even just standing here in silence, if that's what you need." His offer was sincere, unvarnished, informed by a personal experience of isolation and struggle.
Kaminari, usually the lightest of the group, felt the weight of the situation acutely. His eyes were bright with concern. "Midobro," he began, his voice shaking a little. "It's not fair for you to feel this way. We... we're here for you! You're never alone, you don't have to be. If you need a stupid joke, a distraction, to scream, to cry, anything... we're here. Please, talk to us." His hand reached out tentatively, almost as if to touch Izuku but pulled back at the last moment.
Hanta, matter-of-fact and reassuring, joined in. "Midoriya, seriously. It's not weakness to ask for help. It's strength, you understand? We're all here because you care, and we care about you. There's nothing to be ashamed of. We're here for you, to listen, to help you find a solution." His words were a balm, an attempt to offer a glimmer of normalcy and support in such a tense situation.
But despite their sincere words, their expressions of friendship and concern, Izuku still wasn't listening, or so it seemed. The fear in his eyes had vanished, replaced once again by that desperate emptiness. It was as if his friends' words were just white noise, unable to penetrate the barrier of pain surrounding him.
Katsuki, seeing their attempts at persuasion fail, felt a wave of frustration and terror explode in his chest, masked by pure rage. He couldn't bear the thought of losing Deku again. He couldn't bear that damned passivity. He had to shake him, even if it meant using force.
With another sudden lunge, Katsuki grabbed Izuku by the collar of his shirt, lifting him slightly off the bed, their faces almost touching. His eyes were crimson flames, his voice a guttural growl, but beneath the surface of the anger was a palpable desperation.
"Listen, damn Deku!" Katsuki hissed, shaking him lightly. "Don't you understand? We're talking about you! Your life! You can't just give up, you can't shut yourself away! I won't let you do that!"
The scene was tense, filled with a pent-up violence that threatened to explode. The other students backed away, shocked by Katsuki's ferocity, yet understanding the pain fueling it.
Shota Aizawa, who had been watching the scene with a mixture of understanding and growing alarm, knew it was time to intervene. Bakugo was acting out of desperation, but his aggression, however justified, was only making things worse. Izuku was scared, but he wasn't reacting properly. They couldn't push him too far.
With a silent step, Shota approached and placed a firm hand on Katsuki's shoulder, his grip strong and unmistakable. His voice was calm but authoritative, a command that brooked no argument.
"Bakugo, that's enough," Shota said, his voice like a taut rope. "Stay still."
Katsuki felt his blood boiling in his veins, a growing rage threatening to explode, as that boy, fragile and lost, continued undaunted in his macabre intentions.
Something snapped. A scream pierced the heavy, still air of the room, not just a sound, but a primal roar that erupted from the depths of his being. "NO!" The two letters shattered, charged with an almost painful intensity, a sharp and brutal refusal of inevitability. His muscles, tense just moments before, contracted in violent jerks, and Katsuki's body moved, lunging forward like a bullet, its forced immobility finally shattered.
His gaze fixed on the desperate object of his fury and concern. "I won't stay still!" he thundered, each word a hammer blow. His voice, which until then had been muffled or nonexistent, now exploded with such intensity that it rattled the windows and pounded his eardrums. He could no longer tolerate the role of passive spectator, the helplessness that had enveloped him like a shroud.
His footsteps echoed on the floor, quick and decisive, as he continued his peroration with a volume that left no room for ambiguity. "I will not stay here another second and watch this fucking Nerd kill himself!" The sentence was spat out with a mixture of ferocious contempt and chilling desperation, almost as if the insult were a way to process the horror, to name the frustration that was devouring him. The term "Nerd" was charged with all the venom and frustration of that moment, a desperate cry to shake not only Izuku, but the others as well.
"I can't stay still anymore! I fucking promised myself!I PROMISED MYSELF I WOULD INTERVENE IF ANYTHING GET OUT OF HAND OR IF EVERYTHING GET WORSE!"
He paused, an interruption full of tension and agony, Shota's gaze was impassive, Hizashi next to him the same, but the other 5 students present in the room were still shaken by Katsuki's sudden outburst, and Izuku was motionless, with his eyes fixed on Bakugo's.
"Deku, you idiot! You're a fucking son of a bitch, a useless piece of shit who doesn't understand shit about what's going on around him, or worse, what's being done to himself! I can't believe it! I can't believe how much of a hopeless idiot you are!What the fuck is wrong with you?! What the hell is going through your demented head that makes you do this shit?! You're literally blinded by something, by some stupidity that's pushing you toward the edge! Are you such a coward that you can't ask for help? Too proud to admit you're in trouble, even when you're clearly on the edge?! Can't even ask for help?! You'd rather rot alone and ruin your life than open your fucking mouth and admit you need someone?!And your dream, that pathetic, damned dream of becoming a hero?! That bullshit you've always claimed you wanted to be, a hero who saves people, That inspires hope! How the fuck do you expect to persist in that fantasy when you find yourself in situations like this?! When you kill yourself in this stupid, reckless way?! How can you save anyone when you can't even save yourself from your own idiocy?! Don't believe for a second that a true hero would give up so easily, that he'd fall apart and throw everything away over a bullshit! Answer me, you damn nerd!"
"Bakugo, I said ENOUGH!" Shota's voice, though not as loud as Bakugo's, was imbued with unyielding authority. It cut through the young hero's tirade, demanding immediate attention. His shadowed eyes, usually narrowed with fatigue, were now narrowed, burning with steely determination. He stepped forward, his presence a palpable gravitational pull, drawing in the chaotic energy in the room.
"You're making this infinitely worse," Shota continued, his voice rising slightly, his weariness replaced by a sharp exasperation. "Do you hear me? I told you to shut up and you'll listen to me. I don't want to hear another single word come out of your mouth. Not another syllable. Do you understand?" The last words were spoken with chilling resolve, a stern warning that any further defiance would have dire consequences. The implied threat hung heavy in the air, a suffocating blanket of unspoken consequences that momentarily silenced even the most explosive of heroes.
"And you, Midoriya, I'm asking you, and I want a clear and definitive answer: what's the real reason for all this? What brought you here, to this point? I don't want speculation, I don't want excuses, I want the naked truth."
But Izuku didn't answer. He remained sitting on the edge of his bed, his body strangely inert, his gaze fixed on an indefinite spot on the floor. It seemed as if the raw wood, its grain worn and dusty, hid a vital secret, a universe of thoughts that kept him imprisoned in that deafening silence. His mind was an impenetrable labyrinth, every attempt to decipher his state of mind shattered against the wall of apathy that surrounded him.
"Midoriya," Shota continued, his voice taking on an even deeper tone, almost a roar muffled by frustration. "This is the last time I'll ask you. I have no intention of asking any more questions, of begging, or of guessing. Now answer me, before it's too late for both of us. What is. the cause. of all this?" Each syllable was pronounced with increasing intensity, as if trying to wrest an answer from the depths of his desperation. It was an interrogation, yes, but one laced with subtle concern, an urgent need to understand in order to offer help, comfort, a way out of the abyss Izuku seemed to be lost in. The weight of that question hung in the air, palpable, almost tangible, waiting for an echo, a sound, anything that could break that impenetrable silence.
"Izuku, please answer." Hizashi's voice pierced the tense silence of the room, a cry filled with desperation and urgency. For a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, Izuku remained still, as if paralyzed by those words. The lights in the room, which until a moment before had seemed banal and insignificant, now pulsed with an almost oppressive intensity, reflecting on his wide eyes. Then, slowly, as if freeing himself from an invisible weight, he looked up.
The entire world seemed to shrink to the silhouettes of the five students staring at him, their expressions a mixture of surprise, confusion, and growing unease. It was in that moment, in that moment of pure vulnerability, that something inside Izuku shattered, a self-destruct mechanism that had been honed for years. A torrent of words, repressed for too long, exploded from him with unprecedented force, an avalanche of pain and frustration that overwhelmed anyone close enough to hear it.
"BECAUSE EVERYONE CARES!" he shouted, his voice hoarse and cracking from suppressed tears. Tears began to stream down his face, no longer timid droplets, but hot, rushing streams. "BECAUSE EVERYONE CARES TOO MUCH! I'M SO TIRED OF THIS! I WANT TO DIE!" The last sentence was uttered with a strangled gasp, a chilling desire that lingered in the room like a ghost. "I can't stand having such kind friends anymore," he continued, his voice shaking, each word a self-inflicted blow, "friends who tell me I'm strong when I'm not! I feel useless, a Deku, quirkless!"
The last word, "quirkless," was spat out with such force, a venom so thick and corrosive, that it seemed to chill the blood of the five students in the room. The air suddenly felt heavy, thin, as if every molecule had lost its vital heat. One of them flinched, another lowered his gaze, unable to bear the wave of pure desperation. The raw and brutal revelation of Izuku's suffering hit them like a slap, leaving them stunned and helpless before the storm he had just unleashed within himself.
A chilling silence fell over the room, thick as lead. Izuku's words had struck with the force of a silent explosion, leaving everyone paralyzed. Wide eyes stared into space, mouths half-open, as if the air had been ripped from their lungs. No one dared move, no one dared breathe loudly, terrified at the thought of breaking that precarious balance that threatened to collapse.
Izuku, his head bowed and his voice reduced to a barely audible whisper, had revealed his twisted logic, a logic born of deep and unbearable pain. He wanted to die. Not out of weakness, not out of a selfish desire to escape, but "because everyone told him he was strong." Because every compliment, every token of trust, every expectation placed in him became a crushing weight, proof that he could never live up to such a perfect image. And he wanted to die "because they cared about him," because he felt he didn't deserve that care, that his very existence was an unbearable burden for anyone who dared be near him. It was a heartbreaking confession, filled with a bitterness so profound it chilled the blood in anyone who listened.
The initial paralysis, however, began to give way to something darker, more burning. Horror fused with rage. And there, in that moment of raw revelation, when the truth manifested itself in its most brutal form, everyone, unfortunately, became pissed off. It wasn't an explosive, shouted rage, but a silent, creeping fury. Jaws clenched, fists clenched with such force that the knuckles whitened, gazes hardened, turning into sharp blades. There was anger for Izuku, for the pain that had consumed him, and for his distorted way of seeing him. Anger at themselves, at their blindness, at not having seen the abyss so close beneath their friend's feet, despite the signs. And anger, yes, at his words, so unjust and heartbreaking, which belittled their affection and concern.
It was Eijiro Kirishima, usually the most cheerful and positive, the pillar of "virility" and honesty, who was the first to break the tense silence. His voice, normally so full of enthusiasm and warmth, was now hoarse, broken, almost a stifled growl that struggled to make its way through a throat constricted by rage and desperation.
"Midoriya..." he began, the name almost spat out with a mix of disbelief, deep pain, and barely concealed accusation. His eyes, usually full of warmth and understanding, now burned with a dangerous flame, fixed on Izuku as if they wanted to pierce him. "Are you telling me that... that time I found you in the kitchen, knife in hand, trying to slit your wrists... I should have left you there? That I should have let it happen? Should I have turned a blind eye and let you die?" Each word was a weight, spoken with chilling slowness, as if he were struggling to believe the sound of his own voice, the very concept. His hand clenched into a trembling fist, his nails digging into the flesh of his palm. "Are you seriously telling me this, Izuku?" The last question, his given name spoken with such restrained ferocity, stripped of all affection and filled only with anger and disappointment, was an accusation that reverberated through the room like a point-blank shot.
For Izuku, that use of his given name, spoken in that uncharacteristically crude and cold way by Kirishima, was more than a silent stab. It was a betrayal, a condemnation, a bitter confirmation that his logic, however twisted and painful, had hurt the people he least wanted to hurt. He curled up, as if trying to disappear, his heart pounding furiously in his chest, the weight of his confession crushing him even more.
"I-I...d-don't" Izuku stammered, looking for something to say, but he'd already said it, there was no going back, and now everyone was pissed at him.
they have every right to be, useless Deku
Hitoshi, his eyes heavy with a mix of disbelief and deep sorrow, was the second to speak. He took a hesitant step forward, his gaze fixed on Izuku, a silent accusation in his posture.
"Midoriya," Hitoshi began, his voice, usually calm and measured, tense, barely above a whisper at first, before cracking into a potent mix of anger and desperation. "Did you... did you ever truly care about us? Or was it all just a monumental act? Every shared laugh, every late-night study session, every moment of camaraderie... was it all a lie? Just a charade you put on for our own good?" He paused, a ragged breath escaping him, before the questions became sharper, laced with bitter irony. "Why do you hate us, Midoriya? Is it because we care about you? Because we actually care about what happens to you, right? Is that why you despise us? What... what the fuck are you saying, Midoriya?" The last question was less a plea for understanding and more a desperate cry of shocked frustration, his voice rising in volume, echoing off the walls.
Izuku, who moments before had been a barely audible tremor, now visibly recoiled. He curled even further, shrinking, trying to make himself invisible under the weight of those accusatory words. His shoulders shook, and he wrapped his arms tighter around his knees, as if trying to physically contain the storm raging inside him, or perhaps to ward off the emotional blows. His face was buried, invisible, but the raw, vulnerable tremor of his entire body spoke volumes about his agony, a silent scream of desperation.
The brutal silence that followed Hitoshi's outburst was broken again, this time by the combined voices of Denki Kaminari and Hanta Sero, who stepped forward, their faces reflecting Hitoshi's pain, but with an added layer of raw, desperate confusion. Denki, usually the light-hearted one, looked utterly broken, his voice thin and shrill with unshed tears. "So," he began, his words laced with chilling disbelief, "you're telling us... that we should just let you die? Is that what it is? You want us to abandon you to whatever danger you're chasing, without a second thought?" Hanta, ever the pragmatist, found his usual composure completely abandoned, his tone sharp with disbelief and pain. "Is that what you're saying, Midoriya? That you want us... to surrender to you? That you've never cared, not even for a single moment, for any of us?" The words hung heavy in the air, a chilling question that echoed the depths of their betrayed affections, each syllable a new wound inflicted on the already shattered atmosphere.
Izuku couldn't take it anymore, his breathing was accelerating.
"N-no I-I...i-it's -nnot true g-guys...I-not-don't." His stammering was intensifying, his breathing coming in gasps.
And then Shota and Hizashi, with one last glance at Izuku and without another word, left the room, leaving Izuku and the other five students alone.
The tension in the room had become almost palpable, a suffocating blanket that had settled over everyone present. Katsuki, his face still flushed with fury and the throbbing vein in his temple a silent witness to his contained rage, was the first to break the stasis. Without a word, without a backward glance that might have betrayed a shred of the disappointment burning within him, he turned abruptly. Each heavy step that carried him away from the common room and toward the solitude of his own room unleashed an echo of resentment and bitterness, a dull, awkward sound that shattered the imposed silence. The thud of the door closing behind him, though not violent, resonated like a full stop, an irrevocable affirmation of his emotional distance.
The air in the room immediately became thinner, almost electric, heavy with the deafening silence Katsuki had left behind. And so, as if moved by an invisible wave of discomfort and shared pain, the others followed his example, albeit with a different intensity. Izuku's words, perhaps uttered without intention but absorbed like sharp shards, had left a deep mark, a bitterness evident in their eyes and in their uncertain gestures.
Ejiro, usually the rock that held the group together, had an unusual curl to his lips and his eyes downcast, his usual loyalty shaken by unexpected pain. Hanta moved with the practicality of someone wanting to escape an uncomfortable situation, but his fleeting glance at Izuku betrayed a hint of disappointment. Denki, more emotional and less skilled at hiding his reactions, revealed an almost childish hurt, almost a small crack in his usual good humor that now seemed to have faded. And Hitoshi, increasingly detached but with a keen sense of human dynamics, cast one last piercing glance at Izuku, a mixture of reproach and a silent understanding of the complexity of the situation, before turning and following the others.
One by one, with steps ranging from resigned to rapid, they slipped out of the vast room, leaving the door slightly open, a portal to the dark corridor and the promise of solitude. And so, in a silence that suddenly became immense and pregnant with unspoken meaning, Shoto and Izuku were left alone. The air between them vibrated with a palpable tension, a noisy absence that filled every corner of the room, transforming that shared space into an arena for conversations yet to be spoken and regrets already present.
The door to Izuku's room clicked shut. Izuku sat on the edge of his bed, his hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. Every beat of his heart pounded in his ears, a frantic drumbeat beating out the rhythm of his mounting terror.
His breathing became short, ragged, a hoarse sound struggling for air. His eyes, usually lively and filled with infectious curiosity, were now wide with panic, fixed on an indeterminate spot on the wall in front of him. A cold sweat beaded his forehead, and an uncontrollable tremor shook his entire body. Every fiber of his being was tense, ready to snap under the invisible pressure crushing him.
Images surfaced uncontrollably: friendly faces distorted into grimaces of disillusionment, words spoken in a rush of desperation that now burned through him like acid. He felt the weight of every single thing he'd said, of every look that'd betrayed him, of every fragment of truth he'd shattered with his own tongue.
Then, a warm, firm hand rested on his shoulder.
Shoto. The only one left in the room,the only one that stayed there.
Izuku flinched, as if trying to free himself from that contact that, in that moment, felt almost like a violation. But the grip remained firm, not oppressive, but anchoring. An anchor in the stormy sea of his panic.
"Izuku," Shoto's voice was a calm, nonjudgmental whisper, soothing to his ears, tormented by the internal din. "I'm here. Everything's okay. Breathe with me."
Shoto's words were a thin, yet tenacious, thread, trying to pull him out of the maelstrom. Izuku tried to follow it, to focus on that breath Shoto was so gently offering him, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. Every attempt was futile, every breath a new attack of suffocation.
Shoto didn't give up. He sat next to him on the bed, his presence a solid warmth that contrasted with the cold gripping Izuku. He didn't push him, he didn't press him, he was simply there, a beacon in his darkness. He began to speak, softly, recounting insignificant things, describing the room, the invisible stars beyond the shutters, the ticking of his wristwatch. Each word was a small pebble thrown into the vortex of panic, trying to calm its waves.
Minutes that felt like hours passed. Izuku's breathing, previously labored and uncoordinated, slowly began to soften, finding a more regular rhythm, clinging to Shoto's gentle, constant words. The shaking didn't stop completely, but it eased, becoming a tremor under the skin rather than a visible jolt. His hands relaxed slightly, his nails retreating from the aching flesh. His eyes gradually stopped staring into space and began to focus on the still figure beside him.
When Izuku's breathing steadied, an almost imperceptible sigh left his lips. He was still drained, exhausted, but the sharpest terror had receded, leaving behind a painful emptiness and oppressive weariness. He couldn't speak. The words were stuck in his throat, too heavy to lift. Every attempt to form a sound resulted in a hoarse moan.
Shoto looked at him with an unreadable expression. There was concern in his eyes, but also a subtle sadness that Izuku couldn't fully decipher. After a long moment of silence, Shoto placed a hand on Izuku's arm, a gesture meant to be reassuring.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice more serious now, but still gentle. "Lie down."
Izuku, still wrapped in a post-attack stupor, obeyed mechanically. He slid onto the mattress, resting his back against the pillows. His body felt heavy, as if every movement required a superhuman effort.
Shoto leaned toward him, a slow, deliberate movement. His hand, cool now, rose and rested on Izuku's cheek. It was a light touch, almost hesitant, but incredibly intimate. Shoto's skin felt cool against his, warm from sweat and a racing heartbeat. Izuku closed his eyes, savoring the contact, trying to hold on to that single feeling of normalcy in a world that seemed to have turned upside down.
Then, Shoto spoke, and his words hit Izuku with the force of a punch in the gut, even though it was spoken in a soft, muffled and kind voice.
"Izuku," he continued, his tone lower, more intimate, and a hint of genuine sadness oozing from every syllable. "I love you and I care about you."
The words were simple, direct, but the weight they carried was immense. Izuku opened his eyes, meeting Shoto's gaze. There was a depth in those multicolored eyes that Izuku had never seen before, a vulnerability that made him feel even smaller and more inadequate.
Shoto continued, his hand still firmly on Izuku's cheek, but his gaze deepened. "I know that what you said, maybe... maybe you don't mean it. And I also know that you love everyone else, that it wasn't just an act all this time. I know that, Izuku."
There was hesitation in his voice, as if he were struggling to find the right words, to avoid further hurt, but at the same time to be brutally honest. And then, came the part that made Izuku's heart tighten in a cold grip.
"But," his voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper, "I want to be honest with you. Your words... they hurt me. Deep down in my heart."
Those words fell like stones into the silence of the room. Izuku felt a wave of cold spread from the center of his chest. His words. Those desperate words, spoken in a moment of extreme fragility, confusion, terror. Words he had forgotten, or had desperately tried to forget, but that Shoto had instead kept, imprinted in his mind and heart.
He felt tears fill his eyes, hot and inexorable. Shoto's every word was a ray of sunshine piercing the clouds of his panic, but at the same time illuminating the shadows of his mistakes, making them even more acute and painful. He couldn't deny Shoto's words. He couldn't lie. He had hurt Shoto. He had hurt someone he cared deeply for, someone who had been so patient, so understanding.
Shoto slowly withdrew his hand from Izuku's cheek. The warm touch faded, leaving a hollow feeling on his skin. He leaned back slightly, his body straightening, creating a physical distance that seemed even more abysmal than before.
His gaze met Izuku's, and for a moment, Izuku saw a flash of pain in Shoto's eyes, a deep, sincere pain that made him want to scream, to apologize, to make amends. But the words were still stuck in his throat.
Shoto rose from the bed, his movement fluid and controlled. He approached the door, his hand reaching for the handle. He seemed ready to walk away, to leave him alone with the weight of his actions.
But when his hand tightened on the cold metal surface of the handle, he stopped. He turned slightly, his body twisted just enough to look at Izuku one last time.
"Rest, okay?" he said, his voice now a little more distant, a little more tired.
And then, with a final look that Izuku couldn't fully decipher, Shoto opened the door and walked out of the room, leaving Izuku alone.
The door closed, returning the room to its apparent quiet. But for Izuku, that quiet was deafening. It was filled with the deafening sound of his own tears, now flowing freely, warm and salty, washing away the last traces of panic, but carrying with them the crushing weight of guilt.
Shoto's words echoed in his mind, a painful but necessary echo. "You hurt me. Deep down in my heart." They were words he never wanted to hear, but which he had earned through his own callousness, through his own desperation.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, wetting the pillows of his bed. Every single drop was a regret, a tribute to his inability to manage his emotions, his tendency to hurt those who loved him. He had clung to his vulnerability, but in doing so, he had torn the heart of someone who had shown extraordinary strength and understanding.
Izuku lay there, his body wracked by soft sobs, filled with a sense of profound sadness and a bitter realization. He was gone. And he was left, alone, to grapple with the consequences of his words, to mourn the mistakes he had made, to hope, in the silence of his room, that one day he could find a way to repair the damage he had caused. The road would be long, and his heart, now torn with guilt, knew he would have to do much more than simply say "I'm sorry." He would have to prove it.