Archive of Our Own

Izuku had faced many troubling incidents while at UA, there was no doubt. In fact, their class had smashed the record for most villain attacks experienced by the time they were halfway through their first year. In conclusion, he had suffered through a tumultuous amount of violence, and dare he imply trauma, with his class.

Although, he couldn’t help but feel that what he faced in high school didn’t quite compare to his first incident in middle school. No matter how many times he woke up in a cold sweat, arms numb like he relived his fight against Muscular, or feeling the aftereffects of the dry, itchy sensation as five fingers pressed down against his neck, nothing ever seemed to compare to the pure terror and fear pelting through his veins like a freight train and retching feeling in his lungs.

To most people, the Sludge Villain incident victims only involved Kacchan, with him rushing in to save his friend. He kept the truth of that day a closely guarded secret, holding the real events close to his heart in fear of the fallout.

Izuku kicked his feet, a pebble scattering across the underpass away from him as he dragged his feet on his way home. It was later than usual, the sky tinged orange as the sun set slowly on the horizon. Normally he would be further home, depending on the outcome of his fleeing out the school gates, and how successfully he escaped the taunting hands and grasps hiding him in secluded hallways. Today wasn’t his best record, and his damp, soggy notebook transferring water inside his backpack felt heavy in reminder.

He quickly tossed his mind away from what happened, instead focusing heavily on the cracks in the concrete as the darkness enveloped his surroundings. The underpass was abandoned of life and still as untouched water as he glided through, disturbing the dust like a rock rippling on the surface. Temporary and not meaningful. Fleeting and better off sunken on the riverbed, to be forgotten and not touched by humanity.

His shoulder stung and the pain was distracting, each step tugging his scorched uniform right against the burn, and Izuku winced as his shoulder blade throbbed every time he moved. He should probably wrap it in gauze and apply some burn cream at home, so it doesn’t get too irritated, or even infected. He learnt, probably too soon, how to properly take care of wounds, and he never wasted the knowledge. He had quickly picked up some amateur techniques from his unassuming mother and took to them like a fish to water. Although were the bandages even stocked up? Maybe he would have to stop by the corner shop—

He was far too distracted and up in his head to notice the shadow that loomed over his weak frame till it was too late. A slime enveloped him, snarling and shoving aside his yellow, charred backpack as the sludge encased him fully. “Finally, a medium-sized meat sack to escape in!” It growled, shoving the sludge past Izuku’s firmly clenched jaws and clogging his throat.

Izuku panicked, hands flailing to grip at the slime coating his body and blocking his airways frantically, but his short, bitten-down nails had no grip strength and his hands slipped right off the slick substance. His sight, already fluctuating behind the mask of green tinted slime, wavered as his lungs burned for oxygen.

No, this couldn’t be happening! He retched, but nothing shifted, only the slime pushing further into his lungs. He screamed behind the muzzle of sludge, his voice muffled and barely reaching his ears, and even so he wasn’t sure if it was a placebo of his own mind. “Please, stop! Get off me!” He yelled, fingertips bubbling with the first droplets of blood as his fingers scrape his arms and face.

The stench was overwhelming and vile, burning his nostrils and churning his stomach, the acid sloshing against slime with no success. It was all he could focus on for the moment; the revolting reek causing him to recoil, but the gunk clung to him and forced him into submission. The vile, acrid taste seared his taste buds, triggering his gag reflex. However, nothing was dislodged, the acidic rancidness lingering.

He thrashed in the villain’s hold desperately, but nothing could shake it off, the sludge clinging to him like a second skin and flaring his burns and scrapes agonisingly. His lungs practically gave out from the force of slime inhabiting them, oxygen shoved out and blood rushing to his head without anything worthwhile to carry there. His head pounded, the lack of oxygen causing his nerves to fire at egregious paces to keep him conscious, but at the cost of a clobbering commotion in his head.

“Don’t stress out, it will all be over in a minute.” The voice sneered, but Izuku could barely catch the words over the rushing in his ears, crashing over him as his darkness creeps over his peripheral vision.

His body felt too small to contain the never-ending, all-consuming sludge the captured him, and his stomach roiled as it continuously tried to throw up the blockage to no avail, only aiding his nausea more. His lungs collapsed in on themselves, rotting under the disgusting goop filling them. He never felt this amount of pain in his life before, and it was terribly overwhelming! Tears stung as they rolled down his cheeks in rivulets, the only output of his suffering now his entire body felt completely and utterly consumed.

Izuku felt more useless than ever before, limbs heavy and unable to move, weighing down his body with a lack of oxygen. He truly personified a wooden puppet now, and he choked on his sobs along with the repulsive ooze.

He gut felt bloated and bursting with slime as the villain stuffed himself further inside to hide and make an escape using Izuku as a scapegoat. More accurately, Izuku’s corpse. If he could have, he would have paled even further, but his skin was long grey and pallor from the oxygen deprivation.

Izuku was going to die. He was going to die here in this underpass, alone, scared and weak like everyone told him he would. He flailed again, a last desperate attempt to flee, but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate, instead hanging limply and numb at his sides, possessed by some imposter inching deeper into his skin. He didn’t want it to end like this! What happened to being a hero, saving everyone with a smile? How could he save everyone else if he stumbled and fell at the first hurdle?  His panic was only heightened by his fear and hysteria, petrifying thoughts flying a mile a minute through his neurones as his vision darkened and throat constricted in pure agony.

He didn’t want to die, he was going to be a hero… he was gonna be a hero… Izuku blinked frantically in an attempt to clear his vision, but it only sped out the process of black overcoming his murky sight. A jerk in his position in the slime capsule caused a chunk to slip down his throat, and tears cascaded from his eyes at the burning torment expanding in his lungs. He vaguely felt his ribcage crack painfully as a majority of his prison chains fled inside his chest.

His migraine reached a crescendo, banging around in his skull like thunder. Organising his thoughts was too hard now as his grip on consciousness on life slipped from his grasp gradually. The only thing he was able to comprehend at this point was the crucifying torture pulsing through his body corpse as his mind faltered.

One last heave finally uprooted some sludge from his windpipe and for a brief moment, Izuku allowed himself a slither of hope., something he kept hidden all these years but nurtured all the same. Now he was mostly unbound, could he free himself from the slimy shackles? He tried to urge a plan quickly while he still had his advantage—

But it didn’t last long.

The one, final breath fate allowed him managed to suck most of the sludge deeper into his chest, choking him on the last remnants of his restraints. Time was running out, think fast, Izuku! If only he could drag himself out into the open so someone could spot him, even get help from a nearby passing hero…

He limbs were as heavy as stone, and try as he might, he remained collapsed on the concrete as the villain cackled in triumph and wormed its way further into his lungs, firmly lodging itself into Izuku’s control panel. He could imagine its raspy giggles of glee clearly.

The burning returned at full force after a few precious seconds of brief reprieve, and still he hadn’t mustered up enough energy to drag his burdened body through the unsettled dust and out into the open street for even the slightest chance of a saviour. Who was he kidding? They’d see him struggling and turn tail the other direction; Izuku wasn’t worth the effort. Even if they got close, their decision would quickly change after a simple glance at his blocky red, identifiably quirkless shoes. Failure stung like the bile eating away at his throat, and Izuku’s eyes rolled back into his head as a debilitating wave of nausea crashed over him.

He felt his life draining fast, too damn fast, faster than he could handle, with his slow flickering thoughts and hopeless, cowardly heart crumbling in his crushed chest. It fell apart, one sliver then all at once, scattering like sand in the wind. It brushed not just past his fingertips but showering all around him, scratching and tearing open gnashes into his back, arms and face as the particles drifted away, leaving a dreadful, skin-deep itch that he was desperate to relieve but subconsciously knew it was insatiable.

Whoever told Izuku death was painless and quick was the biggest liar he had the utmost displeasure of encountering. It had probably been a bait, a cruel taunt to get him to consider a trip to the highest building’s roof. How ironic. In actual fact, it was excruciating and overwhelming – the agony shot through his veins like liquid fire and his throat constricted around the lumped slime in his windpipe like a vice his couldn’t loosen.

His vision faded darkly, eyes flickering as he fought against himself to keep them open, straining against the violent lull, even as his sight was already stolen.

The itching only grew more irately irritable, yet Izuku began to lose the will to struggle and keep fighting against the tide as the damned moment drew ever ominously closer. The panic drew away into its own shell until the only thing he flet was heavy, immovable stillness and the ever-uncomfortable collapsing of his lungs as they crumpled under death’s weight. He still retched and roiled against the unwelcome intrusion, but his resistance was reduced to weak hiccups and a jumping throat.

Everything slowed down to a snail’s pace, crawling by as Izuku’s eyes slid shut in submission to the sludge’s schemes. He would rather the aching, tearing throb in his muscles was rested while he waited for the inevitable. He weakly abandoned any protest to the possession as defeat lingered closer.

Was this really it? All his hoping and dreaming and believing he could be something more, crushed to smithereens like he didn’t even matter. That was the truth. The pain had subsided to irritating discomfort, and Izuku was left with his own dwindling, self-deprecating train of thought. He couldn’t be a hero. He couldn’t even save himself – he was a naïve idiot to believe he could do anything but be an embarrassing waste of space.

As he succumbed to the darkness, he was fleetingly aware of a sinister shift in his soul, a dislodgement between his fluttering, deflated lungs and cracked ribs, nestling beside his shattered hopes and dreams. The villain grinned sharply from its new lair.

Izuku shot up like a bullet from under his covers, heaving as an obstruction blocked his airways. Tears poured down his cheeks as he reached instinctively over the side of his bed to the basin he always kept just in case, retching violently as his throat configured with the lumps he was throwing up.

His lungs burned seemingly permanently, his pale, disfigured fingers trembling immensely as he gripped the bucket tightly, white as a ghost. The black-green sludge braced his tonsils and shoved out of his mouth like a slimy fountain, vomiting into the bucket as he spasmed in place.

He waited impatiently, hiccupping slightly as he bagged for the onslaught to be over. He just needed to breathe! The bucket shook in his slippery grasp as he spat out the final globs of foul-tasting sludge. (There wasn’t as much as normal, that was bad, wasn’t it? It meant his lungs were still sloshing with slime; it meant he was a ticking time bomb to another episode…) It was a jelly-like consistency, swirling in the basin. It was between the colour of dark, mossy green and midnight black, the shades normally amalgamating into a nightmarish colour, but the sliver of moonlight allowed him to notice the small droplets of pale-yellow plasma floating in the sludge. He recoiled from looking too hard – his stomach still was reeling and sweat dripped down his neck and coated his palms.

He set the basin down on his floor, yanking the blankets suffocating his legs off of him to prevent a second attack. He needed air, right now.

Drawing himself out of bed, he carefully stepped over the basin and slipped on his slippers, feet missing the shoes the first time from his nerves and stubbing against his bed frame. He hissed, panting to attempt to settle his rackety, wet breathing and subside the pain. He only choked more over his ministrations.

He found that leaving breathing to his subconsciousness was better for stopping his sweaty panic than any breathing exercises. However, the problem lay in the desperate, scorching urge to gulp in as much air as humanly possible despite the choking. He knew, he knew it wasn’t helping, but the primal instinct of survival craved the oxygen and needed it fast.

He stumbled across the dark room to the bathroom where he kept his nightmare cup, forcing himself to focus on the cool floorboards he could still faintly sense even with his slippers on. Wrenching on the taps to their coldest and most powerful, he shoves the cup under and taps his foot on the floor as the water sloshes around the rim, overflowing and spilling over his fingers.

His next destination was the balcony – yanking open the door in his frizzled panic and leaving it fully ajar. He didn’t care if his room got chilly anyways; he wouldn’t be going back to sleep.

Leaning his body weight onto the railing, he tilts his head back and gasped for air, squeezing his eyes shut as the remnants of his stomach fuel shifted oddly. Goosebumps ran along his arms, hairs stood upright. He was tenser than steel, legs ramrod straight. Yet he couldn’t relax yet. He hadn’t addressed Izuku yet, and Izuku was too unnerved to relax his aching muscles. His throat was scratchy and sore, and very dry. Izuku downed half the cup to refresh himself. Had he been screaming again? He really hoped not, because waking his classmates would be quite unfair. He didn’t think about the overly cautious looks he sometimes gets after a bad night.

His whole body buzzed with an inescapable itch irritably, Izuku’s vision blurring with the tingling torture dancing not just along his skin but deep inside his veins, begging for relief. Before he could think, he poured the other half of the water over his head without a moment's hesitation.

The water dripped off Izuku’s scraggly hair onto the floor, pattering quietly as he shook, the slight breeze freezing him to the core. He sighed heavily, leaving back against the railing and shutting his eyes as a droplet rolled down and was diverted by his eyebrow.

“You could at least say thanks, brat. You needed a shower anyways.” The voice said snarkily, and Izuku shivered at the nerves sent down his spine at the grating voice. He knew it was all in his head, but he cautiously glanced around anyways to look for the source. (He knew where it was – half of it was it the basin and the other half—)

“Shut up, Hedoro. That was your fault anyways.” He muttered under his breath uneasily, staring down at the empty cup absently. It was All Might themed, per usual. A real hero fanboy, people would fawn. Not before. Before it was creepy, stalkerish, weird. He should give up, they’d say.

“You know why, kid! Don’t blame me for all your wimpy scaredy-cat dreams. Do something about that shit; it’s getting on my nerves how much you are on the end of yours. Just preferably nothing that will get me arrested. It’s cosier here than you’d think.” Hedoro lectures nonchalantly, and Izuku’s stomach did a flip. The voice’s activity straight after a nightmare didn’t mix well, and he’d always made a point to make that fact known. Not that Hedoro paid much attention to Izuku’s wants (or needs) much anyways to shut up long enough to let his stomach settle.

He blinked drowsily, firmly ignoring the nausea churning in his gut in favour of rolling his eyes at the voice. So cocky and deflective, and for what? Izuku was literally the host of his existence right now. No need to be rude!

“Don’t blame me for the ways I learned to survive.” He scoffed, tilting away from the balcony hesitantly and shuffling towards his cold dorm room instead. “And how many times have I told you that you need to be quieter? All those vibrations aren’t doing wonders for just about anything.” He slid the door shut and knocked the lock into place again before traipsing over to his alarm clock. It was shut off – probably reflex while he was tossing and turning. He smacked it back on (it required a couple harsh taps seeing as it was on its last legs and it was too rare for Izuku to have the heart to replace) to see the time glowing 3:47am.

Most would automatically assume that he slept a good few hours before waking from that timestamp. They would be wrong. Izuku couldn’t actually remember a time he fell asleep in the PMs, normally preoccupied with something or other till the early hours of each morning, collapsing into his covers like a zombie and crashing for a few precious hours before being rudely awakened by his squawking alarm to go train before classes began. He’d then catch up on free time once all his homework for the day was completed, fall into a rabbit hole and flit around on the internet till he zonked out. Rinse and freaking repeat.

He might as well get a head start on his early morning training; maybe he would be ready at a more reasonable time for class too? One perk of being plagued by nightmares, Izuku guesses. Look for the silver lining, he tells himself as he concentrates on searching for his dumbbells and ignoring the bickering voice pestering for attention.

“Kid, don’t fucking ignore me!”

It was harder than you’d assume. Hedoro had such an irritating aura.

Training consisted of sweat, bellowing teenagers and the distinct stench of workout tank tops. Izuku heaved heavily, panting as his lungs couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen. He buckled over the deadlift he was working out with, breathing hard.

The slime roiled while he gasped quietly as so not to alert disturb his classmates. Shit, maybe he wasn’t as ready as he thought he had been for strenuous exercise. (Too bad, his mind supplied unhelpfully. It would be too suspicious to quit now, and besides, Izuku can’t stop. He has to catch up to the rest of his class – he has no time for rest if he really wants to be a hero.) Even if he did go overboard with the few extra kilometres laps and other random exercises he used to distract himself, he had pretences to keep up.

He bent down once more, intent to resume his reps before anyone noticed his brief, pensive pause; a small slip in Izuku’s slimy, statute act.

“See kid, I told ya those extra sets weren’t worth it.” Hedoro sniped sourly as Izuku strained his sore muscles over and over. “I feel that too. Jeez, I shoulda chosen a different vessel for my escapades, your overworked ass is no fun.” Izuku could sense his displeasure from the sudden breathlessness that causes the bar to slip out of his grip, narrowly missing his clunky shoes. He scowled before quickly yelping an apology to the rest of the gym.

He panged with annoyance at the man’s selfish input and the sudden urge to retort and release his pent-up anger was overpowering. He glanced around the large gym furtively, overwhelmingly anxious to consider replying. But the constant buzzing itch under his skin pushed him to throw caution to the wind and mumble under his breath, using the general rowdiness and clanging of metal as a cover for the tense conversation Izuku knew was coming. His rage simmered to a dangerous boil that bubbled in his lungs. Hedoro seemed to return the sentiment.

“You have no place to comment on anything any you know it,” he spat almost unintelligibly, frowning as he tilted his face to the floor so no straying eyes could catch a glimpse of his furrowed brows and agitated expression. “Not only do you intentionally ignore my reasonable explanations for why I work so damn hard, that you aren’t even owed, might I add! But it’s also your fault in the first place that my dumbbell distraction is so destructive in the first place. So, why don’t you just deal with the consequences of your own actions and quit acting like an insolent parasite for one single minute!”

 He scowled deeply, trying to relax his breathing and nerves after his impulsive rant. Well, as much as he could, considering the fact that the sludge was taking up half of his lung capacity and rising slowly nearer to his trachea. Hedoro’s doing in his anger.

“Shut it brat! I’m stuck here in your pathetic “heroic” body watching fucking paint dry! You’re lucky I don’t have the mind to choke you out here and now. It’s not my fault you’re a weak wuss who even sleep at night because heroics doesn’t carry across to your subconscious!” Izuku felt his breathing become more and more shallow as the voice grew more and more frenzied, the gunk coating his windpipe. He heaved through his lungs, whipping his head back and forth in hopes he would clear his slimy airways. He had a flitting thought that he didn’t have a basin to throw up into.

Still, the monologue kept coming, rattling in his skull like a death bell tolling.

“I don’t even have a life anymore – you and your stupid determination ruined that for me! And now I’m here, leeching off of a feeble hero student, with no life to call my own. So forbid if I’m acting a little like a parasite.” Hedoro fumed, spitting insults Izuku couldn’t even make out and growling. (The slime vibrated in his chest.) Izuku was definitely regretting his earlier choice to release his onslaught of anger, in public no less.

He felt the slime rise in his throat, obstructing his airways. Shit, why did he rise to the bait! Panic sparked in his stomach as he coughed, hoping, begging for the sludge to be dislodged and free him. He bent over, hands on his knees and fingernails digging into his skin in a flimsy attempt to stay grounded as he hacked up sludge into his mouth, the foul-tasting bile singing the back of his throat. (It was only liquid for now. He needed to get out, he needed to run, before the slime made its infamous appearance.)

Tears welled up in his eyes as he cursed Hedoro’s petty existence, removing his bracing on his knee to wipe away the water before he was noticed. It isn’t long before the burning bile he is achingly familiar with is joined by clumps of ooze that climb his windpipe dangerously. Izuku’s vision darkens then whitens again. He digs his clammy fingers into his shorts.

The nasty voice in his head is still spouting disrespect, but Izuku’s hearing was too far away to take anything in. Shit, he had to get out of here! He had kept this secret for so long – he couldn’t just let it out now! He coughed up a chunk of slime in his mouth, the acidic stank clogging his nose and windpipe. He couldn’t bring himself to look around and see if anyone had noticed yet, fearing they would see the tears that resurfaced again, waterworks flooding his eyesight that was steadfastly blurring at the edges.

The pain was building up behind his eyes, slower than he had been used to. Most of the tense creeping cutoff of oxygen happened while he was unconscious, and during the original incident the adrenaline distracted him, stealing his breath faster than now. It was reaching a head, his muscles giving out from lack of oxygen. Izuku was so fatigued, eyelids flickering shut. He felt pain ricochet up his legs as his knees thumped the ground.

His lungs were plunged with frothing gunk,

Surely someone had seen by now. Were they crying out to him? Shouting? Izuku didn’t know anymore, and frankly the pounding headache and fear washed away his burning shame. He spat out the sludge pooling around his gums onto the floor, hacking wetly and craving the sweet relief of oxygen and hiccupping breaths.

He had failed again. (Deku. He couldn’t just hide one thing, could you, brat?)

He felt the familiar embrace of darkness huddle round him indifferently, and he leaned into the numb sensation. He vomited the remaining slime onto the gym, seeing the splatters undulating with the last flickers of life as the plasma swirled. It repeated the pattern on his closed eyelids, and Izuku graced himself one short heave as a slight reassurance as the oxygen rushed through his veins. The shuddering agony ripping through his throat tore up his vocal chords from the particularly violent onslaught, the voice’s outrage only stoking the flames till the pain was like a fire caressing his throat, raw and damning. (At least it was a gentle caress, not a slap. He could appreciate the tender pain inflicted.)

He couldn’t remember when he lost consciousness, only the spasming of his throat and sickening aftertaste of pungent bile and slime.

Shouta couldn’t help but blame himself as he rolled his shoulders in tense wait. The sickly clinical smell of the infirmary was making his hairs stand on end – it was all another painful reminder of his incompetent supervision. Why he was here in the first place. His leg shook with impatience barely concealed. He couldn’t really care much to hide his restlessness anyways since the only person in the room was recovery Girl, who was fiddling with something out of sight with her back to him. And… well. Midoriya, who was tucked into the bed, looking far too pale and weak and still irritatingly unconscious.

He had only clued in on the horrifying situation after an embarrassing amount of time due to being completely absorbed in his soft yellow sleeping bag and catching up on his sleep. The class’ outcry disturbed him and he emerged to see Midoriya buckled over and choking. He immediately sprung up and rushed over, but Midoriya had already passed out with a puddle of muddy… slime? Surrounding him. Shouta had recoiled in shock before shaking himself. There wasn’t any time to delay.

Once checking Midoriya’s pulse was there (fluttering, but still there, don’t get over your head Shouta) and his airways were clear, he hauled the small boy up into his arms, surprised at his frown and furrowed brows even while knocked out. What was worrying Problem Child? He shoved that thought away – something to ponder later – and sprinted towards the exit, skidding on the floor and shouting one last instruction behind him as he rushed away.

“Yaoyorozu, can you make the appropriate containment materials to collect the hazard? Nobody touch it or do anything irresponsible.”

That led him here, facing the bed pensively and pushing his weight against the back of the chair so none of his prying students could force their way in to ask any questions.

He kept his gaze stuck on the unmoving form lying under the duvet, each twitch and suppressed shiver noted and analysed. He let his own thoughts wander though – what had happened? How long had his student suffered, in pain, alone, while Shouta didn’t notice? What even was that disgusting, foul smelling sludge vomited onto the floor anyways? It was moving, from what Shouta had seen before he ran out, and shifted, almost like it was alive. The goosebumps on his spine shivered at the disturbing image.

It was at that moment the boy in the bed shot up like a bullet, panting heavily and eyes darting around the room anxiously before landing on him. He stared like a deer in headlights before darting away again. Midoriya’s skin was pale and sticky with gleaming sweat, and his eyes held a primal fear that stung Shouta’s heart to see in a kid, his kid, so young. He watched neutrally as Midoriya fought to regain his breath, gulping down air like it was his sole relief. It probably was. Shouta had only asphyxiated once, and it was by no means pleasant.

Midoriya settled himself, white fingers gripping the tussled sheets before he decided to break the silence. “Aizawa-sensei? What are you doing here? What am I doing here?” He questioned confusedly, paling even further till he was the colour of the bed sheets. He paused, taking in Recovery Girl standing to the side with a pitying soft smile and Shouta leaning forward with a grave expression. It seemed to dawn on him slowly, then all at once. “What happened?” Problem Child whispered quietly.

Shouta sighed, then stood, shuffling awkwardly closer to the panicked teen. “Don’t worry nothing bad is going to happen. You aren’t in trouble; I just have a few questions.” Recovery Girl seemed to read between the lines, and noting nothing seemed to be needing imminent attention, backing away to give pseudo privacy. Of course, she was still listening, along with a certain principal through the cameras.

“Oh, okay…” Midoriya shrugged, curling his shoulders in on himself and retreating into his shell, looking very conflicted and trembling slightly. It worried Shouta deeply, seeing his student cave in on themselves like that. A small frown tugged its way onto his face, but he shook it away and smoothed out his expression again, before gesturing to the edges of the bed.

“May I sit?”

Midoriya startled up, before hesitantly nodding, and Shouta took a seat and turned to most of his body faced Midoriya despite the perpendicular angle.

Here was the hard part – getting Problem Child to tell him what happened without the boy blowing it over with an “I’m fine!” It was a frustratingly common occurrence, and Shouta would not take that as an answer. Not today, and preferably no other time either.

“Midoriya, do you know where that came from? From what I saw, you just began choking and became unresponsive towards your classmates. Then you spat out that “sludge” and passed out. Are you hurt?” Midoriya paused, seemingly checking himself head to toe, before shaking his head. Shouta would just have to take Problem Child’s word for it, since he couldn’t check him himself. The next, rather impulsive question, spat out. “Has this happened before?” Shouta knew there were more important questions to be asked, but he panged with the need to know. To know if his student suffered the suffocation more than once, drowning, scared, alone—

Midoriya nodded. It was a short, jerky motion, but a motion all the same. Shouta’s heart dropped in his chest, and he schooled himself so the anxiety wasn’t evident on his face, only the slightest concerned crease in his forehead.

He sighed deeply and cringed at Midoriya’s minute flinch. “Kid, I’m going to need you to elaborate?” He floundered, attempting to stay a fraction professional.

Midoriya’s head dropped out of view to Shouta’s mild shock, and fast mumbling ensued, unintelligible to probably everyone. The kid looked both terrified and mighty pissed off as he presumably argued with himself, and Shouta couldn’t keep up with the flickering emotions on the kid’s face. His fingers twisted and entwined with both each other and the bed sheets, still freakishly pale (bordering blue?) but ever so slowly regaining some colour. Finally, after a few tense minutes, he seemed to come to a conclusion, albeit still torn over his words. He fumbled slightly, starting and abruptly stopping again, but then his face settled with conviction, and he whispered the words quietly, as if he was afraid someone would overhear them.

“You know of the sludge villain incident? Well, it didn’t play out like you thought it did, sensei.”