Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After that dinner—after the curry that burned like warmth in his throat and left his hands trembling around the empty bowl, after the silence between them was bridged by something unspoken and steaming in a dish—Bakugou hadn’t stopped feeding him.

It wasn’t a one-time fluke, a moment of kindness Bakugou would pretend had never happened.

It became a ritual.

Every morning. Every evening. Every breakfast. Every dinner.  Every day. Without fail. As steady as breath. As constant as pain. As relentless as gravity.

He’d come downstairs each day—quiet, invisible, half-formed—and there it would be. A plate already waiting on the table. Still hot. Perfectly portioned. Balanced.

No instructions. No commentary. No attention drawn.

Just… there. 

It unsettled him.

Not the food itself—though even that sometimes felt like too much—but the consistency of it. The intention.

He was used to hunger. To cold. To being overlooked or over-watched but never, never … anticipated. He was used to following orders, not being met with a gesture that expected nothing in return. Not even eye contact.

The first few times, he’d thought maybe it was a coincidence. That Bakugou just happened to cook too much. That he was feeding everyone. But he wasn’t.

Only Shouto.

And after the third day—after the way Bakugou had narrowed his eyes when Shouto moved toward the fridge instead of the plate, the way he’d muttered Don’t waste my fucking effort under his breath like a threat—Shouto knew.

It was deliberate. It was personal.

And Shouto didn’t know what to do with that.

He still packed his own lunch. That was the last territory untouched. Sacred. His. Just his. It was the only meal of the day that remained entirely under his control. And he needed that. Needed the illusion of choice. Of autonomy. Of something he could still claim as his.

He couldn’t imagine Bakugou pressing a bento into his hands—snapping something gruff like Eat, dumbass, with that same violent brand of care he wrapped everything in like barbed wire. He couldn’t picture it. Didn’t want to picture it.

But the idea still rooted itself in his chest.

Something about it made his stomach twist in a way that wasn’t entirely nausea. A flutter, maybe. A flare. Something wrong. Something twisted.

He didn’t understand it.

Didn’t like it.

Breakfast and dinner had been taken from him. Or maybe gifted to him. He wasn’t sure which. So he clung to his lunches. Let Bakugou have the mornings and the evenings. Let himself become part of the ritual he never asked for.

The food Bakugou made was always good. So good, in fact, that it hurt. Something in him hated how much he looked forward to it. 

Because he ate all of it. Always. Even when he didn’t want to. Even when it made his throat tighten with guilt and shame, and the memory of someone else’s hands pressing a plate in front of him like a test he didn’t study for.

Bakugou noticed. Of course he did.

Because the portions began to grow. Gradually at first—an extra scoop of rice, one more piece of pork belly, an egg yolk left runny just the way Shouto had never known he liked before. Then came the second bowl. A larger plate. A glass of milk, placed beside the meal without a word.

He never asked for more. Bakugou never asked if he wanted it. It just… happened. Again and again. No words. No questions. Just more. And more. And more.

Which made it harder.

Because no matter how many dinners or breakfasts he ate, no matter how carefully Bakugou seasoned the broth or crisped the pork or balanced the salt with the sugar, Shouto still couldn’t keep it down.

He always threw it up.

It had become part of the ritual, too.

Not because he wanted to. He didn’t. And that made it hurt all the more. Because even when he wanted to partake. Wanted to let himself enjoy the food. His body wouldn’t let him. It rejected it. Every morning. Every evening. Every breakfast. Every dinner.

Everyday. 

He’d sit at the table. He’d eat every bite. He’d swallow the warmth and pretend it didn’t settle in his stomach like cement. And then he’d excuse himself. Walk calmly to the bathroom. Lock the door. Kneel. 

He’d press one hand over his mouth and hover over the toilet like a sinner at confession, tears burning at the corners of his eyes, throat working against him as he choked up shame and bile and chunks of something made with care.

He flushed it fast. Always flushed it fast.

He rinsed his mouth. He brushed his teeth until the taste was gone, until the blood coated his gums like varnish. Until the burning was something he could control.

His throat hurt now. Always. Like a wound that never closed. His voice was quieter. Raspy. He spoke less, not because he wanted to, but because it hurt.

He got dizzy when he stood too fast. Sometimes his legs gave out entirely, his vision going white for seconds at a time. His fingers trembled. His joints ached. His head felt too light, or too heavy. Never in between.

He bruised more. Bled easier. His skin was pale and pulled too tight.

He looked like someone unraveling. Like someone held together by the ghost of willpower and the weight of expectation.

He’d started getting injured more.

Not always intentionally.

Sometimes he just… couldn’t move. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t keep up. Everything was fog. His limbs too slow. His mind too distant.

Other times, it was simple accidents. A knife slipped in the sink. A sparring blow landed wrong. His body couldn’t absorb the impact anymore.

He’d split open so easily now. The smallest thing could break him.

His skin bore evidence of it—scars and cuts and bruises like constellations, a galaxy of pain blooming across his arms and legs. Blue and yellow and green and purple. The colors of deep space. He wore it like a shroud. Like armor. Like proof. He was starting to look like a mosaic. A patchwork of damage. A body made of breaking points.

He was beautiful in the way wreckage was. In the way collapsed buildings were. In the way stars died.

Recovery Girl saw him more than his classmates. But Aizawa always came. Always.

No matter what class he was in. No matter how minor the injury. Shouto would blink, and there he’d be—leaning against the doorframe of the infirmary like a statue. Silent. Still. Watching.

His eyes were always tired. Always sharp.

And every time— every time —he’d ask:

“What happened today?”

Shouto never had a real answer. Never knew what to say. So he said nothing.

He didn’t understand why Aizawa kept showing up. Why he kept asking. Why he kept… bothering.

It felt like being hunted by consideration. Like being stalked by a guilt he hadn’t earned. Like Aizawa was waiting for something to crack.

He didn’t want to crack. Didn’t want to be witnessed in the moment it happened. But he could feel the seams straining. Because the meals kept coming. The plates stayed hot. Bakugou never stopped.

And Shouto kept vomiting up kindness. Kept bruising under the weight of silence. Kept wondering how much longer he could pretend that everything wasn’t breaking. That the ritual wasn’t killing him softly. He didn't know how to tell Bakugou to stop. He didn’t know how to ask him to keep going. So he did nothing.

Finally, after a long moment of charged silence between them, where Aizawa would wait for something Shouto wasn’t even sure he knew how to give, the man would let him go. In that same low voice, soft and sharp as a razor: “Go back to the dorms. Eat. Sleep.”

Just another part of his new routine.

Then he’d make the walk of shame back to the dorms.

His limbs heavy, stomach hollow, mouth tasting faintly of bile and toothpaste. His body buzzed with the dull static of failure, his skin too tight around bones that jutted like blades beneath it.

Every step up the front path felt like a confession. Every breath a secret he couldn’t keep.

The moment he opened the door, he felt it—the shift in the air. The curious quiet. The rustle of turned heads. Conversations paused mid-word. Eyes tracking him from the corners of the common room. Some subtle. Some not.

None of them said anything. They didn’t have to.

He walked through the gaze of his classmates like a ghost crossing a spotlight. No one called his name. No one asked if he was okay.

He wouldn’t have known what to say if they had.

He sat down at the kitchen table like it was a stage. Like he was already mid-performance. Bakugou was already there. Or rather—Bakugou was always there. Like a stormcloud made domestic. He didn’t say anything as Shouto approached, didn’t look at him. He just shoved a plate into his hands. Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… firmly. Like a task being completed. A ritual being observed.

Dinner. Hot. Balanced. Generous. Another gift Shouto didn’t want. Another kindness he couldn’t bear. Another test he didn’t ask to take. Another meal he couldn’t keep.

He murmured a thank you that Bakugou ignored. They always ignored it—both of them.

Other than forcing food into his hands, Bakugou mostly left him alone. Didn’t hover. Didn’t prod. He’d just shoot him a withering glare if he so much as glanced at the fridge. Like he was a stray cat caught in the pantry. 

Like he had no right to seek out sustenance when it hadn’t been handed to him.

He didn’t argue. He never tried again.

Shinsou hadn’t spoken to him since the day in the locker room. The confrontation that echoed in his mind like an old bruise. But the boy still watched him. Always watching. It wasn’t harsh or invasive. More like a quiet surveillance. Eyes lingering too long. Expression unreadable. A question that was never asked aloud.

Sometimes Shouto wished he would ask it. Sometimes he wished Shinsou would just walk away.

Then there were the others. Iida. Midoriya. Persistent as the moon. Constant as the tide. Orbiting him with unrelenting gravity—bright and warm and painful. Always trying. Always hopeful. Always shining in places he didn’t want lit.

At first—after the forest, after the training camp, after the screams and smoke and villains and shame—their attention had felt like balm. Like a drunk glow he hadn’t yet come down from. Something warm and dizzying and just soft enough to believe in.

Now it felt like exposure. Like sunlight on raw skin. Like noise in a place meant for silence. He had nothing to give. Nothing left. His well was dry. His soul was dust. A glass with no bottom. A matchstick burnt down to ash.

He didn’t know what was worse: the act of it, or the awareness that it was an act at all. That he was performing “fine.” That every time he nodded, every time he held a spoon correctly, every time he ate a bite and smiled faintly when someone checked—it was all a stage.

He wasn’t a person anymore. He was a puppet stitched together by routines he didn’t understand and obligations he didn’t believe in. A mirror for other people’s concern. A shape that absorbed love like it was guilt. He didn’t know how to want anything without wondering if it was wrong.

Every interaction was a performance. Every answer a line from a script he couldn’t remember. Every smile a mask stretched too thin. 

And he was so tired of pretending. 

Today was no different. He sat there. Again. At the table. His hands curled around the edges of the bowl Bakugou had given him like it was something fragile. It wasn’t, of course. It was stoneware. Heavy. Sturdy. The kind of plate you could throw at a wall and it wouldn’t crack.

He sometimes wondered if Bakugou chose them on purpose.

His stomach churned. His spine ached. His skin felt too big for his bones.

Iida prattled beside him. Some cheerful topic. Enthusiastic, as always. Shouto tried to nod at the right moments. Tried to make sounds when required. Tried to hold the illusion together just a little longer.

“Todoroki,” Iida said suddenly, his voice far too bright for how hollow the room felt, “have you been reading any good books lately?”

Shouto blinked down at his soup. His fingers trembled faintly around the spoon. He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, finally:

“I haven’t been reading anything.” His voice was thin. Quiet. Like a forgotten page.

Iida’s expression fell into confusion. “Why not?”

Shouto paused. Eyes still fixed on the swirls of oil and broth in his bowl. “I don’t know what to read.”

“Oh! Is that all?” Iida brightened, as though the problem was easily solved. “I can recommend something! Do you like nonfiction? Psychology? Philosophy?”

Shouto didn’t answer. Didn’t look up. His soup had separated into swirls of broth and oil. A shifting mirror of his insides. He stirred it again and again, watching it spiral like a galaxy falling in on itself. He wasn’t sure he could name a single thing he liked.

“I have the perfect book,” Iida said, voice already rising with purpose. “Have you ever read Man Against Himself by Karl Menninger? It’s an excellent read. Deep. Reflective. One of my favorites. I have a copy if you’d like!”

Shouto stilled at that. No one had ever offered him a book before. No one but Fuyumi. He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Iida was already gone. A blur of motion and purpose.

Less than two minutes later, he returned with a worn paperback in hand. Dog-eared. Loved. He pressed it into Shouto’s hands like it was something precious.

“I’ve read it a few times,” Iida said. “It’s full of my notes—I hope you don’t mind.”

Shouto stared down at it like it might bite him. The spine was cracked. The cover soft. Sticky notes spilled out of the edges in colors that didn’t match.

He traced the spine with his thumb. The edge of a sticky note jutted out, neon pink and jagged—like the edge of a secret. He had never considered the idea that you could annotate a book. That you could add your own self to it. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. It was the only thing he could say. He set the book down beside his soup like it was sacred. Like it might shatter. Like it was too heavy to carry.

His food had long gone cold, and Bakugou was nowhere to be seen. No one scolded him when he dumped the soup into the trash. No one tried to stop him as he retreated up the stairs.

As soon as he entered his room, he heard it. Laughter. Muted music. Soft and muffled through the wall that separated him from Sero’s room. From Shinsou. It sounded like joy. Unfiltered. Effortless. Alive.  It sounded like both him and Shinsou. It was no surprise. The two of them were often in there, hanging out. 

He couldn’t make out the words. But he could feel the rhythm of it. The warmth. The safety. The belonging.

Sometimes he pressed his ear to the wall. Just to hear better. To leach off their joy. He could never make out any specific phrases, but the feeling was there. 

If he wasn’t listening, or doing homework, he often just sat. Stare at the wall, count the seconds, disappear for a while. Into silence. Into stillness. Letting himself vanish into that white, numb space in his mind where nothing could hurt him. Where nothing reached him.

Today, he didn’t do any of those things. 

Today, he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the book in his hands. It felt fragile in his grip. Like something stolen. Like a gift he didn’t deserve. It was almost reverent, the way he grazed his fingers over the spine, read the title over and over, slower and slower. As though he were trying to memorize the words, the letters, the font, the size.

Everything. 

Man Against Himself.

As if that weren’t already the story he lived.

Finally, he started to flip through it, starting at the first dog-eared page. There’s a paragraph that is full of fragmented sections, highlighted in an obnoxious green color. The fragments come together to form a sentence. It reads: 

“The doctor pursues his daily rounds in the stead-fast belief that he is responding to the call of those who would prolong their lives and diminish their sufferings. Suddenly, or perhaps gradually, he becomes disillusioned. He discovers that his efforts are combated not alone by Nature, bacteria, and toxins, but by some imp of the perverse in the patient himself.” 

There’s small lettering off to the side of it, almost too small to read. Neat blocky letters that are clearly Iida’s script:

“Thought-provoking example of the dichotomy of human instinct. Disillusionment. Raises questions about our dual drives—self-preservation vs self-destruction. Are these urges inherent? Can they coexist in harmony? How does this influence heroism? Villainy? Are we doomed to always suffer such fates due to-”

The writing continues for a long while, getting smaller and smaller, almost falling right off the end of the page. Like thoughts that couldn’t be contained. Shouto doesn’t bother to finish reading it. Instead, he flips back to the first page and starts from the beginning.

He read slowly. Carefully. Not to finish—but to feel.

In some ways, it’s no different than reading any other books, from his quiet gifts from Fuyumi, tucked into bookshelf corners and hidden in the chambers of his heart. But in other ways, it was unlike anything he had ever read. 

Because, as he moved through the book, he continued to run across sticky notes, highlights, and annotated lines. Thoughts. Opinions. Analyses. Interpretation. And with every dog-eared page, every underlined sentence, every scribbled thought in the margins—he began to feel something shift.

It was like reading beside someone. Like he was reading the book with Iida. Like he was talking to him. Bonding. Getting to know him better. Like a conversation stretched across time. Like someone had left themselves behind in the book, waiting to be found. As though a piece of the other boy lived in the book, and was moving itself inside of Shouto with every line he read. 

Each note was a hand extended. Each highlight a heartbeat.

It felt… warm.

Real.

And when he got to this line, something in him cracked open:

“On this basis we can understand how it can be that some people kill themselves quickly and some slowly and some not at all, why some contribute to their own deaths and others withstand valiantly and brilliantly external assaults upon their lives to which their fellows would have quickly succumbed.”

The annotation under is more vague than some of the others. Almost philosophical. It reads:

“Who is who? Why is who? Can one prevent this? How? When is it too late? How does one tell?”

He read it again. And again. And again.

Something about this annotation feels more charged. Almost personal. Emotional. The hand writing is sloppier. More slanted. As though written in a rush. Shouto reads it a few more times before moving on, but something about it lingers.

When is too late? How does one tell?

He didn’t sleep that night. Not a second. Just read until the last page turned. All 429 of them. Until his hands ached from holding the book. Until the light of morning crept in soft and cold. Watched the dawn bloom on the other side of the curtains with red eyes and a full heart.

When he returned the book the next morning, eyes low, hands trembling, voice soft as rain—“Thank you. I really liked it. Your notes were… amazing”—Iida lit up. So brightly it hurt to look at.

He tried to hand the book back. Insisted. Iida refused. Gently. Firmly.

“Keep it,” he said. “It’s yours now.”

Shouto didn’t argue again.

That night, he placed it on the first shelf of his bookcase. The first thing in his new room that wasn’t a necessity. The first thing that wasn’t a requirement. The first thing that wasn’t survival.

The first thing that maybe—just maybe—felt like it belonged to him.

Finally, the throwing up catches up to him.

Not in the quiet solitude of a bathroom. Not behind a locked door with the fan running and the lights dimmed, and enough time to clean up and pretend it never happened.

No—this time, it catches him in a real, tangible way. Ugly and unmissable.

Worse than the blurred vision or the weak knees. Worse than the headaches. Worse than the phantom aches in his ribs or the way his fingertips sometimes went numb. Worse even than the bruises that bloomed without reason, that painted his body in fading violets and sickly greens like galaxies no one asked for.

This time, it happens during All Might’s class.

They’ve been doing a lot of group work lately. Practical team-building. Simulated crisis drills. Maybe Aizawa requested it. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe it’s just bad timing.

Since that day in the locker room, Shinsou has taken to waiting for him before class. Never says anything. Never even looks at him for long. But he’s always there, like gravity. Like a shadow. And the silence between them is... something. Not comfort. Not friendship. But familiar now. Expected. Charged, but softened by the repetition of routine.

Today is no different.

They change together, wordless. Shouto doesn’t look at him. Keeps his gaze focused on the locker’s metal frame, on the rhythm of dressing. Undershirt. Uniform. Zipper. Shoes.

By the time they step onto the field, All Might is already there. Tracksuit on. Hands on his hips. His presence still larger than life—even now, dimmed as it is. The wind catches his thinning hair. His smile is warm, but not bright.

Another team exercise. Another rescue simulation.

Groups of four. Tasked with navigating the rubble of a collapsed building to locate and retrieve a hidden training dummy. A repeat of an early-year exercise, but scaled up. More debris. More floors. Higher stakes. A test of strategy, teamwork, endurance.

Shouto doesn’t remember when his name is called. The sound arrives disjointed, like it’s underwater.

He catches the lineup eventually.

Bakugou. Kirishima. Tokoyami.

And him.

Of course.

And they’re going first.

Of course.

His stomach churns. His legs ache. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with static. Everything feels slightly detached—like he’s watching someone else participate in his body.

He trails a few steps behind them as they head toward the structure—what was once a mock-up of an apartment complex, now collapsed into a carefully designed ruin.

Chunks of concrete and broken plaster litter the overgrown grass. Steel beams rise at odd angles, stark and skeletal, jagged bones of a building long dead. Shattered glass glitters underfoot, catching slivers of sun in its teeth.

All Might stands before it in his tracksuit, all bravado and no volume, smiling wide but without heat. His shadow stretches long behind him in the midday sun.

“Just enough danger to keep you sharp,” he says, voice too loud, grin not quite reaching his eyes.

Shouto doesn’t respond. He just stares at the building.

It looks like him. All wreckage and dust. All hollowed bones and splintered walls. Something once built with intention, now barely standing under its own weight.

Bakugou takes the lead. Naturally. No one questions it.

They enter through a busted frame that used to be a doorway, and it swallows them whole.

Upstairs first. Dusty hallways with slumped ceilings. Cracked floor tiles that shift under their feet. Bakugou kicks open doors like he’s expecting an ambush. Kirishima laughs when a pigeon flutters out of one. Shouto forces himself to nod along like he heard the joke. Like he has the energy to understand it.

The dummy isn’t there.

They descend.

The stairs creak under their weight. The walls grow closer, narrower. The drywall fades to exposed cinderblock and hanging wires. The air gets colder, heavier. The weight of the building presses down like judgment.

The basement is worse. Unfinished. Raw.

Bare concrete. Bare lightbulbs. Flickering fluorescents that paint everything in harsh whites and bruised shadows. Long corridors that twist like veins.

No central staircase. Just a ladder, bolted into a concrete wall.

They go down single file.

Bakugou first, aggressive as ever. Then Kirishima, cracking his knuckles with excitement. Tokoyami next, calm and quiet.

Shouto follows last.

It’s harder than it should be to get his foot on the first rung. His hands shake as he grips the metal. His body moves like it’s filled with wet sand—too heavy and too hollow all at once.

By the time his feet hit the ground again, he’s already lightheaded.

They keep moving.

Each hallway is darker than the last. Each turn more disorienting. Pipes groan above them like the whole building is breathing. Their footsteps echo against the floor in uneven patterns. Shouto forces himself to focus on them. One-two. One-two. One foot. Then the other. Don’t stop. Don’t fall.

He tries to keep up, to match pace. Tries not to stray off the path, to be left behind, to let his knees buckle.

A nice, long nap curled up on the cold concrete floor sounds too appealing. He does his best to keep his mind off it. 

He’s so tired.

Bakugou starts ranting.

“This is such bullshit,” he says, shoving open a door with his shoulder. “I’m not some fucking rescue hero. I don’t need this crap. If this were real, I’d just blow the damn wall down. Done. Boom. Problem solved.”

Shouto clings to the sound of it. Not for the content—he couldn’t care less what Bakugou is mad about—but for the volume. The rhythm. The anchor.

It keeps him grounded. Keeps him tethered.

Because his body is unraveling. He doesn’t feel... there . Not really. His legs are too far away. His arms don’t belong to him. The world tilts at odd angles. His heartbeat echoes in his ears. 

Every step feels like dragging lead through molasses. His shoes scrape along the floor. He’s not lifting his feet anymore. He can’t. His legs tremble with the effort of simply existing.

His lungs pull shallow, broken breaths. His heartbeat stutters—too fast, too loud. It hammers in his throat like it wants out. He presses a hand to his chest. It doesn’t help. He feels a little bit like he just ran a marathon. It’s confusing. The most labor-intensive thing they’ve done so far is climb ladders. 

The walls start to blur. The fluorescent lights overhead split in his vision—one light becoming two. Then three. Then none.

He’s sweating, but cold. His fingers are trembling. His teeth start to chatter, but not from the temperature. He tries to breathe deeper. Tries to focus. Panic prickles at the back of his throat. But he’s too tired for panic. Too empty for fear. His body is shutting down, piece by piece.

The others haven’t noticed. Not yet. They’re still moving forward. Still arguing. Still laughing. Tokoyami’s back retreats into the hallway ahead, the shadows from Dark Shadow stretching behind him like wings. Kirishima’s laugh echoes ahead. Bakugou curses.

Shouto falls behind. Just a little at first. A few steps. Then more. Then more.

He tries to call out. Tries to tell them something—anything. But his voice is gone.

Then his stomach twists. Sharp. Sudden.

He doubles over as bile shoots up his throat, burning hot and sour. He turns his head, and it’s already too late. It spills out of him—clear, acidic, watery. All that’s left. All that his body hasn’t already wasted.

It splashes onto the floor with a wet, humiliating noise. His hands grip the wall to stay upright. Everything is spinning.

And then—for the first time—all sound dies.

Silence falls ahead of him. The others stop. He hears the scrape of shoes on concrete as someone turns. Bakugou’s voice is first—sharper now, cut off mid-sentence. 

“The hell was that—”

He turns. Kirishima does too. Tokoyami steps back, blinking into the dim light.

“Todoroki?” someone says. Maybe Kirishima. Maybe Tokoyami. The voice is distant. Muffled. Like someone’s calling from underwater.

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. The hallway narrows. The light dims. Black spots start to bloom at the edges of his vision. He blinks. They stay.

He tries to lift his hand. Fails. The edges of the hallway ripple. Blackness swells behind his eyes, the dots taking over his vision.

His knees buckle. And then, there’s nothing.

He collapses in a heap. Boneless. A puppet with its strings cut. His head hits the floor with a soft, sickening thud. 

The hallway echoes with the sound.

It’s a wet, too-soft sound—flesh and bone colliding with cold concrete, limp and graceless—and something about it makes Bakugou’s stomach twist. The sound is wrong. It’s not the kind of fall you can brush off. It’s the kind that lingers in bruised bones and split heads.

He’s at Shouto’s side in seconds, shoving past the others with enough force to send Kirishima stumbling into the wall. His knees hit the ground hard. He doesn’t feel it. His hands are already on Shouto’s shoulders, then his face, then his chest—searching, scanning, too fast and not fast enough.

“Shit,” he mutters—because it’s the only word his brain can offer in the sudden static. He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t yell. But something in his voice shatters. Like a fuse blown mid-circuit. Panic, sharp and bright.

Kirishima goes still. “Uh… what just happened?” His voice has that too-bright edge of someone trying to joke their way out of panic.

Tokoyami, ever composed, murmurs, “I believe the darkness has taken Todoroki.”

“Both of you shut the fuck up,” Bakugou barks already tearing off a glove. “Icy-Hot—hey. Hey. Can you hear me?”

Shouto doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe right. Bakugou pries open one of his eyelids and flinches. There’s no focus in his eyes. Just red and white, and the eerie sight of rolled pupils.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” he growls, mostly to himself.

Kirishima edges forward, voice shaky. “Should we… I dunno, get All Might or something?”

Tokoyami steps beside them, calm but tense. “It may be faster to carry him ourselves. I could—”

“I’m doing it,” Bakugou cuts in.

Tokoyami tilts his head. “Dark Shadow could—”

“I said I’ll do it!” Bakugou’s voice spikes. Final. Untouchable.

Tokoyami backs off with raised hands, shooting Kirisima a confused glance. The other boy just shrugs, but the grin on his face is knowing.

“Looks like our rescue mission just became real!” There’s too much pep in Kirishima’s voice for the situation, but it sounds fake. Like sad chainmail over soft skin. 

Bakugou just grunts at him, already hauling Shouto up onto his back piggyback style. The boy tilts to the side immediately, almost sliding right back onto the floor. Bakugou catches him with a quick hand and a muffled curse. 

“Oi—Shitty Hair, tear something off your dumb cape,” Bakugou barks.

“Wait, what?” Kirishima looks baffled. “Why?”

“Just do it!” Kirishima doesn’t argue again, tearing a long strip of red fabric off the back of his costume.

“Good, tie Icy-Hot’s hands together.” Kirishima stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Why would I do that?”

Bakugou glares at him like he’s an idiot, “unconcious people can’t hold on dumbass, he’s gonna fall off. Just fucking do what I say and stop asking a bunch of useless questions.”

“That is… logical,” Tokoyami admits, even as his brow furrows.

Reluctantly, Kirishima kneels and ties Shouto’s wrists together with the torn cloth. The knot is snug. Secure. Wrong.

Shouto stirs—barely. A twitch. A sigh. But he doesn’t wake.

Bakugou grits his teeth. With Kirishima’s help, he hoists Shouto onto his back. The boy sags against him, limp as a wet rag. His chin presses into the back of Bakugou’s neck. His breath is shallow, ghostly against his collar.

Shouto’s head rolls to the side.

“Careful—” Kirishima says.

“I am being careful!”

Bakugou adjusts his grip. His hands are trembling. Just a little. But it’s enough. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just stands. Adjusts. Takes the weight. Starts walking.

Kirishima trails behind, watching warily. Tokoyami leads. They walk in silence for a long time.

Until Kirishima finally asks, too softly, “Is this… is this a thing he does? Just pass out?”

Bakugou doesn’t turn around. “You ever seen him do it before?”

Kirishima shakes his head. “...No.”

“Then shut up.”

More silence.

“It’s probably just exhaustion,” Tokoyami offers. “Or a sugar crash. Perhaps a virus.”

Bakugou doesn’t answer. His jaw is clenched. Every few steps, he adjusts his grip, making sure Shouto doesn’t slide. His back burns. His legs ache. The boy is too light, but too heavy. A contradiction in every sense.

He can feel Shouto’s ribcage against his spine. It’s sharp. Too sharp. Like there’s nothing between bone and skin. And he can feel the tremble of each shallow breath—barely there.

It feels like carrying something fragile.

He hates it.

Bakugou’s hands clenched harder around the backs of Shouto’s knees.

They hadn’t stopped shaking. He didn’t know if it was from effort or adrenaline. Didn’t care. He adjusted his grip again, hoisting the dead weight higher. Shouto’s chin bumped against his shoulder, slack and too cold. Too still.

“You good?” Kirishima asked quietly from behind, his voice almost apologetic.

Bakugou didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

Each step echoed in the corridor like an accusation.

It was stupid how light the bastard was. Stupid how bones could feel this heavy. He could feel every angle of Shouto’s knees where they hooked around his waist, the sharp cut of his shin against his ribs. No one should weigh this little.

“He seemed fine earlier,” Kirishima mumbled. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “He was quiet, but like… he’s always quiet, you know? I thought he was just tired.”

“He was pale,” Tokoyami added from ahead, not looking back. “But not alarmingly so. Not more than usual.”

“You mean not more than lately,” Bakugou snapped.

The silence that followed was thick. Uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Tokoyami said finally. “Yes. I guess… I guess I do.”

Bakugou’s jaw locked. He adjusted Shouto again, tugging his wrists tighter to keep them from slipping down. His back ached. His heart pounded like a war drum.

“You ever seen someone just… give out like that?” Kirishima asked, voice tight.

“No,” Bakugou muttered.

He thought of the sound Shouto made when he hit the floor. That soft, wet thud. He couldn’t get it out of his head. Like someone dropping a sack of meat.

“I have,” Tokoyami said, quieter than before. “Once. During winter break. A relative. They collapsed in the kitchen. Low blood sugar. They were fine… but it was terrifying.”

Bakugou didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

He could feel Shouto’s heartbeat against his back—faint, fluttering, too fast. He could feel the heat of his skin, clammy and wrong. His breaths, shallow and whisper-soft.

He hated how quiet it was. How light.

He hated how Shouto hadn’t made a sound.

“Do you think… do you think it’s just that?” Kirishima asked. “Low blood sugar?”

Tokoyami didn’t reply. Neither did Bakugou.

He adjusted again. Shouto’s head lolled against his shoulder. His hair brushed Bakugou’s cheek. He grit his teeth and kept walking.

They reach the ladder and stop. Bakugou stares up at it like it’s a personal insult. At the rungs. At the impossible angle.

“How the fuck am I supposed to climb that?”

“You need help?” Kirishima asks.

“I need another arm,” Bakugou growls.

“You know,” Tokayami chimes in, “I could always carry him with Dark Shadow, truly, it wouldn’t be an issue.”

There’s a beat of hesitation.

Bakugou doesn’t want to say yes. Doesn’t want to give Shouto to someone else. Even temporarily. But he looks at the ladder. Then at Shouto. Then at Tokoyami.

“…Fine.”

Tokoyami climbs first, Dark Shadow behind him, Shouto held firmly in his grasp.

Bakugou climbs after them, jaw set. His eyes never leave them. Not once.

They move through the rest of the building quickly. Too quickly. Every second is a blur of footfalls and breath and urgency. No one speaks.

All Might was waiting at the edge of the field, talking to another group. The moment he saw them, his face dropped.

“Todoroki—? What—”

Bakugou didn’t wait.

He stomped forward, fast and furious. “Collapsed. He threw up and passed out. We didn’t fucking touch him. Just carried him out.”

When Shouto is lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled away Bakugou watches him go. He stared after the stretcher until it vanished from view. Until the silence settled again. Until Kirishima stepped up beside him and said—

“Dude. You okay?”

Bakugou didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. His jaw was too tight. His hands hurt from how hard he was clenching them.

Finally, he said, too quietly:

“No.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

The first thing Shouto sees when he opens his eyes is Recovery Girl’s face, soft and lined, peering down at him with that peculiar blend of clinical detachment and grandmotherly disappointment that only she could manage.

There’s no Aizawa. No clipboard. No narrowed eyes. No low, even voice asking: What happened today?

Just a protein bar.

A water bottle.

And the quiet instruction: “Go back to the dorms, Todoroki. Take the rest of the day off.”

That’s all.

No questions. No observations. No lectures. No mention of what happened during the exercise—how he fell behind, vomited, collapsed. No demand for an explanation. No offer of comfort.

It’s strangely merciful.

He’s too relieved to see it for the warning sign that it probably is. 

He gets dressed slowly, fingers fumbling with buttons, his skin cold and damp and wrong-feeling. The water bottle sweats in his hand the whole walk back, leaving a wet crescent of condensation on his thigh through the fabric of his uniform.

By the time he reaches the dorms, it’s lunchtime. The sun is high. The hallway is empty. His bento waits in his bag, untouched.

He made it himself this morning. He’d measured the rice perfectly. Cut the chicken into uniform slices. He’d even peeled and steamed carrots—tried to make it look nice, even if it was only for him.

But he can’t eat it now. The thought of food makes his stomach pitch sideways.

He carries it up the stairs anyway.

Sits it on his desk, unopened.

Retreats into his room and closes the door like it’s the only thing between him and collapse.

He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t pace. Doesn’t scream. He just… disappears. Fades into the silence like a ghost returning to the walls.

He does his homework. Or at least, he opens the book and stares at the page. The words swim. He reads the same line seventeen times. Doesn’t register a single word.

Eventually, he stops pretending.

He stares at the wall instead. Counts the spaces between nail holes in the drywall. Wonders how many coats of paint it takes to cover a mistake.

The ceiling fan hums overhead. A low, mechanical whirr like a distant helicopter. He fixates on it. Let's it pull him deeper into the fog.

And then, at exactly 6:00 PM, there’s a knock.

One soft tap.

Then a louder one. Familiar.

It’s Kirishima.

Of course it’s Kirishima.

When Shouto opens the door, the redhead greets him with that hopeful smile—the kind that says I know you’re unhappy, but maybe you’ll pretend you’re not for my sake. It’s not cold. It’s not cruel. But it is… heavy. Too bright.

“Hey, dude! Bakugou made dinner,” he says, trying for cheer. “You might wanna come down and eat it… Otherwise, he might come up here and drag you down himself! He sounded pretty pissed that you weren’t there…”

Shouto doesn’t answer. He just steps out of the room and closes the door behind him. He doesn’t want to come. Doesn’t want to eat. Doesn’t want to get sick again. But that exhaustion is back. Rooted all the way down in his marrow. He doesn’t have the energy to fight. 

There’s no decision-making. No weighing of options. No processing. Just action. Just muscle memory.

Follow orders. Be where you’re told to be.

Kirishima talks the whole way down.

“We’re watching a movie after! Like, everyone’s coming. Even Jirou, and she usually bails early—so you gotta stay. You ever seen Nausicaa ? I think you’d like it. It’s got—well, you’ll see.”

Kirishima is looking at him with those eyes, sad, desperate, like a puppy begging for scraps. The likelihood of his response being negative hangs in the air between them- unspoken. 

Shouto doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever seen a movie before. Maybe once, years ago. Something on a screen in a hotel lobby. But never like this. Never with people.

And still—he nods.

Not because he wants to. But because arguing would take energy. Because saying no might draw more attention than saying yes.

Stare at the wall in his room. Stare at the wall in the common area. It made little difference to him. He can sit through something. He’s good at pretending.

It seemed to be enough, based on the grin that lit up Kirishima’s face. 

The air changes when they hit the common area. The low hum of voices fades. A silence that isn’t really silent sets in.

He knows that feeling. He’s walked into it before—when the conversation dies the second you enter. When everyone’s pretending they weren’t just talking about you.

Eyes track him. He doesn’t look up, but he can feel it.

Midoriya reaches him first, of course.

“Todoroki! Tokoyami told me what happened. Are you okay? Are you—”

Shouto walks right past him.

He doesn’t say a word.

Doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to explain. Doesn’t want to see the pity in Midoriya’s eyes—doesn’t want to feel the pressure of his gaze pressing down like a thousand-pound weight.

There’s a scream clawing its way up his throat. He’s a little afraid that if he has to listen to Midoriya for even a second longer, he might hit the boy. Right in that stupid prying face of his. 

Bakugou is in the kitchen.

There’s a sign on the doorway in thick black marker: NO EXTRAS ALLOWED!

Underneath are badly drawn stick figures—recognizable only by the jagged outline of Kirishima’s hair, the lightning bolt of Kaminari’s, a very rectangular Mina, the comically exaggerated roundness of Sero's elbows. There's a Shinsou in purple pen, recognizable only by the hollowed out bruises under the stick figure's eyes. This one is a little more rushed, the style a little different from the others. As though it had been added later, a secondary addition. 

It’s stupid. It’s childish.

It’s so painfully Bakugou.

He’s stirring something in a pot like he’s preparing for war. The scent hits Shouto in the face like a physical force—something rich and buttery, undercut by garlic and miso and roasted sesame.

It makes his stomach lurch.

He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want to eat. Doesn’t want to vomit again. He wants his chicken. He wants his kale. He wants his safety. He wants to disappear into a corner and let the emptiness hollow him out like it always does. 

But Bakugou doesn’t give him a choice. He turns, scoops a bowl, and hands it over like it’s a live grenade. The look on his face makes it pretty clear that today isn’t the day to argue, so Shouto doesn’t. Just swallows the scream in his throat and blinks the tears from his eyes.

The serving is massive. It only makes the defeat feel all the more intense. There was no way he was gonna be able to finish it all. No chance that he wouldn’t throw up if he did. 

Bakugou doesn’t say anything. Just shoves it into his hands, then turns back to the stove.

Shouto takes it to the table and sits. He’s so distracted by the churning in his gut he doesn’t even notice when Bakugou joins him.

The food smells too good. Like warmth. Like effort.

Like something meant for him.

Dinner was rice and grilled mackerel. A small salad. A miso soup still steaming. Pickled radish cut into tiny, neat triangles. Balanced. Thoughtful. He hadn’t even known Bakugou could cook like this.

He couldn’t tell if it was a kindness or a punishment.

He picks up his spoon and tries to eat slowly. Tries not to gag. The broth is complex—salty and sweet and nutty and bitter. It coats his mouth. Clings to the back of his throat.

He swallows. His stomach revolts.

The food tastes like ash. 

Across the table, Bakugou wasn’t watching him. Not directly. He was chewing absently through his own portion, flipping pages in a textbook, his brow furrowed like the problems were personally offending him. But every few minutes, his eyes would flick over—quick, sharp, and then gone. Like a knife slicing across skin so fast it didn’t bleed until later.

Shouto lifted his spoon. His hand trembled slightly. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that the broth rippled in the bowl. He brought it to his lips and sipped.

His stomach roiled in response.

“Eat slower, dumbass,” Bakugou muttered without looking up.

Shouto froze.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been rushing. Hadn’t realized he’d been trying to get it over with. Like pulling off a bandage.

“Or don’t,” Bakugou added, flipping a page with more force than necessary. “Not like I give a shit.”

Shouto doesn’t respond. He chews. He swallows again. It takes everything he has not to cry.

He finished what he could. Which wasn’t much. A few spoonfuls of the soup. Half the fish. He couldn’t touch the rice. When he stood, his knees wobbled. He didn’t go to the bathroom immediately. Not with Bakugou still at the table. Not with his eyes flicking over like that.

Bakugou snatches his dish from him as soon as he finishes. Goes to the sink and washes it before Shouto can say a word.

That’s the part he hates most. At home, the dishes were his. His one consistent task that he could get right. Get perfect. Now, even that’s been taken from him. 

When he makes it back into the common room, everyone is around him is already getting settled, plopping down on couches and making blanket nests on the floor.

The TV is already on, playing some kind of title screen for a movie Shouto can’t bring himself to recognize. 

“We’re watching Nausicaa? Who picked that shit?” There’s a bite in Bakugou’s tone, but it sounds forced. He’s already claiming a couch for himself, stretching long limbs across its entirety and glaring at anyone who gets close.

“I did! You got a problem with it?” Jirou shoots him a look as she speaks, almost as if daring him to say more. Bakugou just waves her away with a grumble. 

Around him, everyone is settling in. Everyone is seated. Shouto is the only one still standing. He doesn’t know where to go. Who to sit by. Iida and Midoriya are already waving him over to join them and Uraraka on the ground. But Shouto’s not sure he can stand the thought of that right now. Of having to deal with them. To deal with their questions.

“Icy-Hot.” Bakugou’s voice breaks through the wave of anxiety in his head, he turns to meet his eyes.

“Are you gonna sit down or just hover like a dumbass?” With that, the boy moves his feet, kicking them off the couch with a kind of dramatic flourish. As if he were doing Shouto a favor by making a seat for him. 

He hesitates, glances and Iida and Midoriya, glances at the other couch, packed with bodies, at the floor, covered in blankets and settled classmates. 

Finally, he makes his way over, feet lagging behind him. Everything is screaming at him to turn around, to run away. He ignores it. Sits beside Bakugou with all the gentle grace of someone afraid. Of someone trying to hide. 

He sandwiches himself as close to the armrest as he can get. There’s almost a full foot of space between him and the other boy, but it still feels too close. 

As the movie plays, that distance only grows smaller. Bakugou sprawling out with his legs spread and his arms resting on the backrest. He’s taking up half the couch with his presence alone.

Shouto tries to wiggle closer to the armrest, feels the way it digs into his ribs. It’s painful. Grounding. 

“Are you allergic to being comfortable? For real, what the fuck is wrong with you?” The words are harsh, but the tone is soft, quiet, as though he were trying to avoid calling attention to them.

Shouto doesn’t respond, but he does his best to relax, if only to avoid more attention. Gradually, slowly, it works. Bit by bit, he uncurls from where he’s been pressed against the armrest. 

This puts him closer to Bakugou, though, and soon they’re sitting almost side by side, knees knocking together. 

Bakugou is… warm. And he smells like the hoodie. Soft smoke and spice mixed with the sweet scent of caramel. 

Shouto relaxes before he means to. Let's himself get more comfortable than he’d like to admit.

For a little while—he forgets. He forgets the nausea. The pain. The weight in his chest.

But, it doesn’t last. Before long, he feels it. That crawling sick sensation creeping up his throat. Dinner coming back to say hi. He gets up without excusing himself, tries to keep his steps even and measured as he walks to the bathroom. Falls to his knees, opens his mouth, vomits. 

It almost doesn’t bother him anymore. He’s gotten so used to it. Built it into his routine. It’s almost funny how little he cares, considering how afraid he used to be of throwing up.

He rinses his mouth out on autopilot, brushes his teeth, and returns.

When he gets back, the movie isn’t playing, paused on some aerial battle Shouto hadn’t been paying attention to.

“Dudee, if you’re gonna leave, you have to say something! How else are we supposed to know to pause the movie?” It’s all Mina says as he resettles in his seat, before clicking play.

It catches him off guard. They… waited for him? 

Shouto can’t remember the last time someone did that. 

Bakugou shifts slightly as he sits down, their thighs knocking together in a way that makes something curl up in Shouto’s throat. Different than vomit, but unsettling all the same. 

The movie is… good. From what Shouto manages to catch of it. The world fades in and out in blurs of color and noise. Still, he manages to stay more present than he had expected. It’s almost… nice. Maybe even enjoyable.

But Shouto doesn’t know how to enjoy himself anymore. 

That night, in bed, he stares at the book from Iida on his bookshelf. Thinks about annotations. About thoughts written in margins. About meaning shared, even when no one’s looking.

He falls asleep with the sound of Nausicaa’s voice still playing behind his eyes.

It’s the best rest he’s had in months.

The next day, during class, Aizawa corners him again.

Not loudly. Not angrily. There’s no dramatic announcement. No fanfare. Just a quiet shake of the head when Shouto rises to follow the rest of the class out into the corridor.

He obeys without thinking. Without resisting. Because what else is there to do?

The others pass him by in a blur—Kirishima chatting animatedly with Kaminari, Jirou dragging her bag behind her, Midoriya turning his head once, brows furrowing in concern, only to be gently tugged along by Iida.

Shouto stays behind.

And when the last pair of footsteps vanishes down the hall, the air in the classroom stills. Thickens.

That’s when Aizawa moves.

He doesn’t look at him. Just turns toward the exit, motions with one hand for Shouto to follow, and begins walking. His steps are deliberate, unhurried. Shouto follows.

The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. Each footstep echoes louder than it should. The sound of his shoes against tile reminds him of hospital corridors. Of backlit silence. Of clean hallways and unclean truths.

He trails behind like a shadow unraveling at the edges. His arms feel too light. His legs too heavy. His breath catches in the wrong places. He walks like he’s being led toward judgment. Like he’s walking into a sentence already decided. Maybe he is.

He’s been called in before. After the first combat training. After the fight with Stain. After the Sports Festival. Even once after he stood too long in the rain outside his dorm, soaked through and silent until Aizawa dragged him back inside.

Every time before, it had felt procedural. Necessary. Awkward in its own way, but still tethered to something like belief. Aizawa had always been blunt. Always sharp around the edges. But even when his voice cut, even when his patience ran thin, it had never felt cruel. It had never felt like this.

This time, something is different. It’s not disappointment. Not anger. Not even concern. It’s something colder. Sharper. Like grief. Like inevitability.

Less like expectation, and more like condemnation. 

Like whatever grace he was living on has finally run out.

By the time they reach his office, Shouto’s mouth is dry and his hands are shaking. Aizawa opens the door. Quiet. Simple. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t speak. Just steps inside. Shouto hesitates. Only for a second. But it feels long. Feels revealing.

Then he follows.

The latch clicks shut behind him. Final. The room is dim, lit only by the slatted blinds and a desk lamp that casts long shadows across the floor. It smells faintly of coffee and chalk dust and something sterile.

Aizawa sinks into the chair behind his desk, exhaling like the air itself is heavier than it should be. Shouto sits down across from him with mechanical precision.

And then there’s silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. It spreads like smoke into every corner of the room.

Aizawa watches him. Just watches. With those eyes that don’t blink. That don’t waver. Eyes that feel like a blade against bone. Shouto doesn’t meet them. He stares at the desk. At a chipped corner of wood. At the ring of a coffee mug stain pressed too deep to be scrubbed clean.

The silence presses on his ribs like a weight. Like a vice.

Finally, Aizawa speaks.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time in Recovery Girl’s office recently.”

The words hit with the sharpness of ice water. Not unexpected—but still jarring. Aizawa’s tone is flat. Devoid of emotion. Just facts. Just the bare, clinical shape of the truth.

Shouto doesn’t answer. Just nods once, slow. Like a guilty child. Like someone already sentenced. He’s not sure if the gesture is acknowledgment or surrender.

There’s no point in lying. They both know it’s true.

“She’s brought up some concerns about your health.”

That makes his shoulders go tight—before he can stop them. A reflex. A flinch. He knows this part. He’s been waiting for it. He knows something is wrong with him.  That’s he’s been sick lately. Maybe for a while. But he doesn’t know why. Doesn’t care why.

He just… didn’t think anyone would say it. Didn’t think they’d notice. Didn’t want them to. He doesn’t want to deal with this. And it’s not just the words—it’s the way Aizawa says them. Plain. Straightforward. Like something undeniable. Like gravity.

Aizawa doesn’t wait for a response. Doesn’t ask for one. Just keeps going, each sentence another nail in the coffin.

“You’re slower than you were. In drills. In combat. You’re more prone to injury. You take longer to recover. You’re not performing at the level you used to. She’s concerned there may be an underlying health issue. Something systemic.”

Shouto’s mouth is dry. The list unfolds like a litany. A report card. A death sentence.

“She’s concerned about the frequency of healing. The toll it’s taking. The strain it’s putting on your stamina. On your immune system.”

He swallows. Tries to breathe. In. Out. It doesn’t work. Rattles in his chest like it’s falling apart from the strain.

Then comes the worst part.

“She’s concerned about your weight.”

Shouto stiffens. The air in his lungs freezes. It lands like a punch. He goes still. Utterly, bone-deep still.

Aizawa keeps going.

“We’re recommending that you visit a physician. We’re arranging an appointment off-campus. Rule out underlying causes. Thyroid, metabolic conditions, glucose. Get some bloodwork done. Nutritional assessments.”

Shouto says nothing. Then, like a stone thrown into still water:

“And we’ve already contacted your father.”

And the world tilts. The words barely register. They land and ricochet, blooming through his chest like bruises. His stomach drops. A sudden, dizzying plunge. His breath stutters. His mind goes blank. All he can hear is his father’s voice. The fury. The disappointment. The shame. 

His father. Of course.

Shouto doesn’t speak. Can’t speak. His fingers curl around the edge of the chair. White-knuckled. Frozen. He stares at a point on the wall over Aizawa’s shoulder and feels the blood drain from his face. He thinks he might be sick.

“I’m sorry,” Aizawa says next, and for the first time, his voice softens. Just a fraction. Just enough to be noticed. There’s something fragile in it. Something that sounds close to… regret.

“You’re being benched from all practical training until you’ve been cleared by a physician. All of it. No fieldwork. No combat. No quirk use.”

Shouto’s heart lurches. Or maybe it breaks. He’s not sure which. He doesn’t move.

“I wanted you to hear it from me first,” Aizawa adds. “Not from a class announcement. Not from Recovery Girl. From me. I didn’t want it to come as a shock today when you showed up for practical training.”

But Shouto couldn’t see him. Or hear him. Couldn’t speak or respond. He isn’t there anymore. Not really. He’s drifting—backward, downward, somewhere empty. All he could hear were those words, over and over. 

You’re being benched. You’re not good enough. You’re not safe. You’re not worth the risk.

The question comes next. Gentle. Terrible. Direct. Devastating.

“Before I let you go… is there anything you want to tell me?”

There it is. That look. That unbearable look. Like Aizawa already knows. Like the man can see him. Like he’s already read the answer on his face and is just waiting for Shouto to say it out loud. Waiting for confirmation.

But he can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t even meet his eyes. What would he even say? 

That he doesn’t know what’s wrong? That he wakes up dizzy and goes to sleep shaking? That he’s cold all the time? That food feels like poison? That he throws up every meal and stares into the bowl and feels nothing? That sometimes, when he looks in the mirror, he feels like he’s watching someone else fade away? That maybe he’s been fading for a while? That maybe, maybe , a part of him wants to? 

He can’t say that. He can’t say anything. So he doesn’t. He stays still. Silent. Hollow. He just stares down at his lap. His hands. His guilt. And he says nothing. After a long pause—one that stretches and tightens and cuts—Aizawa sighs. It’s a weary sound. A surrender of its own.

“Alright,” Aizawa says. “You’re dismissed.”

Shouto rises slowly. His legs don’t feel like they belong to him. The floor tilts beneath him. His hands shake. He turns. Reaches for the door.

“Kid.”

The word stops him cold. He glances back. Aizawa hasn’t moved. His eyes are still steady. Still unreadable. But softer now.

“I just want to stress…” the man says, voice low, tired, but not unkind. “This isn’t a punishment. You’re not being punished, okay? The school is worried about you. I’m worried about you. This is about making sure you’re safe.”

Shouto nods once. But the words don’t land. They pass through him. Leave no mark. Echo hollow in his chest, like drops in a well with no bottom. Like empty reassurances wrapped in good intentions.

Because deep down—he already knows. They’ve seen what he is. And they’ve decided he isn’t good enough to keep trying. That he’s not worth the risk.

He leaves without another word. Aizawa stays seated. Hands clenched. Mouth tight. Watches him go. Eyes dark. Fingers twitching where they curl on the desk. Like maybe he wanted to say more. 

Shouto doesn’t want to stick around to find out what.

He’s far too afraid to know.