The world came back slowly.
Not in a rush of clarity, not in some triumphant return to consciousness—but in fragments.
A dull ache.
A dry throat.
A body that felt like it had been stitched back together with thread far too thin to hold anything properly.
Izuku Midoriya's eye cracked open.
White.
Sterile.
Familiar.
"…Ah…"
Even that single breath scraped against his throat like sandpaper.
He tried to move his hand—failed.
Tried to speak—worse.
"Forcing yourself to speak could cause further strain on your already weakened muscular system."
The voice was calm. Flat. Clinical.
Izuku slowly turned his head.
Shoto Todoroki sat beside the bed, completely at ease, holding a pair of chopsticks. A small container rested in his lap as he lifted a portion of noodles with mechanical precision.
"Cold, nutty soba noodles pair well with a soy sauce and mirin-based dipping sauce," Todoroki continued, as if delivering a lecture. "The buckwheat composition gives it a firm, slightly grainy texture. It is… acceptable."
He paused.
"I would rank this preparation thirty-seventh among soba variations."
Izuku blinked.
Once.
Twice.
If his brain were functioning at full capacity, there would have been questions.
Many questions.
Instead, he just stared.
Todoroki nodded slightly, as if that reaction made perfect sense.
"Oh. I forgot."
He reached down beside the bed and lifted a pile of items onto the nearby table.
Bags. Boxes. Carefully wrapped packages.
"They brought you things."
Izuku's eye shifted weakly toward them.
Lunch bags. Small trinkets. Recovery items. Notes tucked into corners. It looked less like a hospital bedside and more like a… care package pile assembled by too many people at once.
"They were concerned you might feel… 'useless,'" Todoroki said, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. "Because you were unconscious for several days."
Izuku's fingers twitched slightly at that.
Several… days?
"I don't fully understand that reasoning," Todoroki continued, picking up another bite of soba. "If one feels useless, it simply indicates insufficient contribution."
He chewed thoughtfully.
"Though I was told that perspective lacks emotional consideration."
That sounded about right.
Todoroki gestured lightly toward one of the bags.
"I selected the most appropriate item for you."
Izuku followed the motion.
A plain, somewhat rounded bag sat at the top of the pile.
There was no label.
But its shape was… suspiciously familiar.
"…Soba," Izuku rasped weakly, his voice barely functioning.
Todoroki gave a small nod, clearly pleased.
"You need proper nutrition."
Of course.
Of course, he chose soba.
Izuku's hand trembled as he reached for the nearby water bottle. It took more effort than it should have just to grip it, unscrew the cap, and bring it to his lips.
The water felt like life itself.
"Oh," Todoroki added, standing up. "Do not overexert yourself. Your body is still recovering from significant damage."
He lifted his container again.
"I will relocate to a quieter area to finish eating."
Without waiting for a response—
He left.
Just like that.
The door slid shut behind him with a soft click.
Silence returned.
Izuku lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of machinery and distant movement filling the space.
"…That's… normal," he muttered hoarsely.
For Todoroki, anyway.
He took another slow sip of water, feeling his voice return bit by bit.
"…Still kind of… cold," he added under his breath, though there was no real bite to it.
Just… acceptance.
Carefully, painfully, he shifted his gaze toward the window.
Something felt off.
The light wasn't right.
Too bright. Too… open.
With slow effort, he reached up and pushed aside the blinds.
Light flooded in—
And with it—
Clouds.
Endless clouds.
Stretching beneath him.
Izuku blinked.
"…Wait."
His brain caught up in a stutter.
"…This isn't…"
He stared harder.
The horizon curved slightly.
The sky felt closer than it should be.
"…This is a plane?!"
His voice cracked into something between disbelief and panic.
Somewhere beyond that door—
Somewhere in the moving world, he had just woken back into—
Things were still happening.
Moving.
Changing.
And for the first time since opening his eyes—
Izuku realized something simple.
______________________________________________________________________
[Auther: That I finally ended this arc!"]