Two Heroes and A Hustler

26

2ish Weeks Later
Deku sways as he stands, blinking rapidly trying to chase the black dots away. He uses the table to support himself as he goes to the small kitchenette, dumping out an old coffee in the sink and immediately filling it with water. He chugs it before refilling.

It's probably been days since he had anything other than coffee and energy drinks. He only used the stove to house his dirty dishes and empty microwave meals. He needs to sleep.

Drink another cup of water, finish running the program before rerunning it for validity's sake, then he could sleep while it runs the second time.

Or he could finish his water, code the next sequence while the program completes, then run it again- take a shower, start a load of laundry, maybe do his dishes, and then lay down.

But by that point he may as well wait.

Once the programs finished he needs to analyze the findings, comparing it against the others for patterns and use that to narrow down the next code for testing. By that point there should be results from the simulator that tests the effects of specific hormones and their interactions with the genes he's identified.

He doesn't have time to rest. He was already behind.

He was three weeks behind from the day he was brought to this hell hole.

It doesn't matter. As much as he tried to plan, his stupid human body couldn't meet his expectations.

Deku's eyes, no his entire body was so fucking heavy. Every movement of his fingers, the weight he places on his feet, his shoulders droop along with his eyes. He doesn't want to think about how dirty he feels, how much he smells. Even the water gulping down his throat tires him even more.

He can't focus on anything in particular, the counter and cup blurring as his eyelids hang only wide enough to let the dim light in.

He's too slow, too tired to stop his brain from thinking about them.

Mr. Yamada would always get mad when he had caffeine after four. He always said that it would mess up his circadian rhythm or some shit. He always made sure he had water and juice, good nutrious food.

He misses Mr. Aizawas hot chocolate. The nice reminders to not scarf down his food. The banter between him and Shinsou, playing with Eri. It was a kind of peace he never thought he could know, let alone miss.

They'd have an aneurysm if they saw how he was living now.

If they still cared.

He rubs his eyes. Did they know he was gone? Do they know why?

"It doesn't matter," he mumbles out loud. Because he would never see them again.

Why did crying have to hurt?

It's not fair. He was in enough pain without his body turning against him.

"No," he shakily places the cup back on the counter, pulling his hair with both hands in an attempt to steady them as he drops to the ground, "That's not right."

He wasn't kicked or hit. He didn't have hands around his throat trying to squeeze the life from him. There was no breath against the back of his neck, no one was hurting him.

That's what pain is supposed to be.

Deku curls into a ball, letting his eyes grow heavier with every blink.

No bruises, no broken bones, no starving stomach. His fingers didn't burn from the cold, and his skin wasn't blistering from the unrelenting sun.

But that doesn't stop the burn behind his eyes, or the tightness in his chest. The tension in his muscles don't subside no matter how much he tries to reason with himself.