Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aizawa Shouta is no stranger to sporadic naps. Usually, he finds somewhere cosy to hole up—somewhere he won’t fall flat on his face, preferably—before he passes out, yet he has no recollection of doing so, or even feeling the pull of sleep to begin with.

Weightlessness tugs at his limbs, the odd feeling churning the liquid in his gut into something bordering on nausea. Disorientated, he blinks against the slowly rotating backdrop of torn-up asphalt and a haze of blue and red lights. Sound buzzes weirdly; there’s static in his ears; his vision blurs.

“Stabilise his head,” someone says.

He feels hands on him, gently pushing around his still oddly floating body.

His shoulder throbs and he feels every muscle in his body strain against his bones; pain pulses through his skull in time with his heartbeat, red and hot, as though someone had tried to split it open. His eyes ache so badly it hurts to keep them open. He tries anyway, blurry shapes phasing in and out of focus; bright pink and forest green fuzz together across his vision.

“Shit, he’s awake,” a voice says.

“Sensei, don’t move,” another orders worriedly.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here,” a third chimes with strained confidence.

He feels himself jostle, pain flaring up his spine, and it’s too much. His eyes scrunch closed of their own volition and a strangled sound is pulled from his throat.

Blackness takes his focus, inky and dark and—

Urgent shouts pull him back, like a violent game of tug-of-war, and he goes with it because— because they’re his stu— he needs to protect th—

Electricity sparking dangerously around a green figure pulls his focus. A child screams; the green—that’s his- he needs to pr-  that’s Midoriya—collapses with a pained shout of his own.

No— no— he won’t he- he- he can’t—

Panic wells in his chest because he can’t move - can’t get to him—

Gods, it hurts , but he focusses his vision as best he can on the grey and white blob clinging to his student and activates his quirk. He feels his hair rise; his eyes strain at the effort.

The screams stop, sparks ceasing, and he feels his hold slip as his hair settles back around his shoulders in a tousled mess. As relief courses through him, his eyes flutter closed to the sounds of a sirens and more shouting. The sounds fade as darkness pulls him under agai—

A wrinkled face leans over him, creases pulling down— down, down, down —

His vision swims, but he sees their lips move and he tries to focus —

“—dear, squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” she says gently, but serious.

He tries to comply, he does, his fingers tingle as he moves them— agony arcs up his arm— his head throbs, his brain feeling like it’s too big to be contained in his skull—

It’s black again— then a fuzzy grey blob—

“Ok, ok, that’s plenty dear.”

Nausea churns in his gut as he tries to move again because his students are- they’re still- he needs to protect them - they’re just— they- He feels the colour drain from his cheeks and he flushes, hot then bitingly cold, and he’s eased onto his side as his stomach clenches, muscles spasming, and he hears a wet, retching sound—

“—can’t— while he’s like thi— more ener—” vaguely, he registered that there’s arguing, but he doesn’t have the energy to focus on what they’re saying.

The voices fade as his body spasms again and he feels a light, gentle pressure against his forehead. The nausea and whatever energy he has left fades, a heaviness tugging at his chest and he’s spiralling, breathless, spent — he finds himself unable to fight the pull. Unwillingly, darkness swallows him.

Shouta doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but when he resurfaces from the groggy pull of sleep, the white-painted room and faint smell of stale eucalyptus—antiseptic, his brain helpfully supplies—are unfamiliar. His head throbs, eyes straining against the overhead fluorescent lighting, as he struggles to recall how he’d landed himself—he glances around and sure enough, yep, there’s a cheap plastic curtain and scratchy sheets—in the hospital.

The bedding and the hospital gown he’s been shoved into crinkle stiffly against his skin as he shifts. His joints and muscles protest at the motion of pushing himself upright, limbs aching as though his skin is stretched too tightly over bone and muscle.

He gives his head a moment to right itself at the change in elevation, blinking away the blurred edges creeping into his vision which hang around for longer than he’d like.

The room is empty, he realises. The nurse’s chair is pushed out and the computer still alight atop a desk of neatly organised papers. The three other beds in the room are vacant.

His clothes are folded neatly at the end of the bed, boots tucked underneath.

Gingerly, he goes through the motions of changing. The belt of the jumpsuit sits a little loosely around his hips and the sleeves and pants are a bit long, but he reasons it’s better than his ass hanging out of a hospital gown. He pulls the boots on too, although they’re two sizes too big, and tightens the laces as much as they’ll allow, rolling up the extra length on the jumpsuit so he’s not swimming in it.

It takes him longer than he’d like to walk across the room to the open door. While it had been his intention to just leave—he has no desire to be poked and prodded when he is absolutely fine —he’s conveniently blocked at the exit by a woman in a white coat.

He freezes, like a deer caught in the headlights, as she blinks at him, surprise widening her dark eyes a fraction.

“Aizawa-san,” she says simply, clutching a clipboard closer to her chest, “you’re awake.”

He blinks back at her. Well, obviously .

“Take a seat, I’d like to check you over if that’s alright.”

He backtracks awkwardly, sitting as instructed and allowing his feet to dangle off the side of the bed.

“Now, can you tell me your name and date of birth?”

He sighs deeply, already ready to leave. She waits patiently for his answer.

“Aizawa Shouta, August 8th,” he mumbles. She glances at the clipboard, seemingly content with his response. He blinks tiredly at her. “Can I go now?”

Her polite smile tenses. “Not quite yet, there’s still some more things we need to check.”

A light flashes across his right eye. He flinches back, but the woman holds him in place as she repeats the motion, flicking a small torch in and out of his vision. It aggravates his building headache and he tries not to groan.

She places the torch on the desk, leaning over to take his pulse-

“Why am I here?” he asks, trying not to let his frustration show.

She frowns at him, a crease wearing between sloping eyebrows.

“I was hoping you could tell me, dear. What do you remember?”

He tries to think, he does, but his thoughts are fickle things that refuse to line up for him; he was- yesterday- his class had— no, he’d been patrolling- wait, no, he’d been studying for midterms— no no there’d been- been—

“I—” The pressure behind his eyes builds and he’s forced to close them. “It’s all muddled.” He presses the heel of his palm into an eye socket. “I can’t-”

“It’s alright, don’t force yourself.” He hears her scribble something on the clipboard. “Can you tell me where you are?”

That much, he can answer. “A hospital,” he says softly. A niggling thought rises; something important that he can’t quite remember. Forest green and lighting— He lets his hand fall away from his face. “There were others,” he starts, unsure, unease churning in his chest. “Are they…?”

She smiles at that. “They’re in good hands, no need to worry.“

He frowns, because that’s not what-

If he’d been in an accident then his friends they- they are- they were—

He’d been with…?

His spiralling thoughts are interrupted by another question from the nurse.“Is there someone we can contact to take you home? A parent or guardian? We don’t seem to have anyone on file.”

His head swims. He didn’t have- he was- he didn’t need- nausea creeps up on him again, rolling his empty stomach into knots. He tries thinking of anyone - anyone else-

Swallowing thickly, he pushes the feeling down. “Can you call Yamada Hizashi?” he asks shakily. “He’s from UA too.”

She writes the name down, nodding. “We’ll get in touch with him. Try to get some more rest while we find him.” And with that, she leaves.

And as much as he wants to sneak out behind her, he can’t find the energy to push himself off the bed again. He finds himself nodding sleepily and, heavy-limbed, he settles back on the bed, boots and all, his head resting on the thin hospital pillow briefly before he’s drifting again.

He’s pulled awake—well, not quite, it’s that hazy place between dreaming and wakefulness—by worried voices.

“How long’s he been like this?” a vaguely familiar voice asks, a little nasally and carrying despite the low volume.

A woman responds. “He was admitted yesterday. He’s been concussed, so he may be a little confused and dazed over the next few days.”

“That’s not what I-” they cut themselves off with a frustrated exhale. “Ok, a concussion I can deal with. Is he good to be discharged?”

“Yep! As soon as he wakes up he’s cleared to go.”

They talk for a little longer, but he tunes it out, content to drift deeper in that warm place between asleep and awake.

A gentle shake pulls him back, and he finds himself blinking at a blonde-haired man with a ridiculous sweeping hairstyle, pencil moustache, and a concerning amount of leather. It takes him another moment to drag himself upright to get a better look, wincing as his muscles twinge.

He blinks at the man again, and he realises he looks astoundingly like Hisashi, but- but older- no, that’s him- wait, no, his hair’s supposed to be lot shorter— no, no — his vision blurs as his image of Hizashi overlaps with this version; the image doubles, and he sways —

A firm hand on his shoulder keeps him upright. “Shouta, bud, you good?” The man- no, Hizashi, that’s Hizashi—asks, a worried look pulling at the corners of his mouth.

He nods, words sticking in his throat because what- what is happening—

“That’s some concussion you got there,” the blonde says, the tension in his voice pulling his focus back. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

“Hizashi,” he breathes, head still spinning. The lights are suddenly too bright, the overlapping smell of bleach and antiseptic and plastic overwhelming- “can- can we leave?”

Hizashi gives him a doubtful look, glancing back to the doorway. “Maybe you should stay another night, bud—”

“No,” he says, a little too quickly. He closes his eyes, letting out a controlled exhale. “Anywhere but here.”

He’s is quiet for a long moment. “Okay,” he finally says. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

The walk to the car park takes a lot more energy from him than he expects. Buckled in securely—he’s not even surprised when it turns out Hizashi can drive —it feels like his eyes are closed for less than a minute before he’s being tugged out of the car again.

Dazed, he tries not to trip over his too-big boots as Hizashi guides him up a set of steps, through a key-passed set of doors, an elevator, and finally to the end of a long corridor to a room marked with a metal “101”.

The blonde looks at him expectantly.

“Gotcha keys?” he asks, gesturing to the belt pack hanging loosely around his hips.

He rifles through three pouches—why he has sharp, pointy things in a concealed pocket is beyond him—before he finds a swipe card. He hands it to Hizashi. The man sighs, grabbing the card and waving it front of the sensor before pushing open the door.

Hesitantly, he follows. The room is modestly sized, with a single bed, a desk with papers stacked in scattered piles, and a small kitchenette. A heap of laundry sits untouched in the corner, and the wastebasket bordering the kitchenette and the desk is full of jello pouches and used coffee filters. It’s both familiar and completely alien. He looks up at Hizashi in confusion, words escaping him.

The blonde sighs again, resigned, and ruffles his hair. Shouta doesn’t have the energy to bat his hand away.

“Look, Shou, I don’t know what’s happening with you, but we’ll figure it out. This is your room.” He rifles through a box on the desk and hands him an apple-flavoured jelly pouch as he pushes him towards the unmade bed. “Now eat that while I find you some actual food, and we’ll talk about what’s going on with you, alright?”

He nods tiredly, sucking at the pouch as he watches the blonde mutter at the mini fridge. He must eventually find something, because ten minutes later Shouta has a steaming microwaved meal in front of him. Hizashi sits on the floor next to the bed, his back leaning against the wall and long limbs splayed out.

“Talk to me man,” Hizashi eventually says, his gaze searching his. “What happened? Did one of Overhaul’s goons do this to you?”

He turns the name over in his head. Had he run into a villain lately? He rubs his forehead as a phantom pain ghosts across it. There’d been- someone had- wait no that’s not- he’d been train- no, there was- there was a man with arrows for hair- no, he’d just- just been-

He takes a deep breath, pushing the spiralling thoughts aside because trying to think about it is getting him nowhere-

“I can’t- I can’t really think straight,” he admits softly, reluctant, because he feels like he’s loosing his mind but he- he can trust Hizashi to- to— “I know there’s something off,” he continues, whetting his chapped lips, “but I don’t know- I don’t- I think I hit my head?” he trails off, and even he can hear the uncertainty in his tone.

Hizashi just nods, green eyes welling with patience and taking whatever rambling nonsense he just spurted out in stride.

“Yeah the concussion would explain why your heads messed up,” he pokes his forehead playfully and Shouta swats his hand away like shooing away a fly, “but I don’t think it explains why you’re,” Hisashi waves at him with a sweeping gesture, “like this.”

Shouta frowns, looking down at himself and the oversized jumpsuit. “Like what?”

“Y’know,” he says awkwardly, gesturing at him again, “a teenager.”

Hizashi passes him his phone with the camera facing him. He looks at his features seriously: tousled chin-length black hair, tired eyes, and smooth skin apart from a faint scar under one eye. He traces the scar uncertainly, because that’s new, but nothing else seems to be out of the ordinary. He doesn’t know what Hizashi wants him to see.

“Shouta, man, you’re meant to be thirty. Did you really not realise?”

He lets his hand fall away, placing the phone on the bed beside him. Thirty? Like not a- not a student? His brain struggles to comprehend the statement because he feels like himself, he’s a second year- no, that’s not right he’s a pr- what-

His head throbs.

“I’m not- I don’t think I- what do you mean?”

Hizashi’s face blurs in and out of focus, morphing between short and long hair, glasses blurring between different shades of yellow.

A firm hand on his shoulder stops him from keeling over.

“Woah bud, don’t give your self an aneurysm over it,” his friend says gently. “We’ll work it out, yeah?”

He nods tiredly, exhaustion pulling his eyelids half-closed, and he doesn’t even fight it as Hizashi takes his weight- someone yanks off his boots-

This time when sleep claims him, he wakes to rubble and people shouting. Smoke stings his nostrils and clogs his throat, but he pushes through, pulling another civilian to safety with a tug of his capture weapon. He turns around to where his classmates had been—a child cries hysterically near a collapsed wall, shaking—but there’s red seeping out from underneath the rubble. His chest clenches in panic as he spots a familiar shade of candy-floss teal- that’s- that’s- he flicks his capture weapon around the slab of concrete and strains to lift it, but it’s too heavy- he’s too late-

Dull, lifeless eyes stare out at him from a half-crushed skull, and it takes him a moment to recognise that that’s- that’s his fr- that’s his friend under there- the circle of red continues to widen, the dirt blackening and- no, - no he can’t be- no nonono no—

His gut clenches, wrenching him upright in a dark room, and he desperately clamps a hand over his mouth as the feeling claws its way up his throat and—he trips over something in the dark; they let out a yelp as his foot connects with something solid—he barely has time to clutch at what he thinks is a trash can before his insides decide they want to be, well, not inside- he shakes as a cool hand pulls his hair back, and he moans miserably into the sour pile of used coffee and whatever-

“ Hey, hey ,” a voice soothes, his brain taking a moment to process the English, “deep breaths.” Vaguely, he registers the circles being rubbed on his back. It- the pressure is oddly grounding.

He takes a shuddering breath.

The nausea passes as the dregs of the nightmare fade and he leans into the figure holding his hair back, nearly knocking them off balance.

“Woah bud,” they say—Hizashi? what- what is he doing in his house?—gripping an arm around his shoulders. “You done?”

He nods, because he can’t find the energy to form words- his eyelids droop — he fights the pull because he- he needs to know-

“He’s dead, isn’t he Zashi,” he says, his voice soft and hollow. Not quite a question, not quite not.

He feels his friend stiffen; a slow, resigned breath, then, “Yeah.”

His chest aches at that; it’s familiar, like reliving an old wound, and he feels dampness pool at his eyes. Hizashi holds him close, rubbing his arm, and he doesn’t fight it this time as his lids fall shut-

An alarm blares loudly, only just managing to pull him into the land of the living. Slapping at the device, he silences the obnoxious beeping as he drags himself upright. Unfortunately, he wakes in the same familiar-but-not room as he fell asleep to, desk still stacked with paperwork and washing still piled in the corner. The room is empty though, and he wonders if he imagined Hizashi curled on the floor (he wonders if he’s still imagining, this whole situation he’s found himself in).

He takes the time to shower and scrub his teeth (twice), and although he can’t find his uniform, he does manage to find some clothes he’s not swimming in; a pair of cargo pants held up by a belt and a black t-shirt buried at the bottom of a pile of sloppily folded clothes. The boots are still two sizes too big, but he can’t find a good alternative so he deals with it by layering three pairs of thick socks and ties the laces as tight as they’ll go.

A knock sounds at the door before it swings open, revealing Hizashi—the one with the long, sweeping up-do—with two plates skilfully balanced on one arm and two steaming mugs clutched in the other. He shoulders the door open further, shimmies into the room, and kicks it closed behind him.

Shouta just blinks at him.

“What are you doing?” he asks as he finishes rolling up the hem of his pants to sit comfortably over his boots.

“What does it look like? I brought breakfast!” he announces cheerily, partly in English.

A plate of slightly burnt toast topped with a fried egg is shoved at him along with a steaming mug of black coffee.

Hizashi balances his own on a crossed knee as he settles in the desk chair, digging in and taking a long sip from the mug.

The coffee is hot and bitter, but it warms the ache in his chest; he feels a little more alive and less like an undead cretin masquerading as a person.

(The bread, however, sits heavily in his gut, but he eats it anyway simply because his friend made it)

When he puts his plate to the side, Hizashi regards him seriously, studying his features. Shouta tries not to squirm under the scrutiny, hiding his discomfort behind his mug with another long sip.

“You’re what, a first, maybe second year right now?” Hizashi eventually asks.

He nods hesitantly, beads of water from his still-wet hair flicking loose with the movement.

“Second year,” he says. Not because he’s sure, but it feels about right.

Hizashi nods in thought, chin resting on a loosely clenched fist.

“Alright,” he says simply, accepting the fact and moving on. “I’ve gotta fill in for some classes this morning,” he adds, standing up and stretching to his full height to brush the ceiling with his finger tips. Shouta wonders when his friend got so freakishly tall- “You feeling up for hanging out in the staff room today?”

The question takes him a moment to process. Does he mean he’s filling in for a missing student or..?

“Don’t we have our own classes to get to?” Shouta asks hesitantly, because as lousy as he’s feeling, he doesn’t want to skip and risk falling behind. “Nezu-sensei is gonna flip if we’re late again.”

Hizashi frowns, an odd, almost sad, expression in his eyes. “Shouta, that’s-” he cuts himself off, letting out a sharp exhale before perking up once more. “Yep, you’re right. Let’s go then slow poke.”

He takes a moment to find his things as Hizashi waits by the door, scrounging for a spare notebook and something to write with on the over-crowded desk. His hand hovers over a stack of papers briefly—oh, he was going to grade th- he shoves the thought away as he grabs what he needs and quickly packs the items into a bag hanging on the back of the chair. Bag slung over his shoulder, he follows Hizashi out of the building.

Being holed up in the faculty room with a bunch of adults he doesn’t really recognise is more stressful than Shouta thought it would be.

Hizashi dropped him off without much of an explanation, telling him to wait until he got back from class.

“Sensei,” he asks, “can I go now?”

“No!” they announce in unison, all equally as alarmed. He blinks at them, confused, and tries not to let his annoyance show. Instead, he sucks at a grape-flavoured jelly pouch he stole from whoever’s desk they’d told him to sit at, while he tries not to focus on the fact that he is absolutely bored out of his mind.

Sleepiness tugs at his focus a few times and he finds himself waking up from a sporadic nap to the sound of the bell. He quickly wipes away the conspicuous puddle of drool with the back of his hand. 

Hizashi appears a few minutes later alongside a tall scarecrow-looking man in an oversized suit. Said man ogles him as soon as he spots him and Shouta tries to resist the urge to shrink and escape under the desk.

Hizashi seems to sense his discomfort, giving him a shit-eating-but-slightly-apologetic grin from across the room.

“So it is true!” the man exclaims in a surprisingly booming voice. “Young Aizawa, Mic here was just explaining your situation.”

He gives Hizashi his most scathing glare.

“What situation?” he asks through grit teeth, trying not to shrivel to the size of a raisin at a staffroom full of eyes that are suddenly on him all at once. The scarecrow man frowns, looking between him and Hizashi uncertainly.

“Well, that you have, uh- that you’re, well, a high schooler?” The man turns back to Hizashi, who just shrugs.

Doubt niggles a small hole in his chest. He’s- he’s supposed to be- is he..?- no, he’s sixteen-

“If you have problems with high-schoolers, I think you’ve chosen the wrong profession sensei,” he says defensively, grabbing his bag and pushing in the chair with the intention to leave.

“Young Aizawa,” the man says seriously, “you do know that you’re not supposed to be a teenager, right?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you Shou,” Hizashi addresses him carefully. He bristles at the use of the nickname in front of a crowd of strangers. “We think you might’ve been hit with a weird quirk during the raid on Overhaul’s base. Do you remember who you ran into down there?”

No, that doesn’t sound right- he’d remember if he was in a fight- who was..?- he’d- the— green and lightning flash across his vision and he feels his knee slacken- he catches himself roughly on the desk before hands are on him- there was- there’s rubble- caved-in asphalt t— something pierced his shoulder-

The room spins, and Hizashi and All Might are there- he needs to tell- they need to kn- before he- the thoughts slip, merging and splitting and re-writing themselves-

“The green-haired boy,” he breaths as he feels the grasp on his thoughts spiral. His head throbs as he’s jostled, and he vaguely registers that he’s on someone’s back- how did he…?- “He was there,” he mumbles into a leather-clad shoulder, “he can-” the thought fades and he’s left wondering what he was trying to say. His eyes feel heavy.

When he blinks back to awareness, he finds himself wandering down a hallway. What is he-

Disorientated, he missteps, tripping over his own feet, and runs head-first into someone rounding the corner.

A fist clenches in his shirt, pulling him upright and right into the face of a furiously scowling, spiky-headed blonde.

“Watch it,” they growl dangerously.

His vocal cords don’t seem to want to work to voice an apology; it’s all he can do to blink away the dizziness from losing his balance.

The student’s scowl deepens, mouth pulling into a frown.

“You’re—”

He takes the opportunity to clumsily pull himself free from their grip, shoving them backwards as he retreats a few paces. Vision swimming from the movement, he leans against the wall for support.

The blonde angers easily; his hands come up crackling, sparks dancing across his palms.

“Little shit—”

Before the blonde can fire off, he activates his quirk, feeling pressure at the back of his eyes as he erases the fireworks threatening to be launched at him.

The teen stares, incredulous.

Dark hair falls back in his face as he blinks; his head throbs.

“ Aizawa ?” The hostility leaves the blonde quickly.

Dread clenches his gut as he realises the student recognises him.

When he doesn’t respond, the teen grabs him by the wrist and essentially drags him along the corridor.

He’s pulled into a classroom. The chatter in the room comes to a halt as the—what he thinks is a class of first years on their lunch break if he isn’t mistaken by the quick glance at the ‘1A’ sign outside the room—students turn to look at them.

They all blink at him. He blinks back.

“Bakugo, who’s this?” one of them eventually asks.

The blonde side-eyes him, as if waiting for him to do something.

His head throbs again as he squints against the bright classroom lights.

“It’s Aizawa, idiot,” the blonde says after a pause, as if they should know.

An awkward silence fills the room and he lets it sit; he doesn’t have the brain power to entertain an entire class of first years. He just wants to curl up unnoticed in the corner and be let be, preferably wrapped in something warm. He regrets leaving the- wait, where did he- wasn’t he- he was going to cla—

A few students let out nervous chuckles; a green-haired boy and a wide-eyed brunette. An amphibious-featured girl stares at him calmly-

The blonde boy who dragged him here narrows his eyes at the trio.

He tries not to feel like a cornered animal, he really does, but despite his efforts he can feel his heart trying to escape from the confines of his chest; he forces his breaths to appear even as he tries to compute what exactly they want from him and what had happened-

He- he’d been— where exactly? He’d been trying to get to- there was- he’d passed out— what did that- wait, no, he’d been injured by— by something? And this class seems to know him, somehow. Were they- were they friends? Upon a quick scan, no one in the sea of curious faces looks familiar. They’re certainly not his class. His thoughts feel scattered and he struggles to piece together any semblance of an explanation.

“Uh,” he starts awkwardly, “hi?”

Chapter Text

The class erupts in chaos and he’s surrounded (bombarded) with twenty or so teens all at once. 

He wants to feel calm and collected, cool-headed and in control, but it— it’s too much. 

Nope, his brain supplies helpfully. 

He takes a step back— 

“Hey, back off morons,” the blonde boy growls. Surprisingly, they do, but it doesn’t stop the cacophony of noise from everyone trying to talk over each other at once. 

“Sensei,” a floating uniform asks, and it takes him a moment to realise the invisible girl is referring to him, “why are you a teenager?”

He— why do people keep asking him that? Doubt gnaws a hole in his stomach, because he doesn’t have a good answer. 

“Uh, I don’t know,” he replies, burying his hands in his pockets and trying to relax the tenseness in his shoulders. He’s overwhelmed as the students all try to ask him questions simultaneously. 

“You’re really Eraserhead?” a red-headed boy asks to his right. 

“What happened?” another asks, dual-coloured eyes serious. 

“Are you stuck like this?” From his left this time— a girl with elongated earlobes-

“Are you still staying at the dorms?” they’re short, purple baubles stuck to his hair-  from the back- 

“Oi, oi,” Bakugo—that’s what they called him right?—growls, “one at a time-” 

A pink-toned girl with horns gasps suddenly, eyes glittering as she smacks both hands on her desk and leans over with barely-contained excitement. He half expects her to launch over it. Eagerly, she asks, “Can we call you Shou-chan?” A tired-looking, purple-haired boy chokes on his juice box, sputtering between wheezing snickers. The glasses-wearing teen next to him blanches. 

He glares dangerously, flaring his quirk. “No,” he says firmly, trying to focus on the feeling of annoyance rather than the building anxiety threatening to evacuate his breakfast up his throat. 

The girl doesn’t seem to mind the rejection, shrugging and settling back to lean against the desk behind her. “Worth a shot,” she says with a giggle. 

“Just how old are you?” the tired-looking boy asks him measuredly, seemingly having recovered from choking on his juice. 

He thinks about it. He’s— he’s in his second year, right? That would make him— 

“Sixteen, I guess,” he replies. 

A blonde teen gapes at him, electricity arcing between his fingers and his bangs as he brushes them back, the static making the strands stand on end. “You guess?”

He shrugs, not elaborating. It feels about right, but he can’t quite remember celebrating his last birthday— wait, no, there were pointy hats and ridiculously themed bal—  Hizashi had spilled an entire jug of beer on him— wait no, he’d been at school— no, no, wait no— he’d- the park— what—

His head throbs- the room spins—

“Do you remember us?” 

The class goes quiet at that question. 

He tries to focus his blurring vision on the sea of faces. His chest aches, but he can’t- none of them— dammit they’re his- they- 

Something soft supports his head— soft and yellow— 

He blinks and he’s met with a dozen faces, all with pinched brows and soft frowns. 

“He’s awake,” a few whisper. 

“Back up,” another whispers back harshly. 

Pain pulses behind his forehead, threatening to split it open. He stifles a groan. Ughhh—

More yellow and soft plush engulf him and he falls back into a state of drifting— 

he hears his name being called but he can’t muster up the energy to pull himself back to— to—

—not himself right now— 

There’s hands on him, under his knees, around his shoulders

hit— villain’s quirk-  regressed— 

he feels his head loll against something warm-

don’t know— the full ext—

He blinks, groggy. Crisp sheets scratch at his skin, the faint smell of lavender room spray and the familiar pattern of cracked paint in the ceiling tells him that he’s in the UA infirmary. How did he—

“My, you’ve had an exciting morning haven’t you, dear.”

He blinks owlishly up at the grey-haired woman leaning over him. 

“This would be the third time I’ve seen you in the last two days.”  

he doesn’t- wasn’t he- what— 

A soft “Oh?” is all he can manage as he tries and fails to recall the supposed other two encounters.

She frowns at him, the folds of her face creasing further— a feat he didn’t think was possible. 

“Tell me Shouta dear, where were you just now?”

He closes his eyes against the aching pressure behind them, trying to gather his thoughts from the haze of confusion fogging his brain. He was- he was going to cl- there were- a student— he’d been- 

“I was in class,” he says, unsure. “But I- I didn’t— they knew me but I- my class wasn’t— they weren’t there-”

A bell chimes, cutting off his train of thought as his attention is pulled to the clock hanging on the wall reading the end of the school day. Crap. How had he missed an entire day? The clock dips as the room seems to pivot- he puts out an arm to steady himself, swallowing thickly past a brief surge of nausea. 

“What’s happening to me?” he asks, because he knows something isn’t right-but he - he can’t pinpoint what-

The nurse—no, that’s Chi- that’s Recovery Girl—lets out a short sigh, shuffling towards the small side table and picking up a clipboard. She takes a moment to scribble something on it. 

“You’ve been affected by some sort of regression quirk,” she says plainly, her tone somewhat resigned as though she’s explained this before. “We believe it has not only affected your body, but also your memory in some capacity, and the conflict between your adult understanding and your teenage self is causing you some distress.” 

Shouta hears the words, but struggles to comprehend them- his adult self? He isn’t- he’s never been- he isn’t grown up- he’s- he’s just Shouta, not some- what—

“Here,” Recovery Girl says, offering him an ID badge that he takes with a shaking hand, “This is you.” There’s an unimpressed-looking man in the photo-that’s him, that’s his picture— with long shaggy hair and stubble- but that’s- its from last year’s pict- no, that’s not—

He drops the plastic card, and he vaguely registers the dull clattering sound it makes as it hits the tiled floor. “That’s not me,” he says softly, numbly, the room starting to spin more violently- he feels the warmth drain from his face- 

A firm pressure on his wrist pulls him back to focus-

“That’s quite enough of that,” the woman says firmly. “Breathe with me now.” 

He follows the exaggerated rise and fall of her shoulders, trying to mimic the motion to fill and empty his own lungs. When the room stops spinning, it’s all he can do to remain sitting upright, an odd numbness settling over him. Recovery Girl pats his hand sympathetically. 

“Don’t worry about the details, dear. We’ve got the pros looking into it so you’ll be back to feeling like yourself in no time. For now, you need to take it slow and rest.” She looks over her glasses on the last word, eyebrows raised in what he thinks is an odd mixture of amusement and long-suffering irritation. 

Shouta feels his shoulders curl up in guilt, although he’s not entirely sure why. 

He’s grateful for the knock that pulls the woman’s attention from him, and for the appearance of a familiar shade of yellow of his friend’s up-do. 

“Yo yo listeners,” Hizashi announces as he enters, accompanied with finger guns. (the entrance is somewhat more subdued than he was expecting, his friend’s smile strained). “How we feeling?”

The finger guns fall away as he shares a look with Recovery Girl; she shakes her head. Shouta is left wondering if he’s done something to disappoint them. Guilt claws uncomfortably in his chest. 

“Sounds like it’s time to get you home sweetie. Dear Hizashi is here to pick you up.” She regards him seriously, looking over her glasses again. “Now, do you think you can manage the walk, or do we need to get a chair?”

Shouta feels heat creep up his ears as he imagines his friend wheeling him through the campus; he thinks he would rather gut himself.

“I can walk,” he confirms quickly. He ignores their amused expressions as he musters up the energy to gather his things.

When they get back to the dorms—UA must have been busy over the Summer break because he does not remember these looming buildings being here before—Hizashi guides him back to the same familiar-but-not room as he’d woken up in this morning. He sets his bag down near the desk, feeling out of place and somewhat awkward for being in a room that’s not his- well, no, Hizashi said it was his, but it doesn’t feel like he belongs in it-

Hizashi lingers in the door, one hand resting on the handle.

His friend looks tired. “Look, Shou, I can’t watch you tonight so I’m just gonna have to trust you to stay put and not meddle in things too much.”

He feels indignation bubble up- he doesn’t- he doesn’t need to be supervised—

“I’m not a child,” he argues, trying his best not to pout. 

Hizashi gives him a withering stare. “No, you’re a teenager, and that’s nearly ten times worse.” 

“Well, then we’re partners in crime,” he retorts with a smirk. 

Amusement tugs at the corner of Hizashi’s mouth. “Taking me down with ya, ey bud?” Shouta bats his hand away as he ruffles his hair affectionately. 

“Damn right I am.” 

His friend lets out a laugh but the odd worried look doesn’t leave his eyes. That uncomfortable feeling in his chest stirs again, because he’s seen that look before and he doesn’t- that’s not-

“There’s something wrong, isn’t there?” he asks softly. 

Hizashi’s expression softens, turning more serious. “Yeah,” he says simply, honest, “But we’re working on getting you back to normal, so just hang in there a bit longer yeah?”

He can’t say he understands, but he nods anyway. 

“I- I want to help.” Because he does. He wants to help his friend with whatever is worrying him, and he gets the feeling that he’s the cause. 

Hizashi sighs, ruffling his hair again. 

“I know you do bud, but we can’t risk it with your head all over the place. The best thing you can do right now is wait for us pros to handle it.”

He is- he is a p- dammit— 

His head spins again as his thoughts scatter; he works his jaw in frustration because he just wants to know what’s going on—

Hizashi’s phone buzzes and he lets out another short sigh. “I’ve gotta go sorry Shou. If you need anything, head down to the common area and your class will help you out, yeah?”

The door clicks shut as his friend leaves.