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sundeathh · 11 months

Text

Burnout

Masterlist | This is a self-indulgent rant.

Pairing: Aizawa × GN!Reader | Words: 1,2 K

Tags: SFW, comfort, self-doubt & reflection

CW: Melancholy, hopelessness and depression mentioned.

The clock on the wall filled the room with a soft, rhythmic ticking, the slow beats in stark contrast to the rapid tapping of your fingertips on the keyboard.

You let out a weary sigh and glanced at the time. It was already too late, yet a mountain of work was still ahead of you.

Fatigue washed over you, accompanied by the persistent ache in your back from the uncomfortable chair. Your vision blurred, the letters on the screen merging together. How long have you been working? Time had slipped away, lost in the demands of your job.

Days would blur into nights, leaving no room for personal respite. The desk had become your constant companion, offering nothing but monotonous hours filled with mind-numbing paperwork and repetitive meetings.

The routine had become so ingrained that you could execute it blindfolded. Your life had grown stagnant, suffocated by the relentless sameness.

Doubts swirled within you, questioning your purpose and the path you were on. Would you toil endlessly for meager rewards? You do so much for so little, but where is this road taking you? You can't tell for sure.

For the last few days, you were behind this same damn desk, trying hard not to fall asleep as your thoughts drifted toward the past.

What's holding you back? You wonder, staring at the white ceiling as your head hangs backward. The wellspring of energy that once fueled your imagination felt depleted, leaving you devoid of fresh ideas.

A gentle knock on the door interrupted your contemplation. Slowly, you turned your head to face it and to offer a soft, "Come in."

You expected the person to inquire about your prolonged absence, but to your surprise, the familiar deep voice only greeted you, "Hey there."

You looked up, meeting the tired eyes of someone you had known for so long. Aizawa's lips curved into his signature smile as he settled beside you. Leaning closer, he asked, "You okay?"

Closing your laptop, you nodded and replied, "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" You responded. Studying him for a moment, you realize he knows you better than anyone.

He looks at you for a while as if contemplating something before he speaks up after a small sigh. "Don't lie. I see that you have bags under your eyes. It doesn't suit you."

You chuckle slightly. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Not exactly, but at least you should acknowledge it. That's important," Shōta responded. "What happened?"

You sighed, the weariness seeping through your voice. "Nothing, really. Just work stuff, and I've been struggling with it."

Shōta nodded slowly, his concern palpable. "And you haven't figured anything out yet? Do you want me here? We can tackle this together."

You laughed softly, appreciating his offer. "That would take too long, but thanks. Besides, I'm fine.

Shōta leaned back, studying you intently, his eyes reflecting concern and understanding. "You say you're fine, but I know you better than that. I can see the weariness etched on your face, the heaviness in your every movement. Please, don't shut me out. Let me be there for you."

His words hung in the air, sinking into your heart. The weight of your emotions threatened to overwhelm you, and you realized that you couldn't keep up the façade any longer.

With a trembling voice, you confessed, "I'm tired, Shōta. Tired of this endless cycle, this sense of purposelessness. I feel as if I was trapped, unable to break free and find something meaningful."

Shōta's expression softened as he reached out, gently placing a hand on yours. "I understand. It's a difficult place to be, but remember, you're not alone. Everyone experiences moments of doubt and confusion. It's how we navigate through them that counts."

His words stirred something within you. You realized that maybe it was time to confront the monotony head-on and seek a path that resonated with your true desires.

But where to start? The question lingered in your mind, intertwining with the melancholy that had become your most constant companion.

Days would turn into weeks as you tried to embark on a journey of self-discovery. You tried to find solace in exploring new hobbies, reconnecting with old passions that were for long buried under the weight of your responsibilities – desperately trying to find fragments of your true self.

However, the path was not without its challenges. Moments of self-doubt crept in, whispering that you were foolish to think you could escape the clutches of stagnation. The line between melancholy and depression blurred, casting a shadow over your progress.

And, during those particularly dark moments, Shōta's supportive side would reappear, his presence a beacon of comfort.

With a tender smile, which he reserved only for you, he kept reminding you: "Even in the darkest times, you are not defined by the circumstances. Your worth lies beyond the confines of your job or societal expectations. Embrace your journey, and embrace yourself."

Eventually, you understood that finding peace of mind was not about achieving grand success or escaping the melancholy entirely. It was about accepting the ebb and flow of life, acknowledging the moments of sorrow while cherishing the glimpses of joy.

As time passed, you discovered that meaning could be found in the smallest of moments: a warm cup of tea, shared laughter, a heartfelt conversation, and a quiet and long hug. You realized that pursuing fulfillment wasn't a destination but a continuous, ever-evolving process.

And so, while the melancholy may linger in the background, you have learned to coexist with it, embracing it as a part of your journey. After all, you realized that life was not about eradicating all sadness but finding harmony within yourself, embracing both the light and the shadows that make you whole.

Though depression still visited you from time to time, it no longer consumed you, as you had learned to navigate its depths with resilience and self-compassion.

Through the ups and downs, the comfort would come from accepting yourself as you were: imperfections and all.

With time you discovered that your perspective on work and life had shifted. While your job still had challenges, you sought to infuse it with purpose and meaning.

You recognized that even within the confines of a desk, there were opportunities to make a difference and leave a positive impact, even if this impact is noticeable only to you.

And so, as the clock on the wall continued its steady ticking, you sat there, no longer burdened by the weight of stagnation and frustration. Instead, you accepted the uncertainties of life, acknowledging that even amid the chaos, there was peace to find within yourself.

Shōta remained a steadfast companion, offering his unwavering support and understanding. Together, you would venture on small adventures, exploring new places and trying new experiences.

You understood that you didn't have to feel full all the time. That it's okay to find yourself broken; and that you can still pick up the pieces and fill the void with life's uncertainties, and above all, you understood the importance of pausing for a moment to fill your lungs with the breath of hope you need, and then, to keep walking through life's path.

Time doesn't stop to overthink about life. So why should you? Even if you doubt yourself or don't know where you are heading – it's best to keep moving, heading somewhere.

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boilyerheid · 3 years

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I mean, 27 “Is the weight of it all finally too heavy?” just screams nedward. So that one for joplittle? Also I guess this is technically against the rules since it's angsty prompts but pleeeeease can you make it not entirely angsty? I just can't stomach joplittle angst (or any angst, tbh). Thank you, I'm enjoying these one shots so much! :)

After a month of explicit command (they were running the show for Crozier long before it was acknowledged, as barely acknowledged as it is now), Edward is beginning to fray at the seams.

Irving is a steady help, though his mean streak and tendency to lash out if he perceives disrespect (and John perceives more disrespect than has ever been shown to him - Edward wonders if the man will ever realise it's his own insecurities poking through) mean he's unpopular with the men. Edward doesn't think he's particularly well-regarded himself, too hesitant to command the esteem in which Crozier and Fitzjames are held, and the less said about Hodgson's inability to embrace stoicism and stop his endless blasted talking the better. They would have lost control long ago if not for the Marines, he's sure of it.

Edward swallows the last of his drink to try and put a pause on his racing thoughts, forever spiralling around themselves in the ouroboros nightmare of their existence. He shouldn't be drinking, not when the Captain's sickbed provides an example of where alcohol leads when applied to the melancholy nature they share, but the sting of rum is at least a break from the monotony. Each day he rises in darkness, fails to fix problems, and goes back to sleep in darkness once again. And to think, he'd once wanted a command of his own.

A light knocking breaks into his miserable musing, and Edward looks up to see the door of his cabin slide open and reveal Jopson beyond. What time is it, that Jopson didn't wait to be invited in? He should have forced himself to bed hours ago.

"Pardon me, sir. Saw the light and thought you might've fallen asleep with your lamp lit," again, Jopson doesn't say, kind enough not to point out Edward's wasteful mistakes. He still ducks his head like a chastened schoolboy, hating to think of how low the exacting steward's opinion of him must be when he can't even manage himself, let alone the men. "Anything I can do for you, Lieutenant?"

What a question - one which fills him with wild thoughts that he dare not entertain at this hour, not when they're under so much pressure. For all his moroseness about not being adequate as acting Captain, Edward wouldn't swap it for Jopson's burden - nursing Crozier through the effluvia, the hallucinations, and (as Hodgson whispers) the crying of withdrawal. He can see the strain in the dark circles under the steward's eyes now, the way the usual just-so neatness of his appearance has fallen almost imperceptibly to the wayside, and for some reason it's a water stain on the breast of Jopson's waistcoat which leads him to speak up.

"How are you faring, Jopson?" He realises he didn't answer the question he'd been asked only after he's spoken, but that's neither here nor there. Jopson looks surprised to be addressed so, and Edward gestures him inside unthinkingly. He closes the door carefully behind him, so as not to disturb Irving on the other side of the wall.

"The Captain is through the worst of it now." Not an answer, but a deflection in that stewardly doublespeak the man seems particularly married to. Not well, then. The thought puts another furrow into Edward's brow - he doesn't know what the hell they'll do if Jopson buckles under the strain, Crozier wouldn't let anyone else attend to him so intimately, and then more of the men would know what's happening and- "Are you quite alright, Lieutenant? If you don't mind my asking."

Edward blinks at that, wondering if he's misheard before looking up at Jopson with surprise.

"I'm fine, Jopson," he replies automatically, without a moment of thought. It's been a very long time since anyone asked Edward how he was. "As much as any of us are."

"Only... speaking plainly, sir, I've never seen a man look so saddened when it wasn't him in the sickbed," Jopson's still in his shirtsleeves from the Captain's cabin, but he clasps his hands in front of himself politely as ever. It's the contrast between that and the frank words which cuts through Edward's tired haze, somehow. Perhaps the late hour and exhaustion is eroding both their senses of propriety. "You're shouldering a lot at present, and those of us who know it... we do see your efforts. And we appreciate what you're doing for the Captain... I appreciate it, sir."

Edward doesn't think he's ever actually heard Jopson speak to his own feelings before. Maybe that strangely intimate touch is what has him blinking away the prickling that suddenly threatens in his eyes, turning away from Jopson so the man won't see him crumble. The touch to his shoulder is so unexpected it makes him gasp, and it's only luck which means the sound doesn't turn into a sob.

"If the weight of it all gets too heavy, you must tell me before it breaks you." Jopson squeezes his shoulder, thumb caressing the thin linen of Edward's shirt, and Edward longs (suddenly, ludicrously) to turn around and kiss him. "If only so I can provide a little comfort, where I can."

Then the touch is gone, there's a murmured goodnight, and the door slides open and closed once more. Edward sits at his desk, hand pressed over his mouth to keep quiet (is he crying because he's overwhelmed? Yes, but there's a new streak of strange comfort to it now - someone cares) until the lamp finally burns out.

#the terror fic #joplittle #canon verse #thomas jopson #edward little #my poor little meow meow #victorian levels of intimacy: fully clothed shoulder touches

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