A Silent Kind of Strength

Chapter 9

If losing consciousness was like falling, waking up was like sinking. Like the realm of deep sleep he was trapped in was a mirror land he had tripped into, and he had to wait for someone to flip the glass over so he could slip back through the silver mire he was stuck in.

The first sensation he felt as he entered the in-between space of awake and not was warmth. It was never warm when he went to bed during the fall and winter. He kept the heater turned to the lowest setting he could stand in an effort to save his mom some money. So the fact that his toes weren't icicles was deeply confusing.

Then he noticed the smell. Instead of the smell of emptiness, of dust and faint must that never quite left no matter how much he cleaned, there was cinnamon and strawberries, and underlying tang of motor oil and metal. It should probably smell gross but it wasn't.

He listened lazily to the soft almost wave like sound that was originating from somewhere near his shoulder. Just enjoying how rithmic and even it was. Calm. After a while he realized his face was a bit itchy. He started to lift his hand to scratch, but it felt weighed down. 

Bleary green eyes cracked open. He was a man of science. And his curiosity was piqued at his weirdly heavy hand. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. Honestly. He felt so drained, like that time he pulled 3 all nighters in a row to finish his hearing aids.

Eventually green eyes drifted downwards from an unfamiliar ceiling and landed on long pale fingers that were wrapped gently around his own calloused digits. He followed the fingers to the hand, then arm, then up and up until he got to the mass of purple fluff propped up on the edge of an ugly red couch. An ugly red couch he was apparently laying on.

Beyond the floofy indigo haze he could make out another form sprawled on a pile of pillows on the floor. His fingers twitched as he was distracted by a small snore. Obviously originating from the violet cloud. His gaze drifted back from where it had wandered around the blurry room. (Living room. Tv in the center. Coffee table pushed to the side. A couple of mismatched armchairs. Shelves stuffed full of books and manuals.) His other hand lifting to scratch at the thing taped to his face.

His bleary brain finally placed the distracting fuzz. "Shinso?" He slurred through a yawn. Then flinched as his friend's head immediately snapped up. "Izuku! You're awake!" Green eyes blinked in confusion. "Yeah?"

The smaller boy's heart dropped when he noticed the tears in his friend's eyes. "Shin-"

"Thank the gods. Izuku. You scared all nine circles of hell right out of us." Suddenly his blurry memories came back in a flood of disjointed sensations. He felt sick. Overwhelmed. They knew. He spent his whole life hiding how bad things were at school but now his friends, his wonderful friends, knew how useless he was. 

Stupid, weak Deku. All those years of self defense classes and you still can't protect yourself. 

He felt finger brushing his cheek and he looked back at Shinso. Who was wiping his tears away. Why was he crying. Lame.