Chapter Text
Shouto trudges slowly down the narrow footpath that hugs the busy road. Wind whips at his face, nipping viciously at the exposed skin peeking out from the thick red scarf that’s wrapped loosely around his neck. A light shiver runs through him, barely visible with the way his muscles are tightened and clenched below his jacket. He rarely relaxes anymore. Not even at home, in the perceived comfort of his own apartment.
He’s tried–listened to the relaxation videos Izuku sends on repeat until he’s all but memorised the words–but it never helps. He lays awake late into the night, half lidded eyes roaming the ceiling as he begs silently for sleep. And so, here he is, stumbling down the well worn path to the agency a good thirty minutes after he’s supposed to arrive for work.
The wind picks up around him, blowing a flurry of snow straight into his face and sending his scarf fluttering wildly. He splutters, bringing a gloved hand up to tug the runaway garment back around his neck. The snow is sharp and hard, like tiny little pellets of ice nipping at his skin. Not for the first time that morning, he wishes he owned a car so he could have driven into work instead of having to take the bus. Normally he doesn't mind. He likes the fifteen minute walk from the bus stop. But today he’s cold and miserable and definitely not enthusiastic about the commute.
The steps of the agency are coated in a thin layer of ice. He treads carefully over the surface, even though the built in spikes on the bottom of his boots keep him from slipping.
As he pushes open the large glass doors, a gust of wind rushes up behind him, sending a cloud of sparkling snow puffing through the front entryway. He brushes off the excess snow on his boots as the door falls shut behind him and hangs up his coat.
A row of hooks sit neatly along the wall, each occupied by a jacket except for the one on the far left. He’s the last to arrive. Which of course isn’t surprising, since he’s almost 45 minutes late, but a chill of apprehension pools in his stomach along with the frustration of having to walk through the cold.
There’s no point avoiding it further though, so he steps into the main office space where he is immediately met by light conversation. The chatter stills as he steps into the room.
Heads raise, taking in his disheveled sight as silence falls heavily.
The first to speak is Izuku, unsurprisingly.
“Shouto!” he calls, jumping to his feet so fast the desk chair skitters backwards across the carpeted floor. “I thought you might not make it in today since the weather’s so bad. I was starting to get worried since I hadn’t heard from you though. I texted but didn't get a response…”
Shouto gulps, guilt clawing at his insides. He pulls the phone out of his back pocket and flicks open the screen. Sure enough, there are several texts from Izuku along with a couple of missed calls. “Sorry, forgot to check my phone,” he mutters, shoving the device back into his pocket. Honestly, he doesn’t have the energy for any of this. He barely got more than two hours of sleep that night and the exhaustion pulling at his frame isn't doing much for his already abysmal mood. All he really wants is a cup of coffee and to sit at his desk and lose himself in the mound of paperwork that's built up over the past week.
Izuku visibly deflates at the dismissive response, but doesn’t press further, mainly because another figure is stomping towards the two of them.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Katsuki drawls. He stills in front of Shouto, lips pursed in an expression of distaste as he runs his eyes over the taller man. “Forget to set your alarm again, Halfie? Or do you have some new elaborate excuse for why you can’t seem to make it through that door earlier than half an hour late to your shift.”
“Kacchan,” Izuku cuts in. His eyes flash to Shouto, then back to the blond.
Shouto isn’t in the mood for this. He grumbles something unintelligible under his breath and trudges over to the little kitchen at the back of their office. Quietly, he fills one of the generic white mugs with coffee, dumping in a few teaspoons of chocolate powder and milk for good measure. Katsuki always scoffs at him for ruining the natural taste of the coffee with that fucking sugary crap, but Shouto stands by it.
He lingers as long as he can, spinning the teaspoon over and over through the hot liquid. He can feel Katsuki’s eyes boring into the back of his skull and he knows the other man is scowling without even turning around. Not having the energy to deal with Katsuki’s incessant yelling, he trails back to his own desk, cup in hand.
Long fingers wrap around the mug, seeking any tiny bit of warmth they can manage to steal from the hot surface. His eyes trace the computer screen, watching the little windows symbol flicker to life as it turns on. Work. Right. Now he actually has to work.
His eyes stray to the stack of reports next to the desktop. They are piled high, topped with the partially finished write up from a shoplifting incident last Monday which he absolutely has to finish by the end of today.
Sighing, he shifts the mug to the desk and grabs the report from the top of the pile. His notes are messy, handwriting smudged and hastily scrawled. Great. It will take half the time just to decipher the words before he even gets to typing it up.
He takes a sip of coffee and gets to work, but even then, it’s slow. Time drags by, tracked only by the slowly dwindling supply of coffee in his mug. By the time it’s empty, he’s only half way through the report–a report that should normally only take about half an hour to complete at most–and already he’s spent over an hour on it.
Frustrated, he grinds the heel of his palm against the desk, teeth gritted. He gnaws the inside of his cheek, working away at the little knob of bitten skin he’s been withering with his teeth over the past several days.
“Shouto?” The voice catches him off guard.
He sits up, knocking the top of his knee against the edge of the desk in his haste to look semi presentable. Which is hard considering he is half sprawled in his chair, but the intention is there.
“Mm?” he hums a greeting.
Ochako stands a few feet from the desk. Her hands twist together, conveying apprehension she’s clearly trying to hide. She shifts, shoulders tensing.
Shouto holds her gaze. He knows where this is going. Had expected it. But he wishes it didn’t have to go this way.
“So…” Ochako smiles. It’s a soft smile, filled with a deep compassion that makes Shouto’s heart ache with guilt.
“Yeah, I was late. I know.” He looks away, eyes falling to the floor. His fingers loop around the handle of his coffee mug, nails tapping against the ceramic.
Ochako sucks in a breath. She licks her lips, hesitating as she ponders how to respond. Or so Shouto assumes.
“Shouto, you’ve been late every day this week… It’s getting… well this can’t go on forever.”
“I know.” The words fall from his lips, sharp and bitter like drops of juice from a lemon. He swipes the tip of his tongue across his teeth as he considers the best response. The urge to argue is strong–to promise he’ll do better. That this is the last time. But he knows it isn't. A few simple words aren’t going to change the deteriorating work ethic he’s developed over the past year. It’s far too entrenched, like it’s leached into the farthest crevices of his being, hold so strong he might never be able to remove those claws. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to work. He knows how important it is, hates himself for letting his friends and coworkers down each time he’s late or messes up on paperwork. And he tries. He sets his alarm and tells himself this is the day things change, but somehow, he can’t seem to get through the front doors on time. It’s different when he’s on the field. Instincts take over and the tiredness disappears. But sometimes facing the day is more than he can handle.
“Look… I know you’re going through some shit.”
Shouto freezes. His fingers clench around the rim of the mug, scraping and scrabbling against the surface. He feels his shoulders tense, muscles tightening as apprehension pools in his stomach. “I’m not going through shit,” he snaps before he can bite back the words.
Ochako recoils. Her eyes widen, irises reflecting the light from the bulb just above Shouto’s desk. She watches him, brows furrowed and expression firm. “You might be struggling, but that doesn't give you the right to snap at us like that. Face it, Shouto. Your attendance isn’t great and you’re ‘sick’ all the time.” She emphasises the word with air quotes as she speaks, giving him a look that clearly conveys she knows there’s more going on. “You need to get help. Actual, real help, because you’re sort of handling things now, but that isn’t going to last, and at some point, someone’s going to get hurt.”
She meets his gaze, and in that moment, Shouto can feel the worry and desperation hovering in the air between them. He thinks she’s probably been talking to Izuku. They’re good friends after all. And they have every right to talk about Shouto because they’re right. He isn’t doing well, but he doesn’t know what he can do to make it better.
With a sigh, Ochako turns, shoulders deflating as she steps away from Shouto’s desk and over to the little kitchen area.
Shouto watches. A deep ache grows in his chest, icy fingers clawing through the flesh to encircle his heart in a tight, suffocating grip. He wants to be better. He never meant for this to happen. But no matter what he does. What he says. What he thinks. Nothing seems to penetrate the thick fog that encircles his world.
~*~
The remainder of the day drags by. Shouto finishes the report and submits it. It’s not his best work, inevitably full of spelling errors and run on sentences, but he’s beyond the point of caring. A deep ache tugs at the back of his eyes. His shoulders twinge, muscles protesting the clenched position they’ve been forced to uphold all day.
He waits until the last second to leave his desk, hoping that the delay will give his coworkers enough time to leave so he won’t have to speak to them on the way out.
Ochako has been avoiding him all day. She’s been buried in work, apparently making up the missed paperwork from a drug case they had handled last Friday. The day Shouto had called out sick last minute because he couldn’t dredge up the energy to drag himself out of bed.
Izuku had been understanding, sending Shouto a string of ‘get well’ texts, but Shouto knows patience is running thin. Not everyone is as understanding as Izuku, and even then, he still lied to his friend. It was unfair and selfish, but he’d done it anyway, swallowing the ensuing guilt and drowning himself in sleep as he watched the same stupid comfort movies on repeat for the millionth time.
Sometimes he gets like that, on really bad days. The days where his skin crawls with anxiety, like little tiny ants have taken up residence under his flesh. He showers until the hot water leaves his skin pink and scalded, but the feeling never truly goes away.
He spends those days lost, mind drowning in an endless fog that claws at the edges of his consciousness, making it impossible to initiate even the simplest of tasks.
Izuku once asked why he got sick so often, suggesting Shouto see a doctor, since it isn’t normal to be unwell so frequently.
Shouto had snapped at him, insisting he was fine and Izuku should mind his own business. He’ll never forget the hurt look in his friend’s wide eyes. That was months ago, and his words must have had a lasting impact, because now Izuku just nods sadly, or sends a little heart emoji whenever Shouto says he isn’t feeling well and can’t come into work. And Shouto pretends not to care, because he can’t care.
“Shouto!”
Speak of the devil.
Shouto freezes at the doorway, hand hovering above the hook ready to snatch his jacket from the wall.
Izuku stands before him, all rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. He’s excited. Eager. And Shouto knows instantly he’s about to crush that passion and dissolve the excitement from those bright eyes.
He pulls his jacket from the hook, stuffing his arms into the sleeves hurriedly as if he can somehow escape the forthcoming speech.
Izuku launches in, untroubled by Shouto’s apparent disinterest. “I almost missed you! You’re so sneaky. I still don’t know how you move so quickly.” He pauses long enough to breathe out a huff of air before continuing enthusiastically. “So, this Saturday’s your birthday! Still can’t believe you’re turning 27. Like. Whoa. It feels like just yesterday we were graduating.”
Shouto glances at Izuku and yes, he has those all too familiar puppy dog eyes, face alight with nostalgia. Shouto wishes he could share that enthusiasm. He knows he should respond, give some kind of answer to indicate he shares the sentiment, but he just can’t.
Unperturbed, Izuku continues in a rush. “So, me and Ochako were thinking we should go out! Cause, like, you never go out anymore. And we miss you. Shouto, it’s been like. Months. Actual months since we’ve hung out together.”
Shouto swallows. It’s true. And it’s not just a result of a busy lifestyle or complicated schedules. No. Because every time Izuku or Ochako text him asking to hang out at the bar after work or go to a new movie, he comes up with some kind of an excuse not to go. Because he just can’t. He can’t do it. He misses them. He really, truly does. But the thought of dragging himself out of the house to spend time in public with other people makes his skin crawl and his chest ache. So he cancels every time. Comes up with some kind of lame excuse not to go. And they buy it. Or at least, they did.
“Sooo…” Izuku is blinking at him, head tilted slightly to the side as his eyes trace Shouto’s face.
“So, what?” The words come out snappier than Shouto intends and he cringes as Izuku’s features fall.
“Shouto… it’s your birthday. Please. Please come out with us. It’ll be fun. Really really fun. And we don’t even have to stay out late, but you have to come.” He gazes into Shouto’s eyes, expression dripping with sincerity and that inherent sense of empathy Shouto can’t quite get over even though he’s known Izuku for years now.
And he can’t. He just can’t say no to that face. Maybe that’s why Izuku cornered him in person to ask. Maybe this is all some kind of elaborate plan to get him to agree. Because Izuku knows he’s good at persuading people. And he knows that alluring effect works best in person.
He swallows. Takes a breath. Coughs lightly to clear the sudden tightness in his throat. Because he’s going to do this. He’s giving in. And he’s going to spend his Saturday night at some bar listening to his friends screech and dance in the way they always do once they’ve downed a few too many drinks.
“Okay.”
Izuku beams. Full on beams at him. “Yes! You won’t regret it. It’s gonna be so fun I swear!”
Shouto nods. He tunes out the excited rambling, instead focussing on zipping up his jacket and dragging his black gloves over his bare hands.
Outside, the wind still howls, tossing up flurries of snow in every direction. A shiver runs through him, though he isn’t sure if it’s from the cold or from the unsettling knowledge that in a few short days he will be squished in a loud and overcrowded bar against his will.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and stomps out of the building, letting the door fall shut behind him. He sees Katsuki getting into his car and the two lock eyes for a moment.
Katsuki scoffs, lips pulling back in a snarl of annoyance. Ochako inevitably told him about the conversation she had with Shouto. He saw them talking during lunch. And Katsuki knows. He knows more than Shouto would like to admit even to himself. It’s not like he’s ever told him anything, but Katsuki’s smart. He doesn’t fall for any of the bullshit excuses Shouto’s been throwing at them for the past year. He doesn’t now and he never has.
Shouto’s the first to break eye contact, lifting a hand in farewell.
Katsuki slams the door to his car a little too forcefully, sending snow spraying from the roof.
“See you tomorrow!” Izuku calls after him.
Shouto gives a soft hum of response, but the sound is lost to the wind and he doesn’t have the energy to project his voice over the howling. He makes his way down the little path, following the same route he took that morning. His feet stomp through banks of snow, but his mind wanders, lost in the familiar blanket of fog that swells to swallow him into its depths. It’s comforting in a sense. Perhaps because it’s so familiar. And safe. Because when he drifts, he doesn’t have to think. And he likes that. Thinking scares him, so it’s better to keep away and lose himself to the mist.
The inside of the bus is warm–a startling shock from the icy weather outside. The driver greets him and Shouto simply nods, showing her the bus pass tucked into the little pocket of his wallet and trudging his way to the back of the vehicle.
He likes to sit right at the back–specifically the seat tucked on the far left of the final row. From there he can stare out at the world. Watch the roads and buildings flash by as he rests his weary head against the window. Its routine. Familiar. Because he likes routine. Routine keeps him safe.
After a forty-minute drive, he steps out of the bus and trudges up the steps to his apartment building. His flat is on the 7th floor, so he takes the stairs. He doesn’t like elevators. They’re too enclosed and he can never predict who will dart in with him at the last second. So even though his legs ache at the prospect of dragging himself up seven flights, he takes the stairs just like he always does.
His apartment is cold and dark. He kicks off his boots and steps inside, not even bothering to flick on the light. He’s exhausted and he knows the added brightness won’t touch the frigid loneliness of the room. It’s cold and dark and that’s how he likes it. It helps the fog drag him down, feeding it and allowing it to grow huge and vast. Enough that it engulfs his entire being. Then Shouto doesn’t have to think.
He glances once at the fridge, grimacing as his stomach turns over uncomfortably at the thought of food. It’s too much effort anyway, he concedes. He’ll just go to bed. He can eat in the morning.
His bedroom is small, tucked at the far end of his apartment. He sheds his hero costume and tugs on pyjamas. The wooden floor is cold against his bare feet, but he barely registers the sensation, too caught up in the endless swirls of mist gnawing at his mind.
He crawls into bed and tugs the blankets right up to his chest, but even that does nothing to curb the overwhelming chill gnawing at his bones. Deep down, he knows this isn’t the kind of cold physical objects can fix. No amount of blankets or artificial heating can touch that aching chill. Because its buried deep within him. Gnawing away at his bones. And the truth is, he doesn’t really want it to leave. The cold is good. Like the fog. It keeps him safe and alert and numb so he doesn’t have to feel. He just drifts. Alone in the dark. And it’s good because nothing can touch him there. Nothing at all.