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Hitoshi’s hands wouldn’t stay still. They kept twitching, fingers flexing against his knees like puppet strings pulled too tight. He pressed them into the fabric of his sweatpants until the seams bit into his palms, hoping it would make the tension stop. It didn’t. It never did.
He had been sitting on the couch for nearly an hour, pretending to scroll through his phone while the TV muttered quietly in the background. Aizawa was grading papers at the kitchen table. Hizashi was somewhere down the hall, humming off-key as he prepared for class tomorrow. Everything looked normal. Sounded normal. But his body didn’t feel normal.
His throat clicked once. Then twice. He tried to swallow it down, pretending it was nothing. But the third one came sharper, louder. A sound that wasn’t quite voluntary. A sound that wasn’t supposed to happen anymore.
He’d done so well. Weeks without it. Weeks where his body had listened to him for once. Weeks of hiding the jerks and the noises, of keeping it all buried under exhaustion and forced smiles. But now, the exhaustion had reached its limit. The mask was crumbling.
His neck twitched to the side before he could stop it. A sharp pull of muscle that sent pain rippling down his spine. He hissed through his teeth, rubbing at it like he could force it still.
“Hitoshi?” Aizawa’s voice carried from the kitchen, quiet but direct.
“Yeah,” he said, voice too fast, too high. “M’okay.”
He wasn’t. His neck jerked again. His shoulder followed. The next one made a sound escape his throat, somewhere between a cough and a squeak. He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.
God. No. Not here. Not in their apartment.
He got up too fast, nearly tripping over the couch. “’M just-bathroom,” he muttered, and ducked down the hall before Aizawa could ask anything else.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, heart hammering. The mirror across the sink stared back at him: wide purple eyes, flushed cheeks, messy hair. The kind of tired that looked permanent.
His body jerked again, the tic yanking his neck to the right. He gritted his teeth. It kept happening, one after another, his throat clicking and his shoulder twitching in uneven rhythm. His breathing turned ragged, shallow.
He hated this. He hated this.
He didn’t want them to see. Aizawa-he was always so calm, so controlled, so steady. Hitoshi wanted to be that. He wanted to be quiet, capable, reliable. Not… this.
Another jerk. His head hit the wall. He flinched. “Stop,” he whispered to himself, voice shaking. “Stop it.”
“Hitoshi?”
He froze. Hizashi’s voice. Closer than he expected.
“Hey, kiddo, you okay in there?”
Hitoshi tried to answer, but his throat clicked instead. Another tic. He pressed both hands against his mouth.
There was a pause. Then a soft knock. “Can I come in? Promise I won’t make a big deal out of it.”
He didn’t move.
The door opened slowly. Hizashi peeked in, glasses catching the dim bathroom light. His face was softer than usual, voice gentle. “Hey,” he said, stepping inside. “You don’t have to hide from me.”
Hitoshi’s shoulders trembled. His next tic pulled his neck again, and he winced. “I can’t stop it,” he whispered.
“I know,” Hizashi said, crouching down so they were eye-level. “You don’t have to.”
“I don’t- I didn’t want you to see.”
“Why not?”
“It’s—” another click. “Weak.”
Hizashi’s face softened even more. “Not weak. Not even close.”
Hitoshi laughed weakly. “You don’t get it.”
“Actually,” Hizashi said, and then he made a noise. A short, sharp hum that almost sounded like a chirp. “Yeah. I do.”
Hitoshi blinked. “What?”
“It’s called echolalia,” Hizashi said, still quiet. “Had it since I was a kid. Comes out worse when I’m tired. I mask it most of the time ‘cause I talk so much anyway. But when I’m alone…” He smiled, a little embarrassed. “You’re not the only one who fights their body for silence.”
The silence that followed was thick, fragile. Hitoshi’s throat made another click. Hizashi didn’t flinch. Didn’t stare. He just waited, patient, the way only a teacher could.
“I’m so tired,” Hitoshi admitted.
“I know,” Hizashi said. “Masking takes everything out of you.”
Hitoshi’s neck jerked again. This time he didn’t try to stop it. The relief was immediate, if a little painful. His throat made a small noise afterward, and Hizashi nodded encouragingly.
“See?” he said softly. “The world didn’t end.”
Hitoshi tried to laugh, but it came out wet and shaky. “Feels like it did sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Hizashi murmured. “But it doesn’t. Not really.”
They stayed like that for a while, both of them quiet except for the sounds that escaped. When Hizashi’s own tic slipped out again- a faint, involuntary hum- Hitoshi didn’t even react. He just breathed.
When they finally left the bathroom, Aizawa was waiting in the hall. He didn’t say anything at first, just gave Hitoshi a small nod and a rare, tired smile.
“Better?” he asked.
Hitoshi hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. A bit.”
“Good,” Aizawa said, and stepped aside so Hizashi could guide him to the couch.
They sat together, Hizashi with his arm slung loosely around Hitoshi’s shoulders. The TV flickered softly again, filling the silence with background noise. Hitoshi leaned against him, eyes half-lidded.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t try to suppress the next tic. Or the one after that.
And Hizashi didn’t say anything about them either. He just stayed there, steady and warm, as the world outside felt like it was caving in.
But inside their small apartment, for once, it felt like the world was holding.