Work Text:
Izuku is hesitant when he steps into All Might’s office. All Might asks, “Ah, young Midoriya, what’s wrong?”
And there is quiet, a scuffing shoe, and eyes watching the floor. “I think—“ his voice trails off.
His teacher coaxes out, “What did you want to ask?”
There is always hesitance. Fear of rejection. Fear of repeated behavior. A pattern of negligence and one of hope, recycled and circling. He is always asking, always betrayed, always unsurprised afterwards. Always hoping the next time will be different. He says quietly, almost out of earshot, “I think— I think someone in our class is being hurt. Outside of school.” His hands rub the opposite shoulder, arms crossed like he is hugging himself.
All Might looks stunned before adopting a more solemn face. “That’s— that’s a serious accusation. Why do you think so?”
“Well, he flinches when people raise a hand or when people yell. He hates noise. I don’t know, maybe I’m reading too much into this.”
“Well, if you can give me the name of the stude—“
His voice is more hesitant when he interrupts. Hands wringing together as his voice goes breathier, scared of an eavesdropper. Scared of the consequences. Scared for his classmate, his friend. “H-he knows how to be quiet.”
What he doesn’t say: I know the price of this lesson. I have factored in cost and profit, and it is never worth it. This silence is learned, and it is cold, and I have seen his hands shake when the yelling is directed at him. I am scared for him. I am scared of who is hurting him. I am scared of what he might do to himself. Most of all, I am scared you will call me a liar. Most of all, I am scared you will ignore this, because you don’t believe me, or because it’s more comfortable for you to pretend we never had this conversation, and I will be forced to watch my friend die everyday until the summer arrives. And then I will spend the summer wondering how many different types of silence can be learned, and if a kind of death can be one of them. If the grief that comes after is another.
Next semester, I will look for him. If he shows up, I will see how much of him is left and wonder if it is better to let him drift away in this silence. If it is kinder to let him have this, because there is not enough left of him. Because he has lost too many of his pieces. Because not much of him is boy anymore, just ice and the bite of a cold winter.
Maybe— just maybe, instead, I will see enough of him to hope, to believe and grasp on desperately to this idea that he can heal. The idea that kintsugi might not be so out of reach, that he too can be a boy lined with gold. To believe that something has changed.
If he does not show up, I will continue on. I will learn a type of silence too, one that does not ask questions. Not because I am afraid of failure but because I am tired of being failed. Of grief that comes twofold, compounded and heavy—
“What do you mean?” his mentor asks, stopping his train of thought.
Izuku shifts, nervously spitting out, “He doesn’t ask questions. ever. He never talks back, complains, or stands up for himself. He just takes it. He just lets it all happen around him, and pretends that he is unchanged and unaffected. Sometimes the look in his eyes makes me think that he could have left his body. The world just passes by around him.”
Then his mentor looks confused, as if there isn’t a person in Class 1-A who fits this description. As if Izuku is even trying to hide who it is. He asks, “Oh. Who is it?”
And he doesn’t think the feeling that comes over him is cold, but it is numbing and emptying. How can you not see it? Not see your student drown everyday and—
Before he can think more about it and spiral, Izuku mumbles, “I think I should go.” He rushes out, stomach heavy with regret. Teachers are the same. Always the same. He runs to find Todoroki, to reassure himself that he is still here, even if not totally present in mind. Izuku is always prepared to do damage control and take care of his friend because it’s apparent that no one else cares, or sees, or cares enough to see. He promises to himself that he will see Todoroki as someone beyond his trauma. Someone who is more and whole not thanks to his trauma but in spite of it. Promises to take note of the silences he chooses and the ones that have been forced in the spaces between his joints.
“I— no, Izuku, come back!” All Might calls after him. Izuku just runs faster. I need to get out. I need to be far, far away from here.
What Izuku doesn’t say: Can’t you see the way I read a room? Everyone always praises me for my awareness of others, for my ability to defuse and deflect. You don’t just naturally know that, you learn it. Out of necessity, for survival. Why can’t you see it? Why can’t you ask how do you know to do it? Why did you learn?
What Izuku doesn’t say: Can’t you see how angry Todoroki is? How tired? How frustrated ? So much anger and nowhere to put it. So much fear that turns into anger. Are you looking now? Are you looking? Can you meet his eyes , cold and somber?
(Your silence is damning. I am unsurprised.)
What he doesn’t say: it hurts me too, when he says that he is fine.
What he doesn’t say: the starburst scar on my shoulder still aches from everyone who pretended they were blind. From everyone who heard and did nothing. For every time I tried to trust— I tried, I did, I did my best— and they failed me too.
You failed me too.
(It always turns out this way).
(“Young Midoriya, where did you get that scar from?” All Might asks, pointing at his shoulder.
Izuku’s eyes widen and shift left, “Um, just an accident or something from awhile ago.”
“Ah, the folly of youth! I’m glad you were able to recover.”
“Yeah,” Izuku’s voice is dull and quiet. Only one person leaves scars behind like this. All Might knows this. Izuku doesn’t know why he’s so surprised when his mentor adds nothing more.
Why is it that teachers always settle for the convenience of comfort? Why is willful ignorance or callous avoidance always the default?
Why, why, why did he ever dare hope?
Izuku feels that fragile, hopeful part of him slip away. He walks out the door, somehow lesser, and passes Todoroki in the hallway. Suddenly, he realizes that the look in Todoroki’s eyes is now present in his too. The one that is far away and emptying. That is a jangling jar of his pieces, all glass and breaking. He’s slipped into old habits. The ones that tell you silence is safety, that silence is the only way to protect yourself. The silence that is poisonous and crawls into every crevice of your brain, and tells you it is better this way. To hold those burning things in your throat until there is only scar tissue and the quiet. It tries to convince you that holding the words frothing at the tip of your tongue is strength. Or bravery. It is a lie, but it is sweet. Softened with time and memory. This silence takes, and takes, and takes until there is nothing left of you to give and still it takes.
Todoroki meets his eyes, freezing momentarily before coming to stand at his side. They walk together, so quiet, so silent, so tired.
Izuku taps Todoroki's elbow, being discreet as he gets Todoroki’s attention, “The world’s awfully gray, isn’t it.” And those words are underlined with a hundred different meanings and commiserations.
They’re both surrounded by all these people, but no one is listening .
Izuku and Todoroki only have each other as consolation these days. He prays they will both be able to hold on. Considering that the teachers think he still needs to learn to work with “Kacchan” and “get over” childhood grudges, he doesn’t think so. Considering that Todoroki still goes home every weekend, he doesn’t think so.
“I think my hold is slipping too,” Izuku whispers, voice trembling, “I won’t let you go alone.”
Todoroki leans a little closer as they walk, as if whispering, “I’ll keep you safe, until it’s time to go.”
It’s a promise. But with what little power they have, with what cages they have found themselves in-- well. It isn’t enough, is it? (They make it enough. They have to. What other choice do they have?)
Sunday nights, Todoroki ventures into Izuku’s room, who already has bandages and burn cream prepared and set out, patting the bed next to him.
They don’t talk. This quiet is rare, and comfortable. It is warm, and does not burn the way most things do these days .
Izuku’s good at taking care of burns. Too good, really.
Todoroki is similarly adept (too familiar). After his wounds are taken care of, he turns around and starts treating the charred skin on Izuku’s forearms, a product from class on Friday. Neither of them go to Recovery Girl. There is distrust, fear, shame, and that bone-deep weariness that is too exhausted to answer questions and too cynical to believe they will be asked in the first place. The questions that matter, at least.
They are always meticulous and careful when tending to the other’s wounds, grasping each offered injury like the other is precious. Someone worthy of being held. Most of all, they are gentle with each other, because no one else is.
Coping is not healing, but they know nothing of healing. Only the way it burns and how the pain never seems to end. The way they learned to deal with it, and wrap their own wounds.
Every time they open their eyes, all they seem to do is hurt and hurt and hurt.
( Will you come meet me when it’s over? Will I see you at the end? )