Chapter Text
Tuesday | 4:41AM
If you’re up before the sun, then you shouldn’t be up. Shouto - someone told him that once. That if it's too early for the early birds, and the roosters, and everything that’s awake before the people, then it’s too early for all. And it’s too early for Shouto.
Villains wait for no one. If I say it’s time to get up, then it is. Don’t disobey, child.
Shouto steps into the shower because despite the sun being asleep, he needs to be awake. And be aware. And ready for anything because villains truly do not wait for anyone. And he’s almost, almost convinced that there’s one right outside the shower curtain anyway; a villain whose eyes linger and linger and never look away.
Scalding water that he doesn’t really feel, not completely, trickles down his dirty body. The conditioner that he thought was shampoo when he pumped it onto his hand follows, dragging muck and everything wrong with him down the drain with it. It washes away memories, washes away things better left unspoken. And he feels clean now, at least, but he’s sure it has to be a trick because if Shouto is anything, clean is not it. A scar that won’t scrub off is evidence to prove that.
But he really doesn’t want to think about that—and he isn’t. Not intentionally. So through complicated feelings, he ambivalently steps out of the shower and onto the bathroom rug, and as a last ditch effort to not feel completely, entirely, absolutely insane, he forces everything in him to focus on the way the carpet feels, instead of the way the eyes stare. It doesn’t work, and Shouto feels completely, entirely, absolutely insane all the same.
When he glances up at the mirror, the face that meets him sends shivers down his spine. An uncanny feeling. That isn’t - that can’t be him. Or maybe he doesn’t want it to be. One too many bruises coat the body, covering everything that he once was; making him only what he’s supposed to be. Endeavor's hands and his breath and his fire find their places back on Shouto’s skin, a memory of a grip that wouldn’t subside reflects before his eyes.
He remembers. He has too. He always does. But Shouto—he doesn’t know why he’s being so dramatic, why everything feels so big and wrong, even though it’s the same as always.
But - is it?
Because when the memory of blue eyes, white and red hair, gentle hands and comfort, comfort instead of independence play before his eyes, Shouto thinks that maybe it is different, but that it wasn’t supposed to be.
He’s supposed to be alone. Deal with this himself, and not have Fuyumi text him repeatedly, telling him to do things he’s not supposed to. No one’s supposed to say they love him, and that they care about him, and that it’s okay to - to tell someone.
It’s not. It’s not, because Endeavor would find out. Shouto may have a concussion, but Fuyumi is the crazy one.
And that - Shouto remembers that too, now.
Every once in a while, his mind goes awkwardly blank. Almost like someone else forcefully takes the reins from his hands with the simple purpose to ruin his life in as many ways as possible. It’s annoying, too, because he’s so lost when it happens; stuck wondering what’s going on, how to fix it—wondering why he can’t.
When Endeavor takes control, it’s easy because he’s predictable. He has one goal, and it’s to make Shouto the best. When Shouto’s the one taking control: when his mind is taking control—it’s just…scary.
But he does remember. Training, and messing up. Earning a concussion. He remembers the medication he’s supposed to be taking; Fuyumi says they’re painkillers, and they help, they do, but at the same time - they’re entirely, completely wrong. But—Shouto remembers, and now he just prays he can keep doing so.
So in an actual last ditch effort to not feel crazy, he gets back into the spray of water where he feels somewhat safe. Safe because it’s small and confined, (almost like a closet?) And he’s able to breathe, finally, so he stays. He scrubs. He’s still dirty. At some point, the scalding moisture weighs down the air too much for his lungs to handle, so he turns it cold to combat the temperatures.
When his vision spins and his limbs wobble like they might slip down the drain with the water, a dizzying sensation, Shouto stretches his frame out onto the floor of the bathtub as much as he can. The water he can’t feel splashes against his stomach.
And he thinks that he should be doing more, and that he should be doing something important, but if doing something more means doing something important, then Shouto doesn’t think it’s worth it.
Because the sun is asleep, and he is awake. So if he wastes a little time thinking of nothing, who’s there to see him do it?
The eyes.—he doesn’t want to think about that.
—————
Tuesday | 6:02AM
The first thing that Shouto notices when he goes downstairs is how empty the common room is. While it is early, it's not nearly to the point where no one would be awake.
But he doesn't mind all that much–fewer people make it easier to grab a quick serving of cereal.
So he does. When he grabs the porcelain bowl from the cabinet, it's cold against his fingers. And when he grabs the gallon of milk, it's even chillier as the freeze runs its way through his body. He’s cold—he’s been cold a lot recently.
The cheerios he chose taste like nearly nothing as he eats them at the kitchen counter, but they aren't terrible, so he doesn't have to force himself to swallow them like he thought he would, as much as he lets himself do so. A mindless activity–he feels mindless all the time, now.
The kitchen is eerily quiet. Well, the entire first floor is. Unsettling. And regardless of the fact that he doesn’t necessarily want to be around anyone, he doesn’t want to be alone, either. But it's okay—he’s okay.
“Shouto,” Dad says.
His whole body jolts at the voice. Dropping his spoon with a clang as it hits the edge of the bowl, his breath catches in his throat. And he checked already, he knows he did, but he swings his head to look behind him all the same, reluctantly glancing around the room for his father.
But–nobody's there; the space is just as empty as it was when he entered. And - and he knew that it would be, that it is, because he trusts his senses enough to know that he wouldn’t miss it if someone was in the room, but his skin crawls nevertheless.
It's just a mistake, then. He didn't hear anything.
So he takes another bite.
“You know it's not supposed to be like this.” Dad’s voice rings again.
Shouto drops the spoon purposely, this time, because the voice isn't there—so he has to ignore it. Without thinking too much—He can’t think— he grabs his bowl and dumps the contents in the sink. When it rinses, the volume of the faucet is almost loud enough to block out the voice.
“Don’t ignore me.” Dad whispers.
He’s not, he’s not.
But Shouto can’t help turning around again; praying there's nobody there to prove to himself that he isn’t burning, that dad’s flames aren’t marked on his skin. But also, selfishly, maybe hoping that there is someone with him—that he’s not simply hearing things. Regardless, he’s met with nothing. Because he’s alone, and it's so empty it's terrifying–but he knew that.
So he turns back around, shutting off the water and quickly treading towards the common room. When Endeavor's hands find their place on his shoulders, flaming and pushing and hot hot hot, Shouto barely stops himself from collapsing as his legs wobble.
“Stop, please stop.” He asks, almost begs. But fuck, everything is so loud.
“You must earn it. Fight back, child.”
“I can’t!” He yells frantically, eyes darting all around and looking looking looking. The voice seems to be coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once as his heart thumps overly loud in his chest. But god, there's no one in the common room, no one in the kitchen, and Endeavor isn't here.
And Shouto has to be going crazy because he can feel his father's hands and his fire and it hurts. He hears a thump to his right, and quickly snaps his head towards it.
“You look insane.” Bakugou states from in front of the staircase.
Bakugou.
And all at once, the noises stop. Shouto stares at Bakugou, because if he looks away he’ll disappear, and the fire will reappear, and he's so scared, and Shouto’s not entirely sure that he isn't insane.
“I’m losing my mind.” He whispers under his breath, too quiet for anyone to hear. Bakugou watches Shouto, eyes squinted and arms crossed, studying him like he’s a circus act, before he blinks and steps closer.
“Are you talking to someone?” Bakugou questions, his voice…gentle, almost? Now standing a mere few feet away from where Shouto feels his entire body heaving, he's certain Bakugou can hear his heart beating out of his throat. It’s loud, really loud.
Too loud—he needs to be quiet.
And maybe it’s the oddity that is the present mixing with the past; forgotten words leaping into the future, but Shouto makes the regretful decision of letting himself be honest.
“Dad.” He states, but he isn’t technically talking to him, because Dad said he’s ignoring him. Is he? He can’t hear his voice anymore.
Shouto can’t find it in himself to hate the way Bakugou's face flashes with something implacable—something Shouto, in all honesty, doesn’t want to know the meaning of.
Bakugou isn’t his father, so he doesn’t need to be scared. And that’s enough to slightly calm his nerves.
Bakugou glances around the room, and Shouto knows what he sees. He has to know.
It’s empty.
So when red sees nothing, and red looks at blue and gray, Shouto knows exactly what the other is thinking.
“Endeavor isn’t here,” Bakugou states blankly, but Shouto knows he means you’re crazy you’re crazy you’re crazy.
When Shouto blinks instead of answering, a silent I know, Bakugou clears his throat and mercifully steps past him into the kitchen. Shouto’s gaze turns with it—he can’t look away, but he knows to be subtle, at least.
“Thought you’d be asleep,” Bakugou starts awkwardly. Shouto doesn’t think the way his entire body physically relaxes at the change of topic goes unnoticed. He can’t find it in himself to care. “You seemed pretty fucking sick yesterday.”
He watches drearily as the blonde shuffles around the kitchen, digging for various things—spices, a skillet, before grabbing a dozen eggs from the fridge and whisking them in a bowl.
“Oh,” is all he can bring himself to say. His mind still feels fuzzy. It’s still a little hard to breathe.
Bakugou eyes him from the stove, eyebrows raised before he sighs and pours the yellow mixture into the pan. Shouto keeps his eyes locked and watches with quiet admiration, letting his mind wander as much as he dares.
He’s exhausted.
“Stop fucking hovering,” Bakugou huffs after a moment. “In or out.”
Shouto blinks. Without much internal protest he chooses In, and goes to sit at the counter like he once was moments ago—when it was so empty it was scary, when he was alone.
The reminder that it’s not supposed to be like this doesn’t leave his mind at all, but more so is forced into the back of it as the eggs sizzle and the smell takes over the anxiety in his head.
It’s not supposed to be like this, but maybe it can be.
The simmering of the pan is nice, though. It's a good enough distraction to take his mind away from the things he probably, if he was smart, should be focusing on. Like how there's still an awful presence at the back of his neck, threatening him to look, you should look. And how his hands won’t stop shaking.
How he has the urge to take a fucking pill.
That in of itself is terrifying, he thinks. Because when his mind is clear, and he can remember what he was doing for even five minutes, the pills in his backpack and on his desk remain the same—the fact that he isn’t supposed to take them remains the same.
He knows they’re literally just painkillers; that a low grade medication which barely speeds up the healing process won’t harm him in the long run. Yet, when Fuyumi says take them, and Dad says take them, and you die, it all leads back to Shouto.
Shouto in his bedroom, Shouto in a bathroom, Shouto anywhere with the bottle of pills and a cognitive dissonance gnawing at his mind, saying that at the end of the day, it's his choice. And he knows they won’t hurt him, but other people can. Dad can.
He’s always been one to self sabotage, so when his eyes shut, when Bakugou paces around the kitchen and when the bittersweet smell of breakfast lulls him to sleep, he makes an internal conclusion to the fact that he is insane, and that despite everything he doesn’t have it in himself to avoid taking the pills.
When they slide down his throat, he chokes on the immediate guilt—but simultaneously, he’s immediately relieved. Immediately real again.
Shouto is crazy, the pills make everything feel okay, is it worth it, though?
He fights the urge to cry as he falls asleep at the counter.
—————
Tuesday | 6:40AM
“Hey, wake up,” Bakugou demands, shaking his shoulders. Shouto, who feels nearly dead at the moment, hears himself say something in the room. And he’s too tired to tell what; too tired to control his mouth, so he rubs at his eyes and thinks that he was probably finishing a dream. When he yawns, the familiar ache of his body makes him want to return to the dream, yet he knows it’s impossible, so instead he stretches out his frame as much as he can.
Bakugou seems indifferent as he looks at Shouto like he has places to be.
“‘m not asleep.” Shouto answers, and he's definitely spoken too late to be believable, and the lie is definitely obvious, but he’s honestly too tired to care.
Bakugou stays neutral next to him—he’s been neutral a lot—backpack slung around his shoulder as he peers down at Shouto.
“Sure, Icyhot,” He responds halfheartedly. “But I have to head to class, so finish ‘not sleeping’ in your fuckin’ dorm. Eggs are on the stove.”
Class doesn’t start for an hour, Shouto might say on a different day, but he doesn’t, because then Bakugou turns to walk away, and the way Shouto’s arm subconsciously reaches out to grab him, probably surprises Shouto more than it does the Bakugou.
“What.” Bakugou glares, turning back around, and at a loss for words, Shouto shuffles out of his seat as quickly as he can because he doesn’t necessarily have anything to say, but more so has something to do.
He feels very one-track-minded, at the moment.
“Just, um, wait a minute. Please.” Standing up may be the hardest thing he’s done in a while; his head feels funny. Heavy. Like, years worth of sleepless nights are finally catching up to him. Bakugou does wait, albeit, very clearly judging Shouto’s probably pathetic effort of staying upright.
“I’m not waiti- fuck,”
And Shouto doesn’t even realize he’s tipping sideways until Bakugou’s hands are mirroring his own from moments ago, reaching forwards, surprising them both by grabbing Shouto’s shoulders and steadying him in place.
He can’t help the way he flinches, because all he can see are calloused hands grabbing, heated fingers touching, and someone who isn’t supposed to be.
And then all he sees is Dad, and he really wants to be back in that dream.
Shit.
“Sorry,” he whispers. Apologizing is always a good thing to do when you don’t know what you did wrong. Apologize, Shouto. The way his vision blacks out is uncontrollable; he barely holds back the small hiccup threatening to escape his throat as words spill over him like a language he’s almost fluent in, but not enough so to understand entirely.
He reaches behind himself and anchors his hands on the counter in a sad attempt to stabilize his weak limbs. The coolness of the marble nearly brings him back to reality—a subtle reminder of the fact that he is in the kitchen, not the dojo. So when he blinks, the room stops spinning, the hands retreat, and he’s fine.
And dramatic.
When he looks up, he doesn’t see Endeavor, and he reminds himself that Endeavor wasn’t there in the first place.
When he looks up, he sees Bakugou.
Bakugou who looks…scared?
“I’m okay.” He says quickly, but the blonde's eyes don’t flicker, and Shouto suddenly feels incredibly small. “I don’t - Sorry.” He’s sorry. Dad isn’t here, and Shouto is well aware he isn’t; that his mind is simply playing games he should have memorized by now.
“The fuck was that?” Bakugou asks, his brow scrunched, hand outstretched as if preparing to catch Shouto, should he fall again. Shouto doesn’t miss the way that Bakugou’s voice quivers, even as quiet as it is.
This is crazy. He’s fine. He’s okay.
“I’m okay.” He repeats, and he truly does feel like his life is on loop.
Like everything is a loop. A videotape on repeat—directed not by Shouto, but by a higher being entirely. Every move he makes is premeditated, and everything he thinks has already been thought by another.
Because if the world was ending, the fact that Shouto is okay would always remain the same.
You’re okay. You’re alright. I do this because I love you.
The idea of the supposed higher power being Dad doesn’t go unnoticed, but Shouto doesn’t want to think about it.
“Bullshit,” Bakugou replies, clearly exasperated. “You’re shaking.”
In exchange for keeping himself upright with the counter, Shouto eases himself down onto the stool behind him and forces his body to relax.
“I’m not.” He says, and he really isn’t now, so it’s not like he’s lying.
“I’m not a fucking idiot.”
Shouto knows that Bakugou isn’t an idiot. He knows that if the entire world were to be deemed stupid, then Bakugou would not be from earth. If idiocracy was a beauty standard, then Bakugou would be ugly. Well, he wouldn’t. You would actually have to be an idiot to think Bakugou is ugly—but the point still stands. All in all, what Shouto doesn’t mean to do is treat the blonde like he’s stupid, because Shouto is well aware he isn’t.
It’s moments like these where Shouto finds he should probably back down. Where the silence that lingers after he says something he shouldn’t have is enough to deafen anyone within a miles radius. Bakugou glares at him, and Shouto obliviously stares back, and Shouto thinks that if he were anyone else, if he was any more weak, he would go back to his dorm and skip school.
Shouto is a Todoroki, though. Which means there's expectations to meet. Bakugou doesn’t get that. He will never get that, and sometimes, however unfortunate or wrong or bad it feels, Shouto has to make sacrifices to ensure others don’t prevent the growth placed before him.
So, Shouto blinks around the vertigo and he grabs his bag—when did he bring that downstairs?—and when he says “I have to go,” and fast-walks away, he sort of actually means it.
Don’t mind the fact that everything in his body is screaming stay stay stay, that the voices are growing louder louder louder, and that his head really fucking hurts. People don’t—they can’t know. Because Shouto knows things that they don’t, and that—it’s not safe. He can’t explain why it isn’t but he simply knows that thats the truth.
“You know it's not supposed to be like this.” Dad’s voice echoes and echoes and echoes, and Shouto’s eyes burn with the reminder, because he knows.
And that hurts, for a reason he couldn’t explain if he tried.