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Izuku isn’t breathing right. He knows he isn’t but he can’t because -
Because Monoma is a prick and Izuku knows this, and knows he’s wrong but that doesn’t stop the circling panic, the rising tide of fear.
If Monoma thinks that, someone who was a dick but otherwise seemed accepting then - then -
Who else has Izuku almost trusted that would’ve reacted the same?
It’s terrifying.
Izuku let down his guard. That was his first mistake, thinking things could ever be different.
He doesn’t quite know when he curls up in a corner of the library, doesn’t know how long he’s been there. All he can think of is - is Monoma’s cat-got-the-cream smirk, his snarky, creeping voice.
“It,” the Monoma of Izuku’s memory sneers. “It, It, It!”
Izuku chokes, curls further into himself, and shakes. At least in middle school, he was only bullied for his lack of a quirk, for his mumbling.
But this.
Monoma is going for his heart.
“Deku, as in useless?” Monoma whispers beside Izuku, “Makes sense, if you think you’re an it!”
He has to breathe, he has to, five things he can see - five things he can - four things -
Izuku smacks his head against his knees, hopes the jolt of pain will unlock his lungs but it doesn’t and he whines, loses precious air in frustration because he needs to breathe -
“Midoriya.”
Everything is so loud, and Izuku -
He needs to count, he needs - he needs five things that - that he can see - he needs -
“Open your eyes.”
His eyes are closed?
Can’t see, needs to open his eyes and -
“You’re doing well, Midoriya.”
Five things -
Dark, but not the dark behind his eyelids, just dark, safe and warm
Scar - a crescent moon, a crooked smile on skin -
“That’s two, just three more to go.”
Red - there’s - there’s blood, bright and beading, trickling slowly down -
Crooked fingers, broken and deformed, ugly and awful, never be the same and he misses his hands, misses the ease of writing, the -
“One more thing you can see.”
One more - Izuku can find one more, he can, he can see -
Yellow, vivid, safe, a spot of colour against the blacks and whites it hides in. Yellow, a promise of gentleness, safety, yellow, protection, gold, sunshine, warm.
“Four things you can hear.”
Heavy breathing, Izuku doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but it’s not heavy enough for a nomu, not wheezy enough to be Muscular. A chiming bell, like he’s in a school, and then. Pounding feet, huge crowds of people but they’re away from him, muffled, he’s safe, because -
A voice, low, soothing, rumbling and gentle. Familiar, droning, Izuku has heard it angry, enraged, but never at him, always at nomu villains never him, he’s heard it softer than morning mist, speaking to a little girl with eyes that glow red like candy.
“Three things you can feel.”
The floor is hard and cold, wooden boards that are old and worn, have seen countless, countless feet. His tie is choking him, Izuku realises, and he fumbles, tries to get it undone but his hands are -
Warm, held secure by hands that aren’t his own, large but like a father’s, calloused and scarred with hard work and long effort.
“Two things you can smell.”
Dust, a lot of dust, because Izuku is - he’s somewhere dusty, not used, nor meant to be seen.
Nutmeg, the scent that belongs to the hands holding his own, that always brings comfort that -
“One thing you can taste.”
Nothing, there’s nothing - and
Sweet, bitter, and. Salty?
The chocolate melts on his tongue, and Izuku…
His eyes are open, and Aizawa-sensei is with him, eyes grave and steady.
“Midoriya,” his teacher says softly. “I’m glad you’re back with me.”
It’s then that Izuku realises his hands are still firmly held by Aizawa-sensei’s own, and he flushes, tries to recoil but -
His own body betrays him, the warmth from his teacher soothing the ever-whispering ache that haunts his bones. He can’t pull away, can’t make himself tear away from the simple comfort even though he should, he should -
His hands are released and Izuku nearly panics until -
He’s pressed against a solid chest, surprisingly soft fabric under his cheek. Aizawa-sensei’s jumpsuit has always seemed so non-descript, so utilitarian, but now Izuku knows it’s not, it’s just- soft.
Kind of like his teacher.
Looks like one thing, but really another.
Aizawa-sensei is here, and he’s safe.
Izuku is safe.
“Talk to me,” Aizawa-sensei says, and Izuku, he - he wants to, doesn’t want to disobey a request from his teacher, from the first teacher that’s ever made his classroom a safe space for him safer than All Might don’t think about the roof don’t think about the fear, don’t think about the battle trials but -
“It’s nothing,” Izuku mumbles out, words half-lost to his teacher’s warmth. “Nothing important, anyway.”
There’s a huff then, quiet and Izuku can feel it against his hair. “Midoriya,” Aizawa-sensei says, “it’s nearly seven at night. I’m not sure when you got here, but I’ve been with you for the last three hours.”
Oh.
“Yes, oh, problem child,” Aizawa-sensei teases, teases gently, and it’s so strange and nice that Izuku has to turn his head, hide away in the surprisingly soft capture weapon so he doesn’t cry.
“It was dumb,” Izuku mutters, and it is because - because he’s fought villains, nearly died, saved Eri from endless torture and yet -and yet this is what breaks him?
Aizawa-sensei seems unimpressed. “I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“It was.”
“Then you’ll just have to tell me so I can determine that for myself.”
Izuku closes his eyes, scowls in annoyance, definitely isn’t thinking about how safe he feels with Aizawa-sensei holding him close.
“That’s not fair,” he grumbles, and Aizawa-sensei squeezes him gently, with arms strong and safe, that feel surprisingly muscled.
“It’s not a surprise,” Aizawa-sensei says tiredly, “the capture weapon requires that I be sufficiently strong to use it to its full effect.”
That does make sense, Izuku supposes.
“Besides, being a hero isn’t fair,” Aizawa-sensei continues, and Izuku is vividly reminded of the first day of school. He’d been so young then. He doesn’t feel young anymore. “Midoriya, whatever it is that’s upset you, I would like for you to tell me. If it’s something that I can help with you, then I will. If it’s not, then I can still listen, and we can figure something out from there.”
Still… listen.
Another new thing.
“And if you really don’t want to talk with me, I can work with that too. We can stay here until you’re ready, or -“
“He called me an it.”
Aizawa-sensei’s voice is spun-sugar soft. “You can tell me. You’re safe, Midoriya.”
He didn’t mean to say it, he really didn’t mean to say it, and Aizawa-sensei must realise this, must understand, because he shifts his arms so he can cup the back of Izuku’s head with one large hand.
It’s comforting.
It’s almost frighteningly parental caring.
“You’re safe.”
And Izuku’s tenuous grip on his tongue slips for the nth time today, and -
“I came out,” Izuku whispers. And that’s enough.
Aizawa-sensei lets out a breath, somehow pulls Izuku closer. “Okay. Are you comfortable saying anything else?”
Izuku makes a despairing noise, a pathetic sound he’d be embarrassed at any other time, but right now -
He’s exhausted, he’s been panicking half the day, so bad he didn’t even realise and now -
Now he’s being all but cradled by his tough-as-nails teacher, the same man that threatens to expel them all on a daily basis, and means it at least half the time.
And Izuku still feels safe.
Aizawa-sensei has always protected them, always made the hard decisions, thrown himself bodily in front of his students to save them. He saved them all at the USJ, nearly giving up his life for them, permanently weakened himself just to give them precious extra seconds. And at the camp, he’d fought as hard as he could, protected them as much as he could even though the media didn’t see it that way, they didn’t see him and -
“I told the - the wrong person,” Izuku mumbles. “It’s dumb, I shouldn’t have but I - I thought if he knew someone that maybe -“
“Maybe he’d think differently,” Aizawa-sensei finishes quietly. “It’s not bad to have hope.”
“It wasn’t hope, it was just dumb.”
Aizawa-sensei flicks the back of Izuku’s head, and he squeaks, feels the vibrations of a muffled laugh as his teacher starts..
If the whole situation wasn’t already stupidly embarrassing, the way Aizawa-sensei starts carding his fingers through Izuku’s hair, working out knots and endlessly soothing would certainly tip it over the edge. As it is, Izuku can feel his cheeks burning bright, but… it helps.
It gives him enough courage to - to keep going, to talk even though it was his same stupid mouth that started this whole thing to begin with.
“I told him I’m agender,” Izuku says, and he knows his voice sounds dead. “And… he didn’t take it well. Kept - making fun of me. Said I was an it, that - that I’m - less than furniture and -“ he chokes, finally, finally runs out of words, slumps against Aizawa-sensei completely.
He’s so tired.
“I see,” Aizawa-sensei says and then he must be smiling, just this side of creepy that 1-A has come to love while others cower; he always gets this particularly delighted edge of sharpness to his voice when he smiles like that. “I’d love to have a chat with whoever said that about you; I wonder if he would be willing to say the same about me.”
For a long, long moment Izuku is shocked into sudden stillness, can feel the sudden tensing of his teacher until - he giggles, tucks his head back further against Aizawa-sensei’s chest. He can feel him shake with his own quiet laugh, and -
And it’s that that finally breaks his resolve, finally let’s him cry even as he laughs because - because someone is like him, and -
Aizawa-sensei is like him.
It doesn’t quite fix the hurt of Monoma’s words, but… it’s something.
And something, for now, is enough.