Locked In The Mind-Scape

#41- fog coated windows

~day 180~
Friday

Hitoshi placed himself down near his father, legs crossed as he stared up, a vacant look in his eyes. His posture stood still, slouched over himself; even in the chair by the front of the teacher desk. "I'm going to call you dad right now. And thats new, but it feels like this is just a conversation I shouldn't have to my teacher, kinda caregiver person. So, dad, for now." He was blunt and honest, not feeling much in the moment beyond frustration and determination to make something happen. To cause progression in some sort of light.

What else could he change? The way the world spun? The length from the earth to the sun? Nothing much was ever in his control. But, somehow, this was.

The office was a cluttered environment, papers strewn across the desk like fallen leaves, a faint smell of coffee mingling with the scent of old school books that lined the shelves. The adult was wearing his usual hero suit, still, not having had the chance to change quite yet.

Aizawa hummed, eating from a bag of chips at his desk. His movements were placid. His eyes focused on his son as he contemplated his next words. "Alright," he placed the bag of chips off to the side, dusting off his hands to fold them over the tindy wooden desk. "What's on your mind?"

There was no real reason to make a fuss over the title change. Afterall, he never felt the need to require it. Even so, he felt his movements relax and unstiffen from the long school day. Knowing someone still needed him. Knowing his 𝙨𝙤𝙣 still needed him.

The teen leaned back into the desk-top chair, his arms crossed defensively, his gaze flickered to the ceiling, masking the fog of emotions brewing just beneath the surface. "I don't feel well." He spoke firmly, as if giving a power point essay. He waited for a response of some sort. A scolding, a worried questioning, five kittens to jump from a box and make him feel better. Instead, he was met with a patient look in his teacher's eyes, calmly urging him to go on. How was he unwell? Why? What could be done for him in that moment? "Not physically. Not mentally. Not even in my fucking academic achievements. Like I can't think straight and I might be dying. But I'm not. So, I need to know what I am."

Hitoshi felt as if he were trapped in a dense fog, each thought slipping through his grasp like wisps of smoke, leaving only a lingering sense of unease. He bit the inside of his cheek, the silence mind-numbing. He could nearly taste the familiar metallic liquid dripping from his gums, still words finally slipping from the adult's lips; once more silencing his nerves for only mere moments.

"Can you elaborate on 'dying'?" Aizawa raised a brow, sitting up straight to give the teen his full and undivided attention. His usually tired eyes sharpened with interest, ready to catch the reality of the teen's struggles. Afterall, what else could he do but be there? Be there, trying to help.

"I'm losing my shit." He interrupted before Aizawa could entirely finish his question. "You want an elaboration? Twenty people living in this body are losing their shit simultaneously, in different ways. They've all got different opinions and thoughts on how to go about it. And that in itself is causing me to once more, lose my fucking shit."

"It takes more than a few months to adjust to something like this, Hitoshi. You're going to feel like shit more than a few times."

"I'm just about fed up with adjusting."

The adult hummed calmly, nodding as he swirled the drink by the rim of the cup. He set it down, letting it clank against the table as he folded his hands together. He leaned back of the desk, making eye contact with his son.

"You're driving a car." Thin fingers grasped at the coffee mug perched up on the desk. Bearly touched, or looked at throughout the conversation. Aizawa was focused. Focused on helping someone who almost begged to be noticed, while shrinking back to touch in unison with that same plea.