What It Means to Be Made of Stardust
â cw: child abuse, sa, mental illness
hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic
Swaddled in the sheets your mother was in last night, you hide. Itâs full in the apartment. The air mattress is too soft, it needs to be pumped with air, but you donât know how.
When you first woke up, you wandered all throughout the living room, the kitchenette, the bathroom, even your fatherâs bedroom. You opened closets. The apartment filled up, and up, and up.
There was no breakfast sitting on the table or coffee being made. Your motherâs shoes were gone. That was five hours ago. You stuff the blankets in your mouth, it hurts to breathe.
Hawks giggles like a schoolgirl as he shoves you away from the door of some janitorial closet. To your glee, you manage to squeeze through just as he slams it shut. He screams when he sees youâve followed him inside, crashes into a shelf full of spray bottles and cardboard boxes.
âAhah, donât hurt me!â
The grin on your face burns. Youâre supposed to hit him back, tickle him or something, but you canât bring yourself to touch him. Youâll throw up, start squealing, or piss yourself, maybe. You donât want to find out.
Hawks peeks out from the arms covering his face, his eyes glimmering. Itâs just the two of you surrounded by mops, squeegees, brooms, and dustpans. Shelves line the walls, a mop sink in one corner with a hose. You have the idea to spray him with it but that might be taking it a bit too far.
âYouâre not gonna get revenge?â Hawks snickers, pulling your attention back to him and his teasing. âGuess you canât really do much anyway, you got twig armsââ
You smack him on the shoulder. âAh, shutââ
â Ahhh, shut up !â He starts giggling again. He pitches his voice high and squeaky, waves his hands in the air. â Shut up, stop it, Hawks !â
âShutââ You groan. Your face is really on fire now. âWhatever!â
You kick him in the shin. He drops to his knees, clutching his leg, his laughter ceasing.
âOh, shut up, Hawks. That didnât hurt.â
âSo mean to me! I just had an injury there, yâknow.â He rubs his shin. âOwie.â
You chew on your lip. You lean down with an apology on your tongue, but youâre bonked on the head instead.
âTelling me that clearly isnât working.â
Your hands slap against your face, rushing to hide yourself away. Heâs such a fucking prick. His laugh is like a melody.
âSorry, sorry.â Hands wrap around your wrists. His hands. He tugs them away from you and you can do nothing to resist. âIâll stop.â
You can barely feel your fingers with how much theyâre tingling. Your heart literally feels like itâs in your throat. He could kill you right now and you would be too caught up in all this to even care.
His hands remain around your wrists, warm, fantastical. You stare at your feet, somewhere between a poorly contained smile and a bashful frown.
âYouâre always so shy with me.â He leans in to try and catch you with his grin. He probably doesnât know that that just makes it harder for you to look at him. âWhy?â
He releases one of your wrists to pinch your side. You yelp, jump away from him, but he just yanks you right back with a laugh. Heâs close enough that you could touch his shoulders or chest if you wanted. You could hug him, kiss him.
You want to hug him so badly. You want him to hug you. You want to be hugged.
You can also see that he has a bit of a snaggle tooth, a pointy canine thatâs slightly pushed out from the rest. You never saw that in all the official posts or fan accounts youâve poured over.
He has a little snaggle tooth and youâre the only one that knows.
âI didnât know you could make noises like that,â Hawks says, grinning, always so happy with himself.
âWhat the hell does that even mean?â You rub your side with your free hand, trying to look angry. He knows you arenât. He always knows. âIâm â I need to go finish my offboarding stuff. Okay?â
You pull away from him, free your wrist from his grasp, push down your disappointment. He sighs dramatically.
âOkaaay. Have fun. My managerâs probably looking for me by now, anyway.â
You turn away and turn the door handle only for it to jam. You try it again. Itâs locked from the inside.
You fumble to unlock the handle and slip out of the closet.
An old man sits at your new desk while you stare at him from beneath your freshly cleaned covers. He has sharp eyes, the kind that make you think he doesnât like much of anything, but you know him better than that. His chin has that dark stubble he always has, theyâre tendrils of an ancient plant poking out of his skin. His hair is black like fat vines dipped in oil, it drapes and drips down his shoulders in the same way. If you cut him open all youâd see is branches, brittle black branches, his skin would have so many rings on the inside thereâd be no rings at all. He looks at you and heâs as still as the trees heâs made of. His teeth are made of pale mushrooms, his eyes fuzzy with black mold.
Aizawa stands from the desk chair and goes to turn off the lights.
Itâs worse in the dark. He mixes into it. The chair squeaks as he sits back down. When youâre peering into the darkness like this your eyes feel like moons.
Hawks has soft curls in his hair. You brush them back from his forehead as he naps. His breath fans against your neck.
âYouâre having trouble sleeping.â The frown on your face deepens. Aizawa has a habit of saying things you donât want to hear. âTry closing your eyes instead of glaring at me.â
âThe staple was an accident.â
Itâs too dark to see what heâs doing but he doesnât respond. Itâs a dry sort of silence.
âCan you at least turn the lights back on?â
The chair squeaks again and the bedroom door is opened. The hallway of Aizawaâs home is filled with light, it spills into this guest room and turns the carpet yellow. You sit up. Heâs left the room, the door ajar, in silence.
You close your fingers around the covers, rub against the fabric. Spit gathers in your open mouth.
He returns a couple moments later. He lumbers towards you and your blankets, the ceiling brushing the top of his head. Smaller and smaller you become the closer he gets; you keel over. Youâre in a box. He plugs a simple, little nightlight with a fabric lampshade into the wall.
It glows by his cradling hands as he fidgets with it and the outlet. All Might is embroidered on the front. Heâs smiling and flexing his muscles.
âIs that better?â Aizawa asks, the side of his face lit by the nightlight. His skin writhes and wriggles with something beneath. His eyes narrow. âI thought you were afraid of the dark.â
The two of you end up in his living room, sitting on his couch, both of you with glasses of water. You make a point to sit on the opposite end of the couch from him. He takes a sip from his glass, flipping through channels on his TV. A late night talk show, the news, some kind of ad for drain cleaner.
âWhat do you watch?â He asks, and you curl up a little more.
âNever really watched TV.â
He grunts. You watch his slow blinks at the screen as he considers. He has black cat slippers on with bright yellow eyes, their soles worn.
âDo you like animals?â
You shrug. âI guess.â
His thumb presses the remote again, again, and again. A rather tragic moment in a drama, more news, a documentary on the deep sea. He puts the remote down on the coffee table. The narrator is going over gulper eels.
Aizawa nods at your untouched glass. Itâs crystal clear, the water laps at the lip of the cup like a lake. You tilt the water back and forth, watch it move. Aizawa reaches over and grasps your cup by the top, all the while watching the documentary. You slowly put it down. He lets go. You fidget with your fingers instead.
Aizawaâs living room isnât what you imagined; he has childrenâs toys littered on the floor next to a rather tall, beige cat tower for his cat that you havenât seen yet. His name is Kitty. You get the feeling he doesnât like you (animals know bad people) but Aizawa said heâs just a bit of a diva.
Thereâs an open closet that contains a stacked washing machine and dryer with a litter box stuffed in there, somehow, and there are shelves on the walls lined with little trinkets, books, gifts, and pictures. Shoes are left in a cluttered heap by his front door. His boots, sneakers, his second pair of sneakers, your shoes. Little sandals and little crocs and little ballerina flats. His fridge has the ripped out page of a coloring book stuck to the door with magnets, an artsy flamingo all scribbled in with the rainbow.
You stick out in his home in a different way than Hawksâ. Hawksâ place is empty of him aside from certain drawers, his fridge, his closet, and the boots he leaves by his front door. Everything is spick and span, every expensive table, counter, and shelf left lonely. He has rooms he never goes in. Your clothes on his designer carpets make everything dreamy. Your school bag on his couch, his soft towels in your hands and wrapped around you. Hawks said you brought life to the place, filled up the spots he couldnât.
Aizawaâs home is full. Thereâs no room for you left. His home smells like nothing in particular and he has a TV.
An angler fish stares at you from the screen. Itâs ugly, somewhere between violet and shit brown with rows of needle teeth that gnarl in different directions. It looks like it was born with cataracts.
âIâm sorry for frightening you. I should have told you I was getting the nightlight.â
You would turn to look at Aizawa, to speak with him normally and politely, but something tells you to keep staring at the fish.
âYou didnât frighten me.â
âIâm sorry for making you uncomfortable,â he corrects. You can almost see his dry expression.
âItâs fine.â You donât have the energy to argue. âSorry.â
You have nothing to be sorry about. Itâs his own fault, sticking his nose in your business.
The angler fish has found a mate. The mate is smaller, so much smaller. It looks more like a parasite when it latches onto the bigger one. It turns out that not only does it look like a parasite, it acts like one, too.
You finally manage to glance at Aizawa. Heâs lounging comfortably on his side of the couch, an arm draped over the back while he holds his half-finished water, eyes squinted at the fish.
âIâve worked with a lot of students. There have been plenty that caused more trouble. I can think of several in your class.â He sets his glass down on the coffee table. âYouâre okay. Youâre a good kid.â
A good kid. Hawks says that a lot, how youâre so smart, so kind.
âIf I was a good kid I wouldnât be here right now.â
Aizawa sighs. The narrator is talking about the dumbo octopus. It floats around stupidly on screen. Aizawa doesnât want to tell you he thinks youâre crazy.
At this moment, sitting on your teacherâs couch late at night because all the adults around you have decided you just canât be alone anymore, you get deja vu. Youâve been here before, or perhaps youâre here but sitting a little to the left, or to the right. Your hands are heavier or lighter. Maybe you drank the water or you spilled it, or both. Youâre on top of your teacher or beneath.
His eyes are seedy, beady, black, moldy. Heâs staring at you from the corner of his eye, heâs not focused on the documentary, he never was.
A little voice calls from the hall. Your head snaps in its direction.
Itâs a child. Her long, silver hair is braided back in loose pigtails. Sheâs wearing matching pajamas, an oversized shirt and shorts with a unicorn pattern. Itâs Eri, taller than last you saw her, a little bit older. How old is she now? Nine? Ten? When you were that old, you were cleaning up your dadâs vomit, not trembling in unicorn pajamas. She looks between you and your teacher.
âDid you have another nightmare?â Aizawa asks gruffly, standing from the couch. He walks over and kneels in front of her. âMy student was having trouble sleeping, too. Do you want to make bubbles?â
Aizawa fucks her. You shut your eyes, grit your teeth. People call those things handlebars. He probably does, too. You grab your arm and press your nails into your skin.
You open your eyes. The two of them are holding their breath, cheeks puffed out. Aizawa pokes his fat cheek. Eri giggles. He blows out the bubble and so does she. They repeat, and repeat, and repeat, until Eri isnât shaking anymore.
âCan I get a book?â She whispers, like Aizawa would break if she spoke too loudly. Eri hazards a glance at you and doesnât like what she sees. Youâve never really spoken to her, but that shouldnât be what makes her shoulders shrink. Maybe it's the staples.
âOf course.â Aizawa stands back up as she goes to fetch her book. He sits back down on the couch. Heâs back to staring at you. âWeâll return to this conversation once I get Eri back to bed.â
You swallow. The narrator drones on and on. You have the urge to grab the TV remote and turn it off, but you donât. You never do much of anything, do you?
Eri returns and sits next to Aizawa. She sits criss-cross, her knee touching his, reading her little novel and thumbing the pages. You stare at her shorts and then rip your eyes away. You stare at her tiny body next to his, how heâs so much bigger and taller. Aizawa and her are visceral.
He should be beating her. He should be pulling her up by the hair and yelling in her face, asking her why sheâs not in bed, telling her to shut the fuck up. He should be bashing her face into the wall while she screams at him to stop. He should be holding her down against the floor and telling her she canât do anything to stop it. She should be picking glass out of her leg. Your heart races.
But sheâs leaning against him and reading and heâs watching TV. You swallow, stare at where theyâre touching. Is he hard?
Eri has the smallest nose. She nibbles on her bottom lip, focused on the page, her eyes are still red from what must have been tears. She isnât reading. She starts rocking back and forth a little.
Unicorn pajamas. Get a fucking grip.
Sheâs worse at breakfast. Aizawa tells you she has PTSD, go figure, and to just let him deal with her. You woke up on the couch with a blanket over you. Aizawa is making star shaped pancakes with Eri while you sit at the table. A bowl of strawberries, painkillers, and a fork has been set in front of you. You donât deserve to eat them.
Aizawa touches her. He pets her head, preens her hair, pinches her cheek, pats her back.
Aizawaâs dinner table is small, more of a desk. It has a vase of LEGO flowers in the middle next to a wilting dandelion in a mug. He has placemats, a total of four laid out on the table, most of them fabric with solid color or stripes. Thereâs one thatâs plastic, pastel pink, with cute drawings of fruits.
You finally see Kitty, too. Heâs eating from a metal bowl in the kitchen. You watch him munch away. Heâs all black and rather thin, his shoulder blades protruding sharply from his back. Aizawa said heâs just an old man.
âGood job. Can you go put that in the sink?â
The smell of pancakes is sweet and delicate. You can kind of hear them sizzling. Through the kitchen windows are dark, fleshy gray clouds. Eri looks like sheâs having a good time, lost in the joy of pancakes. You sit and watch them.
When they sit down, the star pancakes steaming on your plate, you canât bear to eat them. Aizawa asks you if you donât like pancakes. They have maple syrup drizzled on top. Thereâs a slice of butter melting in the middle. Eri eats them with the biggest smile on her face. She was better last night.
The pancakes are more beautiful than anything you know. Aizawa puts your fork in your hand and, grim as the windows, orders you to eat.
Hound Dog licks his lips. A clipboard with a questionnaire is sitting on your lap, a pen in hand, and you canât read.
The words make sense. They do, truly, you can say each individual word in your head, but when you try to string them together into a sentence everything washes away. You reread the first question. What the hell.
The bell rings and you slap your hands over your ears. Your classmatesâ burst into chatter is secondary to the ringing that, now, only you can hear. It bounces around your skull, threatens to burst your eardrums. Denki gives you a weird look as he passes your desk. He hasnât spoken to you today.Â
You squeeze your eyes shut, hunker down, rock slightly in your chair. Itâs pulsing. You can feel your head squelch and pulsate and that booming ring pop every staple. Your eyes are going to explode out of their sockets and onto the table.
The meaningless lunch table conversations have less substance than usual today. You smile.
Everyone looks at you. Mina animatedly nods her head. Seroâs chopsticks poke at his noodles. Kirishima agrees with an odd laugh.
âItâs annoying,â Bakugo grumbles. âMy sneakers got soaked this morning.â
âYeah, saw you with the hair dryer earlier. You looked pretty stupid.â
âAh, shut up, Dunceface.â
âHawks?â You stutter, face scrunched up at Mina. âHeâs fine. Probably, I donât know, I havenât really seen him.â
Your hands donât look like your own. Minaâs face is⌠well, itâs Mina, but youâre not supposed to be here.
âOh. Huh. You guys donât talk as much?â
âNo, heââ you smile. âWhat?â
Aizawaâs car idles outside of Eriâs elementary school. Youâre sitting in the front passengerâs seat, legs crossed, nails digging into each other. He went to go get her because of the downpour. Thereâs so many kids hiding from the rain beneath trees and umbrellas, their parents running up to them. Thereâs a trash bag stuffed with some of your clothes sitting in the trunk. Aizawa hasnât told you whether theyâve decided to expel you yet or not, but he did tell you to start bringing your things over. Denki asked you if you were finally cleaning your room and you shoved him to the floor.
Aizawaâs holding Eriâs hand and shielding her from the rain with a black umbrella. He slouches a little so that she can reach his hand. He opens the door for her and she crawls into the backseat wearing frog rain boots.
The drive to Eriâs therapist is long. She babbles about her classes and a friend she made, mentions that the lunch Aizawa made her was really good. He nods along, his expression as plain as always. Hawks has the softest smile whenever you talk.
After he drops her off at what looks to be an office building, he takes the two of you further into the city. Sheâs only going to be in therapy for a little over an hour, so he wants to get some food with you. Itâs then that you realize, to your horror and elation, that youâre in Fukuoka. Aizawa takes you to a KFC.
âLooking for somebody?â He says, as you crane your head up to the sky. The two of you are sitting outside, chicken legs in hand, licking them clean. Your fingers are greasy with oil. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
âYouâre terrible at lying.â
You nibble at the bone in your hand. âMaybe I just act that way so that you think Iâm a bad liar, but Iâm actually not.â
Aizawa sets a clean leg down and picks up a fresh one. âHow clever.â
âThe rain doesnât bother you?â
âItâs hardly even sprinkling.â
You shrug. Passersby show little interest in the two of you; youâre wearing your favorite hoodie and refuse to take the hood off. With it on, youâre just a high schooler out with their Dad.
Is that what people see when they look at you? None of them know. To them, none of this has happened and you donât exist. If you were them, you would be walking your dog in the afternoon with earbuds in instead of whatever this is.
How can they do that? Itâs so very hard to own a dog. You have to get a job that pays well enough for an apartment, furniture, food, electricity, water, internet, phone bill, the dog itself, vet appointments, dog food, toys, food and water bowls, and grooming. In order to get that job, you need an education, experience, a resume, references, social skills, presentable clothes, transportation, an email and phone number. On top of that, you need the time to play with the dog, feed it, and walk it. You have to have the energy to do that, the time management skills, the freedom. You have to wake up, make yourself breakfast, eat breakfast, brush your teeth, change into work clothes, feed the dog, go to work, come back home, shower, make dinner, eat dinner, feed the dog, brush your teeth, take the dog for a walk, clean your home, do the laundry, play with the dog. How do people own dogs with responsibility that immense and constant?
âIâm sorry Iâve been put with you guys.â
Aizawa looks up from his food and stops chewing. He looks a little silly with the grease on his chin. He swallows.
âI offered. Donât worry about it.â
Heâs right. He did offer, and this whole thing is kind of his fault anyway.
But if he didnât call, if he just left you alone like everybody else, if he just let you deal with it like you have with every other hurt youâve been given, would Dad still be here?
Maybe the two of you could have made up. Itâs happened before, not perfectly, but youâve said sorry and heâs sighed and nodded and cracked a beer open. Once, you were sitting at the dinner table and sipping miso soup. It was one in the morning; you had just gotten back from the park because it was too cold to sleep. Your Dad came out of his room, got water, and stood behind you. He sighed. He patted you on the back. His hands were thick and old and you realized his hands were warm.
It was never that serious, anyway. You got hurt and shit sucked but you never ended up in the hospital. You never had your consciousness dripping out your nose. If the police hadnât come, if Aizawa hadnât called, then you wouldâve just left and walked to a grocery store and looked at the colorful packaging of instant noodles. You wouldâve cried a little, hid in a bathroom or two, then made it back to campus, somehow. Dad would call you and you would yell at each other until you couldnât anymore.
But, no, youâre sitting outside a KFC in the city. Your teacherâs in front of you, a thousand strangers talking, walking, and holding hands, and thereâs no good reason as to why.
âIs my Dadâs trial soon?â
âAbout a month from now, I believe.â
He has a month. The apartment and all of his stuff wonât be there for much longer. All his things will go to a storage unit and then into auction and somebody, somewhere, will have a bathroom rug with bloodstains. Somebody else will move in and the holes punched into the walls will knock down their rent.
âYou seem to be handling that relatively well.â
You wipe your hands on a napkin, crinkle it between your fingers.
âItâs whatever. Was gonna happen eventually.â A fat drop of rain lands on your nose. You lick it when it travels to your lips. Dad never got food you liked but the point is when he ordered takeout, there was a portion for you. âProbably.â
Aizawaâs chest rises and falls with yet another deep sigh. Itâs like every word that leaves your mouth exasperates him.
âIâm trying to tell you Iâm worried.â
âWell, Iâm good â different, with this sort of thing.â
Aizawa blinks lazily at you. His lips twitch when you roll your eyes.
âYeahââ You freeze. A red feather darts between footfall and swinging purses, a little worker drone, listening and watching. âUuuhhh.â
You drag your eyes to the roofs high above you. There are sparkling skyscrapers and balky brick buildings that refuse to be demolished; youâre searching for a silhouette peering over their ledges, or perhaps dangling legs. There are none.
You release a shaky breath.
But Aizawa tilts his head up anyway. Thereâs nothing there, really, there isnât. Still, you grip the edge of your seat. Your fingers worm around somewhere beneath.
He always knows where you are in the apartment.
You lower your head, tell off the shakes. You yearn. You want people backwards. Aizawaâs staring at you.
âIs everything okay?â
âYep. Sorry. Are you done?â
You blink a lot and stare at the table but not really. The issue with you is that youâre just like Hawks.
Aizawa throws your trash away for you and the two of you pick up Eri. Aizawa spends some time speaking with the therapist. You wonder if, had your parents done all the things he does, would you have turned out differently? Would you be pretty the way Mina is? Would you fall asleep when youâre tired? Would your mom give your classmates fried chicken? But you want to lick blood off of your arm, you want somebody to choke you.
There are cicadas outside.
Itâs a constant buzz. Buzz, buzz, buzz. That. Theyâre somewhere outside in the black.
Youâre on Aizawaâs phone. Your eyes hurt. The screen is too bright but you canât turn it any lower. Youâre reading through blogs and forums.
Is this what true love feels like?
Top 10 Ways to Know if a Guy Likes You!
Advice on ten year age gap :/ thanks.
Well, you feel like you're floating around Hawks, too. He winks at you and tries to make you laugh and calls you cute. Yours and his is seven, but a lotta people are saying ten is okay, so seven shouldnât be a big deal.
He has to like you with the way he looks at you. He looks so happy, his eyes twinkle, his cheeks dimple. Itâs hypnotic.
Why someone like you makes somebody like him look anything like that, you havenât the slightest clue. Itâs so bizarre that you dare to think that maybe youâre not someone like you, not you, youâre some other you that heâs hallucinating from every stretch youâve let him see and cry youâve let him hear. Youâre wonderful in his eyes. You see her in the joy there.
She likes energy drinks and going fast, likes his jokes and every other word that comes out of his mouth. She doesnât like her Dad, she cries in bathroom stalls because of him, comes into patrol shy and quiet because of him. She doesnât like other people, she doesnât seem to get what it is thatâs supposed to hold them together, but heâs the same and he can tell she knows that and she knows that he knows because when their tongues touch they feel. Sheâs something bittersweet, a melancholy candy.
You donât know what youâre like. Youâre proving to yourself youâre better than the rest of the garbage lying in your living room by being better, best, bestest. Other than that, you just got here. Thatâs all you were meant to do. All you wanted was out and away but now that you got there (here?) you have nowhere else to go. You never thought youâd make it or is it that ten years later, you still canât imagine life any different? You could wear glossy pumps and eat croissants if you really wanted to. You donât. You lie with garbage.
You roll out of bed and walk out of Aizawaâs guest room. Thereâs running water in the hallway bathroom. Itâs something like one in the morning. Kitty watches you from the couch as you walk through the front door. You almost stepped on a little rain boot getting your sneakers on. I fucking hate her.
The cicadas are just as loud out here as they were in there. You run down Aizawaâs neighborhood street and just keep running. This is dumb. But heâs looking, watching you from the dark, always rooted in place, leering â
And he talks too much. You never wouldâve thought to describe your teacher that way, but itâs true. He looks you in the eye and asks you if youâve taken your meds, if you slept well on the couch, if youâre hungry and want to get KFC.
Thereâs a playground surrounded by a chain fence just across the street youâre on. You jog across the asphalt and climb the fence, land on wood chips and rubber. Itâs quiet except for the occasional car. You lay down on the slide, eyes heavy, legs burning.
Eri looks happy, not always, but often. She isnât like you. Itâs obvious by the way she babbles to Aizawa. That, and she stays.
Thereâs something inherently wrong with you. Something from birth, from conception. That or something happened to you along the way, you got ruined by that apartment.
It doesnât matter. Youâve been over this, had these thoughts, sneered at Midoriya enough. Itâs nobodyâs fault but yours and had you killed yourself, this wouldnât be happening. You were just too scared.
Youâre always too scared.
A flashlight sears through your eyes. Your hands come rushing up to cover your face and you curl into a ball, cursing.
You sit up and manage a squint at the light. Itâs Aizawa. Heâs standing in his pajamas at the foot of the slide.
âThatâs what I should be saying. Get up.â
âHow â I â Iâll just come back in the morning, okay?â
âThatâs not the point. Itâs late. Get up.â
You donât budge. Aizawa clicks the flashlight off. You twitch in the slide, fingernails wedging themselves into the cracks of the plastic.
âOkay, so weâre doing this.â He sits down on the mulch at your feet, slowly, like heâs old. It strikes you that he sort of is. âLet's talk about it.â
âCan you not be so dramatic?â You spit, darting your eyes around the playground and to your teacher below you. âI mean, not that Iâm trying to talk, but canât you just sit on, like â the swingset?â
He thinks for a moment. âIâll go if you sit there with me.â
âJeez,â you mutter. âJust get up.â
The swing set is old. It creaks a little when Aizawa sits on it. You push around a little on yours, kick your feet at the dirt. You never learned how to swing. Your eyes wander around the playground.
âCan you tell me why you ran out of the house?â
Your attention snaps back to your teacher. He hangs loosely in his swing, legs too long to do much else but let him linger over the soil.
âRight. So you just walked, then? Or skipped?â
You roll your eyes. âI walked.â
âOkay, then can you tell me why you walked out of the house?â
âCan we just pretend this didnât happen? Iâve literally only spent like five minutes out here.â
âItâs more like nine minutes and thirty-something seconds. And, answer the question.â
You wrinkle your nose. âYou totally made that up.â
Your throat always starts constricting in conversations like these. You keep taking deep breaths but it gives momentary relief. Still, you huff, armpits slick with sweat.
You dig the toe of your shoe into the ground, scrape, doodle.
âItâs nothing important,â you mumble. Aizawa turns his head to you.
âSo, something is going on.â
The twisting and turning in your stomach gets worse and worse.
âYou can be honest with me. Does it have to do with your father or the recent situation?â
You roll the chains of the swing between your fingers. Theyâre rough, porous, they catch on your calloused palms.
âNo. I donât know why I said that. Iâm just tired.â
Irreversible. Youâre the food in the fridge you hope to eat, the food thatâs somehow rotted in the time you spent away. You cut off the bad parts and eat anyway but that doesnât change anything, itâs still too late, you still get sick, itâs still rotten. You remember this and your face warms, you grit your teeth, curl into yourself.
âItâs very obvious to me that something is bothering you,â Aizawa says softly. âConcerning me, specifically, and Iâd like to know what that is so that I can make you more comfortable.â
âThereâs nothing. I just ran out because I was mad. Or, you know what, maybe I had a PTSD attack or something. Maybe I hallucinated you were gonna rape me. You can pick whichever one makes the most sense to you.â
The words punch through the air and hang there in such a way that even you canât help but grimace. Aizawa, meanwhile, has gone exceptionally quiet. No grumbling, no scoffs, not even the usual sigh he breathes every time you fall into his line of sight.
âOh my God, itâs a fucking joke.â
The cicadas have long since been drowned out by your heartbeat. You look over at Aizawa and heâs looking right back. Your face twists.
âWhat?â You scoff, wrenching yourself right back to your shoes and the dirt. âCan you stop making this weird?â
He takes a breath that seems to reanimate him.
âIâve been sitting with you while you sleep because Hound Dog told me to keep line of sight. Itâs just a precaution taken because weâre worried you might hurt yourself again.â Aizawa stands from the swing. It creaks, long, hurt. âLet's head back.â
Aizawa lets you sleep on the couch instead of the guest room. You close your eyes and listen to the sounds he makes crawling about the house.
