Chapter Text
Sunday, 6:28 PM.
( 11 hours awake. )
“Todoroki!! You’re back!” Shouto’s bombarded with questions as soon as he steps through the doors of Heights Alliance.
He looks up with slightly furrowed brows as he kicks off his shoes—Midoriya’s running up to him with his phone, telling him something along the lines of, “I was texting you, but you weren’t answering and I got really worried!”—and Uraraka and Iida are also there, Iida’s swinging his arms stiffly with a serious frown and Uraraka’s eyes are impossibly wide, lips quivering and …
“Are you really okay?” Midoriya’s the last one heard as he finally lowers his phone.
Shouto doesn’t really get it. He’s been gone for the majority of the day to visit his mother and he’s sure he informed the same people currently worrying over him … he wasn’t even gone for that long, on top of that, so there isn’t anything to actually be concerned about.
“I’m alright,” Shouto says, kicking his shoes neatly in line before facing his friends again. His head falls to the side, “Is … there a reason I wouldn’t be?”
Midoriya blinks. “Ah, well. I mean, we just heard about a thing in the town you were visiting. The umm, thing with the dangerous villain? With the psychosis Quirk and everything?”
“Psychosis Quirk. Mmm … I didn’t run into anyone like that.” Shouto thinks for a moment and softly clicks his tongue, “I did have a small run-in with a petty bag thief, but it was hardly anything at all. He was a coward, dropped the bag, and took off the moment I caught up to him. I’m sure that was handled quickly, though.”
“Oh,” Midoriya raises his brows, “so you’re okay, then.”
“Yes, I feel fine.”
“That’s a relief,” Uraraka sighs, turning on her heel and stalking off somewhere else almost immediately.
“Yes, we’re glad!” Iida says, setting a heavy hand on Shouto’s shoulder. He smiles and offers his proudest nod. “Good job on catching that cowardly bag thief! Very heroic.”
“Oh … Thank you.”
“Well you’re back in time for dinner,” Midoriya says with a shrug. He glances at his phone, then Shouto, and smiles sheepishly as he slides it into his cardigan pocket, “Uhhh … don’t look at the texts I sent you. I was panicking. Sorry.”
Shouto smiles. “That’s alright. I won’t look.”
“Kacchan made pork curry soup!” Midoriya immediately changes the subject and Shouto follows him to the kitchen for their servings and then settles with him at one of the tables.
The food is hot, right off the stove, and warms Shouto’s entire chest, and being in the typical way Bakugou’s food always does.
He only makes food when he’s in a decent mood and often, Shouto finds himself wondering what his food would taste like if he was in an all-around good mood. He’s heard—or seen, maybe—somewhere that it’s common for mood and emotions to affect the outcome of a person’s cooking.
“Man, Bakugou! You’ve done it again,” Kaminari says, placing his bowl down with a slam and a heavy sigh. “You, my friend, have somehow outdone your delicious salmon from two months ago! Speaking of, why don’t you cook for us more often? Like, every night. It’s sooo delicious!”
“If he did this every night then it probably wouldn’t be so special anymore,” Sero says, pushing away his own finished bowl. “Delicious yeah, but not special.”
“Shove a sock in it, Tape Face,” Bakugou grumbles loudly from the kitchen. “My food’s special regardless of how many times I make it.”
“I agree, I agree!” Kaminari stands up from the table with his bowl, waving it in the air, “Hey hey, so how about seconds? Extras? Do you have any extras, please? Please?”
“Heathen,” Bakugou hisses, but he’s holding out his hand to accept Kaminari’s bowl anyways, and dumps another serving into it.
Shouto perks up at this. “Could I have another serving too, Bakugou?”
Bakugou glares at him from over his shoulder, “No! Make it yourself, IcyHot!”
“Mmm. But you banned me from the kitchen a few weeks ago, so I’m not sure how that would work. Unless you’re lifting the ban—”
“Shut up,” Bakugou’s suddenly in front of him, snatching his empty bowl and stomping his way into the kitchen.
He returns three seconds later with a full bowl of curry soup and slams it onto the table so hard, soup spills over. Shouto doesn’t mind.
Bakugou’s already storming off when he says, “Thank you.”
“I said shut up!”
Midoriya’s chuckling nervously as Shouto starts on his second serving of soup, and Shouto’s eyes flicker to his in question.
He jumps a little. “Ah, sorry. It’s nothing! Anyway, how was visiting your mom? How is she doing?”
“Hmm, she’s good,” Shouto says, stirring around his soup with his chopsticks. He shrugs. “She was happy to see me as always. So happy it kind of makes me upset that I don’t have more time to see her more often. Other than being able to see her every other, other Sunday, we write to each other. But I feel like I should be doing more.”
“Does she think so?”
“She thinks I’m doing my best.”
“And are you?”
Shouto smiles. “Yes.”
Midoriya also smiles. “Then try not to worry about it too, too much. Don’t be so hard on yourself, either.”
Shouto will absolutely try.
He and Midoriya are on dish duty, which goes by pretty fast, a comfortable silence between the two as Midoriya washes and he dries and puts away.
They part ways for their different night routine.
Shouto heads to the communal bathrooms and Midoriya goes outside for extra, personal training. Shouto thinks that he should probably train, too, but it’s been kind of an eventful day for him and he isn’t sure that his body would like him very much if he pushed it any further.
He thinks back to the bag thief he’d encountered earlier as he’s brushing his teeth and, though it was just as he told the others—a scuffle with a petty guy who ended up being a coward, anyway—he’d been just the tiniest bit shaken by it. A little disoriented for at least a good five minutes afterward.
The man had managed to squeeze his wrist, not too tight, but enough to sting, before frantically turning to book it. Shouto’s thoughts are a bit muddy after that, but he’s almost positive the man was caught shortly after. And he’d gotten the purse back to the woman, so all’s well that ends well.
Shouto spends the rest of his night watching a few kitten compilations on YouTube and then does a bit of reading before deciding to get some shut-eye.
He checks the time before he shuts off and places his phone beneath the pillow—
Sunday, 9:14 PM
( 14 hours awake. )
—and then he’s laying down, pulling his sheets comfortably to his chin. His eyes flutter shut a second later and he relaxes his muscles, takes a few deep breaths.
Ten minutes come and go.
Shouto opens his eyes for a second and then shuts them the next. He shifts his head against his pillow, adjusts his blankets, and changes the positioning of his legs.
And ten more minutes pass, he thinks.
Shouto opens his eyes again and turns on his other side, places an arm beneath his pillow for extra cushioning and fixes his body, squeezes his fingers around the edge of his blanket.
He calms his breathing and makes sure he’s not focusing on anything but his steady breathing, the way his chest rises and falls.
He relaxes his body further—or tries, but he truly doesn't think he can get any more relaxed.
Ten minutes pass.
And then ten turn into twenty, twenty into thirty.
Shouto rolls onto his back, brushing hair away from his face before placing his arms across his stomach. He lays still and thinks of nothing. Absolutely nothing. He breathes in and out and in and out and in and out.
He doesn't know how much time passes before he’s blinking up at the ceiling in the dark again, brows slightly drawn. He once again closes his eyes.
Shouto ends up flipping his pillow, kicks off his sheets, only to pull them back up a moment later—he changes his position again and again and again, changes the placement of his pillow; between his arms, against his stomach, between his legs, against his waist—rolls back onto his right side and presses his eyes shut.
He tries to stare into the darkness beyond the darkness as a way to trick himself into feeling drowsy. And that has him feeling all floaty and tingly, but even after twenty minutes of just- laying there, feeling floaty, he doesn’t drift to sleep.
Eventually, Shouto reaches for his phone under his pillow to check the time.
Monday, 12:32 AM.
( 17 hours awake. )
Shouto frowns, bringing his phone closer and shifting on his back to click on YouTube.
He spends an hour and a half watching kitten and cat compilations, the funny ones just to wear himself down a little.
And by the time he’s done with his last video, his eyes are heavy, his head foggy, and he’s ready for sleep this time. So he places down his phone again, turns, adjusts his pillow, and lays there.
He doesn’t pick up his phone when he can’t immediately fall asleep again because the screen is maybe causing the activeness of his brain. He thinks he’s read something about that somewhere.
But Shouto’s back to turning and flipping his pillows within the next ten minutes.
He tries his hardest, stays still, and counts to ten minutes in his head by the second—and then gets into a weird, but strangely comfortable position, and thinking of nothing for what he’s sure has to be at least twenty minutes.
But things go on like this for—what kind of seems like forever.
And it’s like this until there’s a bit of a light blue casting upon his room. It's early morning. Shouto checks his phone.
Monday, 4:11 AM.
( 21 hours awake. )
He frowns as he sits up and glares at the number for a moment.
Bad night. It sucks, but it isn’t uncommon.
His bad nights aren’t usually because he has trouble falling asleep, though. Falling asleep is fairly easy for him—typically: staying asleep is the problem. His nights used to be riddled with nightmares and night terrors for obvious reasons, but even then—they haven’t been a common occurrence in a while. Not since moving into the dorms. But that’s not to say they’re unheard of, either.
Bad nights are bad nights and it happens to the best of people. It’s alright.
Shouto’s sitting up the next second and starts getting ready for class extremely early. It’s a kind of weird thing for him, to not be sleepily stumbling through his morning routine (that he usually has to do in under ten minutes because he has a kind of bad habit of oversleeping when he’s at the dorms, actually.)
But when he gets done showering and brushing his teeth—it’s still very early, so he decides to go for a jog.
He’s kind of always wanted to do it; it seems productive, and starting the day off actively seems good in general, so he changes into some sweatpants and a light hoodie, and then he’s outside, running as the cool air hits his face, wind brushing through his hair.
It’s refreshing and wakes him up in a way he wasn’t aware he needed.
He doesn’t know how long he jogs for—doesn’t know how long he even should go for—but his heart is definitely pumping by the end of it. And- he thinks he probably should have saved the showering for after his jog. But it’s not like he knew he was going to decide to impulsively go for a jog.
Shouto’s thoughts are running in conflict as he makes his way back to Heights Alliance, and when he walks inside, he immediately stops to stare at the person sitting next to the door.
“Oh. Bakugou.”
Bakugou’s by the door, dressed in a sweatshirt and sweatpants and he’s putting on his shoes.
He stiffens completely when the door opens, makes a quiet nose that Shouto assumes is out of shock, and he stares up at Shouto for maybe five seconds, blinking slowly, like he’s a little dazed.
And then, his face screws.
“What the hell,” he says, jumping to his feet.
He makes that usual ugly expression where he juts his chin and pulls his lips and tightens his jaw. Shouto still doesn’t understand why he makes faces like that. It isn’t intimidating, it’s kind of humourous, if anything at all.
Bakugou says. “IcyHot. What are you doing?”
Shouto shuts the door behind himself and shifts to the side as he kicks off his shoes with a shrug.
“I went for a jog.”
Bakugou grumbles something, digging into his pocket aggressively and bringing his phone really close to his face.
He scoffs. ”It’s 5:30. When did you even get up? And since when do you get up so early, anyway? Half the time, your idiot self is sleeping in your bowl of stupid milk and … Cheerios.”
Shouto ignores his jab at his honey nut Cheerios.
“Around 4,” he says, shifting a little to the side to let Bakugou get by easier (by the way Bakugou glares at and scrutinizes his movements, it’s not the right choice). “I didn’t really sleep well last night so I’m tired. I thought a jog would wake me up.”
Bakugou’s face scrunches even further and he glares Shouto down. “And what, you thought you could beat me at my own morning run?”
“No, that’s not really—”
“As if, loser. How long did ya go for anyway? Ten minutes before you were ready to pass out, I bet!” Bakugou jabs a finger at Shouto’s chest, “I’m way better at jogging than you, so shut up and stay out of my way! Got it?”
That’s what he was trying to do by shifting to the side, but, “Alright.”
Bakugou grits his teeth, squeezes his fingers into his fist, and hisses, “Bastard.”
Then, he aggressively pushes past Shouto by his shoulder and stomps out the door.
Shouto stares at it for a moment, then he pulls out his phone to check the time, and then he decides to shower.
It’s a little weird to shower twice in one morning, but he really doesn’t want to walk around with the sweat and must after his run, and he has plenty of time, anyway. The shower is fine—he keeps it cooler than usual to wake himself up further—and gets ready a little slower than usual.
Tiredness isn’t something Shouto’s never experienced before—his father made sure he got used to long hours of training and work. And the environment of home in general often caused restless nights and very little sleep anyway. But he also kind of got used to the good sleep in the dorms. The sleep after fun movie nights, the nice, deep sleep after long days of training and burning hot showers. The dead-like sleep at the end of a hectic week. It was nice—sleeping in the dorms has always been nice. Easy.
Of course, every now and again, he’d lose a bit of sleep and have a hard night, but he’d always get in at least three hours. It was always something. He’s running on no sleep at the moment. It’s okay, though—all he has to do is get through the day, and then he can get back to his room and rest. That’s what he tells himself.
Shouto’s the first in the kitchen and so he makes himself some cereal (he thinks about what Bakugou said about him sleeping in his bowl of milk and Cheerios) and decides on extra milk.
Bakugou glares at him (the cereal and milk, especially) when he comes back from his run, face flushed, hair a little damp, and he shoots Shouto a completely murderous look, before rushing upstairs with heavy feet.
And then, Midoriya comes down at around 6:30 dressed similarly to Bakugou and the way Shouto was dressed when he went out to run. He’s surprised to see Shouto.
“Oh, Todoroki! Hey,” his eyes are wide, but his expression is overall a little wary, confused, and maybe a little cautious at the sight. He tilts his head a little, “You’re umm, up like, really early. Did you sleep okay?”
Shouto shrugs. “A little rough. But it’s fine.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry … Is everything okay? Are you—is it nightmares or anything? Is there a way I can help, maybe?”
“Ah, no. No nightmares. It was just a bad night.”
“I see. It happens,” he says what Shouto told himself to feel better. “Just don’t work too hard today, and … well, hopefully, we won’t have to do anything that requires a bunch of energy. You can sleep during lunch!”
Shouto shrugs. He’ll function just fine. It’s only a night’s lost. The day will be over in no time and he’ll be falling back into his bed to sleep off the exhaustion that afternoon, probably.
He sees Midoriya off for his run and simply continues eating his cereal. He gets through the entire bowl and washes the dish before Midoriya returns thirty minutes later, rushing upstairs probably to shower and change. Bakugou comes back downstairs around that time, fresh and changed and he starts on his own breakfast after shooting Shouto another nasty look.
“You eat anything other than cereal for breakfast?” He grumbles, cracking eggs into a large bowl. More eggs than necessary for one person—in a bowl larger than necessary for one person: it looks like he’s making breakfast for everyone. “You’re training to be a hero. Your body probably hates you.”
“I feel fine. Cereal is a common breakfast food, isn’t it?”
“Just ‘cause it’s common, doesn’t mean it’s healthy and good, you idiot.”
Around 7:30 is when most of the others—his classmates and friends—start coming downstairs for breakfast.
Shouto was right and Bakugou was making breakfast for more than just himself; most of his classmates take their servings from that and Shouto notices how none of them really seem to acknowledge that Bakugou’s the one who made the breakfast. Nobody thanks him, nobody comments on the delicious, fluffy eggs—they take it and go to their tables.
And Bakugou doesn’t say anything about it either. He sits at a table by himself, stabbing at his own food and scrolling on his phone.
That’s interesting.
“Todoroki!” Shouto turns at Iida’s booming voice. Uraraka’s by his side, holding her arms behind her back with a smile far too cheerful for the morning. “You’re up early. That’s unlike you. Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine, thank you. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes! I feel very well rested!” Iida adjusts his glasses importantly and goes on about some kind of sleep statistics.
Shouto doesn’t really listen, but he hums to keep himself upright and to keep being ‘engaging’ with Iida.
Uraraka’s keeping up most of the conversation, anyway. And when Midoriya shows up, he’s far more engaging than Shouto could ever be, so he’s his get-out-of-jail-free card. And Shouto spends the rest of breakfast with his head in his arms, half-listening to others.
It’s kind of weird how he feels like he’s already lived half the day, but they’re only just now leaving the building to go to homeroom.
Something tells him it’s going to be a long day.
And—well, he’s right.
Homeroom goes by very slowly.
There isn't any particularly important news, so Aizawa snuggles himself in his yellow sleeping bag and sits in the corner to sleep and Shouto actually finds himself staring almost wistfully at his teacher and how peaceful he looks. Sleeping.
Midoriya, Iida, Tsu, and Uraraka gather around his desk for conversation that Shouto doesn’t partake in (so he doesn’t get why they all have to be there, around him, but he doesn’t do anything to make them leave) until it’s time for the first class—English—and they all disperse.
Shouto’s kind of grateful for Present Mic’s loud voice. It keeps him awake and alert for the rest of his morning classes and he doesn’t have to try so hard to push through. When lunch comes around—Midoriya’s got him by the wrist, tugging him forward.
“We’ll make sure you sleep,” he says with a smile, “you looked so tired in 3rd! I felt bad. I’ll protect you from the questions, okay? Promise, don’t even worry about it.”
Shouto looks at his side and smiles, even laughs a little. “Thank you, Midoriya.”
Midoriya keeps his word.
Once Shouto finishes his soba, he pushes his tray away and rests his head on his arms. He shuts his eyes, shifts a little to get comfortable, and nobody asks any questions. They even lower their voices and keep their movements to a minimum, so it’s rather relaxing at the table. And it's perfect.
Or almost perfect.
All he’s missing is the actual sleep. It doesn’t come despite how ready he is for it.
His mind is all foggy and his eyes are droopy and his temples are throbbing a little, and he’s tired, he knows he’s tired, he can feel it tingling all over himself, but … but he can’t sleep, his mind doesn’t let him.
He tries, really does try. He evens his breathing, tries to relax, squeezes his eyes shut tighter and tighter and tighter, and lets his muscles go completely—but then there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
He lifts his head, blinks a little at the bright lights of the cafeteria, and Midoriya’s smiling as soft and gentle as his hushed voice.
“Hey. Lunch period is over,” he says quietly, backing up a little. “Did you get a bit of rest?”
Shouto blinks. He somehow got absolutely none.
But if he says that, Midoriya will just be worried for the rest of the day.
He can see it: sneaking glances and worried, flinchy movements as he anxiously looks at the time until he can shove Shouto into a bed to get him to sleep.
And he doesn’t want Midoriya to worry, doesn’t want to distract him from his academics or note-taking or anything. It’s really nothing to worry about; Shouto probably just needs to wait until he’s in a more relaxed and comfortable environment to let himself sleep.
So he nods, wiping at his eyes and blinking away the fog.
“I did, thank you. I really appreciate it.”
Midoriya’s smile gets impossibly wide, “I’m glad! Get some proper rest when the day’s over, though. Come on, I kept us back for as long as our schedule allows. We’ll be late if we stay any longer,” he’s tugging at Shouto’s arm and Shouto doesn’t want to go—his limbs feel all heavy.
“Alright,” Shouto yawns, rubbing at his eyes again, “I’m coming.”
Shouto’s impossibly tired throughout the rest of his classes.
He thinks trying to get himself to sleep during lunch did more bad than good.
He feels like he’s in a “pre-sleep” state and he just needs an extra push to tip himself over and rest. But something—Shouto doesn’t know what—is blocking it. He can tell the notes he’s taken for each class are less than stellar and he’ll most likely half to copy Midoriya or Momo’s later so he can stay on track in class.
But alas, it’s—
Monday, 3:10 PM
( 32 hours awake. )
—and the last class of the day is finally over. Shouto feels immense relief rush through him.
He’s been yawning quietly throughout the entire afternoon, the corner of his eyes are practically stinging and he hopes they don’t look too teary.
Shouto quickly packs up his stuff, blinking away the slight blur in his vision, and then … then there is tapping at his desk. It makes him jump a bit before he realizes it’s the tip of Midoriya’s fingers, he’s humming idly before he turns to Shouto with a small smile.
“You okay?” He raises a brow, “Still a little tired?”
Shouto hums, nods wordlessly, and pushes away from his desk. Midoriya’s smile is sympathetic.
“It’s the end of the day now; you’ll be able to take a nap!”
Shouto hums again, nods again, and then he’s walking out of the classroom with Midoriya, joins Uraraka, Iida, and Tsu near the door.
They talk and talk and talk and Shouto just drags behind the group- his body feels like jelly and all of his muscles feel heavy like he’s just done an intense workout … or he’s just spent hours training with his father.
Shouto’s thankful he doesn’t have to carry a conversation, is thankful he’s known for his social incompetence, otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to get away with ditching his group the moment they get inside Heights Alliance. He doesn’t even wave goodbye before he’s kicking off his shoes and sluggishly rushing upstairs, limbs heavy, head still foggy.
He thinks under normal circumstances, he probably wouldn’t be this tired after only a little over 30 hours without sleep.
But the fact that whenever he tries to sleep, he can’t … is a little maddening. It’s frustrating, how tired he feels, how tired and ready his body is for sleep, but it just isn’t going, isn’t working like he can’t shut his mind off despite not thinking of anything in particular.
It feels like static. Active static.
But he’s going to nap this time.
He’s ready. Shouto changes his clothes entirely, gets into his most comfortable pajama set, and pulls his blankets up to his chin. He presses his eyes shut, tight.
Shouto lays on his back and takes a few deep, slow breaths to relax, relax his body. He can feel the tiredness, the exhaustion, how ready he is, entirely, for sleep, for rest, ready to fall into a pit of restful darkness. He needs it. His muscles still feel heavy, eyes throbbing a little behind his head. His breathing is slow, his heart is even a little slow against his chest, the rise and fall of his chest is …
Shouto realizes he’s focusing too much on his bodily functions.
He takes another couple of deep breaths; in and out and in and out and in and out.
He turns to his right. Two minutes come and go.
And then, four. Six. Eight.
And after ten minutes, turns to his left. And he counts the seconds in his head, counts to seven minutes before he realizes he isn’t getting anywhere with this.
Shouto stretches, stands all the way up to do a couple of jumping jacks, despite being sure he’s tired and effectively worn out from the day, and then he’s down doing pushups. He does a couple of sit-ups, doesn’t even care that his clothes are starting to stick to his flushed skin because he is exhausted, completely worn out and he’s ready, ready, ready for sleep, he needs sleep.
He’s back under his blankets.
And then he’s angling his body in different ways and different directions.
Shouto shoves his blankets off, pulls them back, and flips his pillow four times. He’s tired. He’s so tired. Shouto rolls onto his stomach, burying his arms under his pillow, and shoves his face into the cushion. He clears his mind completely, stares into the darkness beneath the darkness, and breathes slowly, slowly.
In and out and in and out and in and out and …
There’s a knock at his door.
Shouto shoots up, brushing his hair out of his face.
It’s only then, that he notices there’s no longer a bright casting over his bedroom that comes with the afternoon. It’s dark. It’s nighttime.
It’s been hours since he’s tried sleeping and Shouto is still exhausted. He’s tired. He hasn’t slept. God, he wants to sleep.
Another knock and Shouto blinks slowly, rubbing his eyes, trying to process the muffled voice through the door. He presses his eyes shut, fingers to his eyes as he racks his brain for that- that voice.
Ah. It’s Midoriya. Dinner’s ready.
Shouto rolls over, reaches for his phone, and checks the time—
Monday, 7:50 PM.
( 36 hours awake. )
—and realizes Midoriya purposely got him later to let him sleep as much as he could and… that’s. Nice. Shouto appreciates it.
But it was wasted.
Shouto blows out a sigh, running his fingers through his hair and pushing his messy strands out of his face. He shifts his position, turns his head to the side to stare into the darkness of his room.
It’s alright. It’s fine.
Like Midoriya said and like Shouto had told himself, happens to the best of people. Insomniacs are a thing; Shinsou from general studies comes to mind and Shouto remembers those deep eye bags. So purple, so dark they were nearly black, eyes puffy and droopy.
Plenty of people go through this. It’s a short-term problem, sleep trouble is common doesn't mean it's healthy and good, you idiot, and it’ll go away eventually.
It won’t be long before his mind and body force him to sleep.
He’ll pass out sometime, somewhere, eventually. Maybe tonight. He’ll just eat and then immediately head to bed, it’s fine.
Midoriya’s in front of Shouto the moment he gets downstairs.
“Hey! You sleep okay?”
Shouto doesn’t want to worry Midoriya. He’ll make it a big thing and probably get Aizawa involved or something. He’s like that. And there’s no reason for him to worry. It’s sleep trouble. It’s common. It’ll go away. It’s fine.
So Shouto nods, shrugs. “Yeah. It was … A deep nap. I’m a little…”
Midoriya smiles, “I know what you’re talking about. The umm, Devil’s nap! I used to take those all the time and whenever I woke up, I felt like I was in another century. I was always confused for like, thirty minutes after waking.”
Shouto nods. “Uh huh. That’s … the one.” He glances around, “Confused.”
Midoriya nods slowly. “Mhmm. And you uhhh … actually slept, right? You still kind of look really tired. Is everything okay?”
Ah. Shouto nods. “I’m fine. Hungry, though.” He pushes past Midoriya and drags his way over to the servings.
Dinner is grilled chicken and yuzu kosho—Sato made it. And … it’s delicious.
Everyone seems to be very active this particular night for a reason unknown to Shouto, a reason he, quite literally, does not have the energy to figure out and he is once again, grateful for his horrible communication and socialization skills, thankful that his reputation is something along the lines of ‘socially and emotionally constipated’ in this class. It lets him get away with eating three servings of Sato’s grilled chicken by himself, alone.
He is starving and distantly, his mind supplies it's his body craving some kind of energy for something … something Shouto isn’t sure of and his thinking is suddenly all mangled. All he knows is the food is good, he’s hungry and exhausted, so he is just … there.
“You look like trash, loser,” someone says as they pull out a chair across from where Shouto’s sitting at one of the tables.
He looks up and it’s Bakugou. He’s got his own bowl and chopsticks, cheeks full, and a bit of sauce on his lip. He narrows his eyes at Shouto.
“The hell’s wrong with you, anyway. You look like that purple bastard with the bags,” Bakugou gestures to his own eyes, “Sports Festival.”
Shouto chews on another piece of chicken and shrugs. “Yeah.”
Bakugou raises his brow, “So? What’s the stupid issue?”
Vaguely, he wonders why Bakugou is even concerned.
Maybe he’s missing something because of the fog of tiredness he’s currently in, but he doesn’t think Bakugou would typically care. He’s asking though and he’s looking at Shouto expectantly, so.
“Umm,” Shouto frowns. “I’m … sleepy, I suppose.”
“Sleepy,” Bakugou mumbles with a quiet snort, tapping his chopsticks into his bowl. Then he shakes his head and looks up. “You try any pills? Vitamins, or somethin’?”
“Yes, I’ve tried everything.” Shouto yawns, stops mid-yawn, and stares at Bakugou with wide eyes. “Wait, no,” he quickly, frantically, shakes his head, “I’d not tried—” that didn’t come out right. He presses his eyes shut, digs the heel of his palm into his eye, and speaks slowly. “No. I … I haven’t tried pills. Or vitamins. I didn’t—I didn’t think of that.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes, “There’s some melatonin in one of the cabinets. Bathroom. Knocks you dead if you’ve never taken them before. Two should work.”
It’ll work. It’ll work.
Shouto shuts his eyes and sighs, “Thank you, Bakugou.”
“Shut up,” comes an immediate hiss, which has Shouto’s eyes fluttering open in confusion. Bakugou suddenly looks angry, for a reason unknown to Shouto. He says, “I’m not helping you to be nice. Just … sleep so you ain’t weak in class in case we fight. I don’t wanna win against you when you’re deprived and out of it. Makes me look like a loser—which, I’m not.”
“Oh, okay.” Shouto frowns. Bakugou’s face is a little flushed. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine!” His face tightens even further, and then he’s aggressively pushing up from where he sits and stomping away, “Shut the hell up!”
Shouto is confused.
But he has been the entire day, so he brushes it off and decides it’s about time for him to attempt to sleep again. This time, with melatonin in his body. It’ll be good. It’ll work.
Shouto skips the majority of his night routine, only manages to brush his teeth and do a bit of light stretching. But he finds the melatonin in the bathroom cabinets and takes two, just as Bakugou had told him.
Five minutes later, he’s under his blanket and his muscles feel heavier than ever.
His eyes are heavy and his mind is so foggy he can hardly form a coherent thought in his mind. All he can really think is: it’s working. It’s working, it’s working and … He just lays there.
Shouto swallows thickly and gathers to strength to roll onto his left. He fixes his pillow so it’s half-pillow and half-cushion he lays his body against for extra comfort.
He lays there. And lays there. And he keeps—keeps laying there.
Shouto finds himself going through the same cycle he did the previous night. Except he can’t do much beyond the tossing and turning.
His fingers are weak, he can’t blink away the blurriness in his vision and the longer he keeps his eyes open, the more his head throbs. It pulsates from the bridge of his nose to the back of his head. If he holds his eyes shut in a way any less than gentle, then it feels like a hammer to each of his eyes behind the lids.
Everything hurts. He’s so tired.
Shouto rolls onto his stomach again and keeps his eyes shut as he counts. He starts over multiple times, and counts and counts and counts.
He doesn’t check his phone, melatonin’s in his system, sleep is coming, it’ll work, he’ll go to sleep. He’ll sleep. He’ll sleep.
When he rolls onto his left for the tenth time and flutters his eyes—he can see the light.
The—light. The light?
Shouto blinks furiously a few times, his headache is still there, duller than before, but there, and he takes a few long seconds (every measurement of time seems long since he’s stopped sleeping) to process the fact that it’s morning.
It’s morning. He didn’t sleep.
He looks at his phone, vision is blurred and he blinks once, twice, furiously. He rubs at his eyes and squints at the time.
Tuesday, 6:02 AM.
( 47 hours awake. )
Shouto blinks at it, head throbbing and he lets it fall back to the floor as he drops his head onto his pillow. He’s tired. He’s really tired.
The ceiling seems far away, too far away. It’s swirling, it looks almost soft. Bouncy.
And Shouto thinks that this.
This might be an issue.