Chapter Text
The air turns black all around him. Smoke and dust concoct an impenetrable mist, something he can’t cut through with even the most controlled variation of his quirk. Fires won’t light the darkness, and ice does little to aid in the dispersion of the oxygen or give him room to breathe. His hands quake. Even through the knowledge of being somewhere familiar, there is something to say about just how stiff the atmosphere is. He’s entirely certain he will die here.
And still, he is not afraid. He’s in a dark hole, without possibility of getting out— a cavern, somewhere he certainly shouldn’t be—, but there’s no explicit pounding of fear. It’s just loneliness. It’s just silence. It’s just drifting.
It’s just—
“Todoroki?”
Just like that, the classroom resumes its bustling visuals. The darkness snaps away, groups of socialization process, and Shoto himself is in the midst of it all. He doesn’t recall joining this group of his peers, nor does he remember putting himself in even the slightest area he’s in at the moment. He glances around vaguely, noting the girls who seem to be confused, to some extent. Even from their spot across the room, nearer the front than the back, where he sits, he can tell something is amiss. That stiffness in the air hasn’t gone away, and he finds himself curious about it.
“Todoroki,” Midoriya says, his posture bent as he leans his palms on the front surface of Shoto’s desk. With a glance towards Midoriya’s scarred hands, Shoto notices that they seem uncomfortably clenched, bent like he’s actively avoiding touching something that’s just an inch past his fingertips.
There’s the distinct smell of charcoal.
Shoto looks down at his own hands, where they rest, palms-down and pressed against the desk. His fingernails are pale with lack of blood flow from just how hard he’s digging them against the wood. Ever so slowly, he lifts them. Left to right, a scorched hand-print and water damage, respectively.
“Whoa,” voices the distinct tone of Kaminari. He scoots away from the desk, probably trying to avoid the water that has collected atop the furnished wood. Shame burns in Shoto’s cheeks; his right sleeve is damp, a trail of melted ice having slid down the inside of his forearm.
“Todoroki, are you alright?” Midoriya asks.
Shoto flexes his left hand. Once, twice— until it feels a little more real, a little more existent. He looks up at Midoriya. He wants to ask what happened, but he doesn’t know if he’s interested in displaying the fact that he’d lost so much control, inside and out. He settles for the next best thing, and slowly pushes himself up from his desk. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not feeling very well, I’m going to go see Recovery Girl.”
For some reason, Midoriya pushes himself up, too, posture straight rather than bent at the waist. No one says anything, not Kaminari, not Bakugo, not Kirishima— even Midoriya is silent. It’s better that way, Shoto assures himself, and as he leaves the classroom, he massages the heart of his left palm. It’s tense, a small pounding like there’s a muscle that’s on the verge of cramping. It’s uncomfortable, more than anything else. He’s just glad he can feel it, rather than being lost in that strange smoke, where he couldn’t do anything.
Classes haven’t started yet this morning. Shoto finds himself wondering why the hallways are so empty, then, if there’s still an unspecified amount of time before the official start of schooling. He thinks it’s one of those things he’s just trying to occupy himself with, though. Something to fulfill the lacking inside of his head, not that it’s working. He glances out the windows as he passes them, his footsteps nullifying the utter quiet of the early winter.
Shoto thinks he feels sick.
He pulls open the door to the infirmary, though he hesitates before stepping inside. Maybe he should have just locked himself in a stall in the mens’ room. He only needs a place to not exist for a second.
“Todoroki, what brings you here?” Recovery Girl asks.
Shoto looks up. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring at the floor until then. He blinks as he contemplates the room he has yet to fully step into. The desk, the curtains, the beds, cabinets and cupboards of medical supplies. A window, revealing a gentle snowfall which he definitely doesn’t remember having been there just a second ago.
“Todoroki?”
It creeps in on him, this lack of certainty. He doesn’t know why he chose to come here. He doesn’t know how to explain what happened to him, nor does he know if he wants to. There are other students who need the infirmary more than he does, yet he stands in the doorway of a primarily empty room. He can’t pinpoint it. He stares at the snow.
“Do you know where you are?” and this voice is different, it’s not Recovery Girl. Shoto tries to figure out who it is, but he can’t see anyone else— not that he’s actively looking. The snow outside is distracting his gaze.
In that moment, he feels like nothing.
He stares at the snow, at the stillness of it all, and realizes he might be dead.
Aizawa seems to come out of nowhere. The entire left of Shoto’s peripheral vision is taken up by the telltale darkness and beige of his homeroom teacher. He wants to suggest this irrational idea of actually being dead, but he can’t really get his throat to make noise. Even if he could, he doesn’t know if he’d really go about saying it. He doesn’t want the attention it might bring him.
There’s a shifting— Aizawa moves, closer, his form bigger than just a second ago— and Shoto’s heart drops, his lungs clench, his nerves explode in a burst of energy. Without so much as an intent, Shoto sweeps his left arm in an attempt to ward off the danger with his quirk.
The only thing that gets him is a feeling of loss and a firm grip around his forearm. Aizawa’s hand is angular, bony and strong. It’s distinctly different from the contact Shoto had expected to encounter, and it confuses him.
Everything clarifies. His vision no longer slurs, and he can figure out the flaws in his automatic reaction. He doesn’t feel better, he just feels more present, whether that be good or bad. At the moment, he’s voting for bad. There was something almost comforting about drifting so soundlessly in the smoke.
What smoke? There’s no smoke.
“Shoto,” Aizawa says, tight, demanding some sort of explanation.
“Don’t touch me.” Those are the only words Shoto is able to produce. A hushed plead, more than a rule or statement. Maybe it’s pathetic, and maybe that makes him uncomfortable— more than that, maybe it makes him hurt.
“Do you promise not to do anything stupid?” Aizawa asks. Shoto nods, and Aizawa lets go. Shoto pulls his arm back to himself, rubbing at the tenderness that fills his newly-released flesh.
“I think I’d like to go back to the dorms,” Shoto says, pushing through the dryness of his throat and mouth. “If that’s okay.”
“I’d be more comfortable if you stayed here,” Recovery Girl says. “Just for a little while.”
Shoto says nothing in return, which apparently is taken for consent. The next thing he knows, he’s being lead to one of the beds, where Aizawa pats his shoulder in instruction to sit. Shoto does, though he can’t say he particularly wants to do that, either. He stares out the window and watches the snow.
They’re talking about him. Recovery Girl and Aizawa, he knows they’re talking about him. It’s not just some paranoia, either; he hears them muttering, and he hears his name along with appropriate pronouns. He doesn’t really care about the fact that they’re talking about him. He can’t really say he cares about much at all.
He hardly exists.
The bell for classes sounds, though it’s more of a tone calling out than a chiming. It startles Shoto. Although he logically knows that noise, he hadn’t been expecting it, and the fact that it had been so loud completely catches him off-guard. His skin itches. Smoke fills the air and he breathes it in. It suffocates him. He tries to keep his cool, but he can’t breathe, he can’t swallow down the dry scratching of his throat. He chokes. His next intake of breath is shallow and wheezing. He devolves into a coughing fit.
Shoto covers his mouth, trying to be polite. Other people are here.
Someone tells him to breathe. He doesn’t know who it is. He can’t pull his eyes away from the snowfall, and even if he could, he wouldn’t want to. Unexpected as it is, there’s something comforting about it, the knowledge of the cold just beyond these walls. He aches to reach out and touch it, to feel it.
The coughing fit fades and he allows his arm to drop back to his side.
“Todoroki, lay down.”
Without question, Shoto obeys.
If someone tells you to do something, you should do it. The only other people in this room are adults, and it’s necessary to respect them to the highest degree. Respectful tone, pleases and thank yous.
The rules comfort him, but he can’t respond with the politeness he wishes he could. He doesn’t know the gender of the person who spoke. Instead, all he can do is be obedient.
His head meets the pillow. He turns his head to watch out the window. It’s a different angle, here; he sees where the snow comes from, rather than where it’s going. The sky is blank and misty. He’s tired, and he wonders how he managed to pull himself out of bed at all this morning. Surely, he’d felt like this all day? When else would it have started, if not when he’d woken up?
There’s burning in his eyes, and his eyelids slip closed. He blinks them open a few times, unwilling to sleep but unable to move, but his body needs rest and before he realizes what’s happening, his attention dissipates and he can’t stay awake any longer.