Chapter Text
The day after he got hit by a truck, Izuku goes to school.
“Izuku, are you sure?” His mom says, even when he’s already tying up his shoes (his mom bought him a new one, again.)
“Uh-huh,” he doesn’t see why not.
“Are you sure you feel alright?”
“Yep.”
“I’m sure the school would understand—“
Izuku zips up to kiss his mom on the cheek. “I feel good, Mom,” he says patiently. He isn’t lying. “And I got finals coming up, you know? I can’t skip if I wanna go to Yuuei, after all.”
“That’s true,” his mom still doesn’t look convinced, so Izuku kisses her other cheek. He’s almost taller than her now.
“I’ll see you after school,” Izuku says. It’s a promise.
His mother holds it to him. “Okay,” she smiles. Bags under her eyes, but she looks at him like he is her whole world. “I’ll see you after school.”
He steps out of the house. Takes a deep breath.
He feels good. His head is utterly empty. He feels good. He feels less. Like he is running on empty in the best possible way.
Walking to his train platform, he absentmindedly places a few yen to the empty beer can, like he always does. The owner—a ragged man who always camps in front of the station before the security chases him out—barely spares him a glance. Izuku doesn’t mind.
It’s crowded, per usual. He gives a seat to a pregnant lady. To his distant surprise, he doesn’t even stutter when he offers a you’re welcome to her thank you.
The flashing light from the window keeps the same rhythm as the gentle sway of the train, casting a surreal light in the car. The crowd, and the car, seems like an impressionist painting in those handful of moments. Strange creatures in a strange plane, all weird angles and harsh shadows, caught frozen in the act of being. And Izuku? He is merely an audience. He isn’t part of them. He isn’t part of the picture.
His mind is absolutely silent. His heartbeat: steady. Slow. The void is there again, he thinks—but he doesn’t worry about it. He can’t. He can’t worry about anything right now. Today, the ever persistent anxiety Izuku has been cultivating in his heart for the past years is just … not there.
(Something is wrong. Something is wrong with him.)
He walks into the classroom with a calmness he never had.
His classmates stare at him. He knows why: he’d jumped off the school roof on Monday, and got mauled by a truck on Wednesday. Today is only Thursday.
He’s had a busy week. So what?
He walks to his seat, not minding the stares. Someone had put a flower vase on his desk. That’s sweet, Izuku thinks. He puts down his bag. He doesn’t move the flower, a single humble white lily.
“Deku.”
Something stutters, deep, deep down in the pit of his stomach. An urging, a warning. It’s so weak. Izuku couldn’t care less if he wanted to. The whole entire world is underwater, and he is on the edge of the pool.
Or maybe it’s the other way around. “Good morning, Kacchan.”
The ashen, burnt sugar scent he knows so well. The look of disgust, and petty contempt—and something else Izuku has never seen before in Katsuki Bakugou’s face. Izuku recognizes a vague, obscure sensation of something. A knocking at the back of his mind. A low hushed warning.
But, Izuku wonders idly, he doesn’t care, though?
“You piece of—”
In the split second when his back meets the wall with a resounding slam, the buried, distant thing somewhere in Izuku’s chest stutters. The knocking is rising slowly to a crescendo. He blinks.
“—shit,” Kacchan sneers. Izuku’s collars are balled up in his fists. Izuku frowns.
“Let go of my clothes.”
Kacchan freezes, but it doesn’t last long. Katsuki Bakugou is incapable of staying silent for more than approximately three seconds, after all. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“This is my last spare uniform,” Izuku explains patiently. “The other one got messed up, you see.”
The hold in his collar tightens—and then explosive goes off. There goes his uniform, he thinks, eyeing the singed edges of the fabric. “Darn,” Izuku says, softly. “I told you this is my last one.”
“Don’t fuck with me, you fucking freak—not before, and not after that shit stunt you pulled. You think you got me fooled with that—that bullshit ?” Kacchan’s eyes are manic. Blazing red. He looks insane, Izuku thinks. “You think just because you—you—”
Gnashing, bared teeth. His fists, still curled insistently against Izuku’s chest, are shaking with anger. Anger, hatred, and something else. Something Izuku never saw in Kacchan because he didn’t think it possible. Like this, snarling and trembling and heaving, Kacchan looks like a cornered animal. With a faraway, clouded surprise, Izuku realizes that Kacchan is afraid.
“Because I killed myself?”
Izuku’s breath leaves him with a start as his back bangs to the wall once more. The pressure of rough force against his ribcage isn’t pleasant. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You fucking shit. You little lying fucking shit. You think you’re so fucking smart. What sort of shitty trick did you pull, huh?” he lets go, abrupt and harsh. The air tastes like smoke. “You’re just a Quirkless, useless fucking nobody. Quirkless fucking Deku.”
Izuku stares. And stares. He looks for it, for that odd, fleeting thing he thinks he saw in Kacchan. The flash of something pitiful beneath all those layers of bravado concealed in childish, petty hate. Distantly, he thinks there is a siren going off in Izuku head. He thinks there is something missing, in Izuku. A piece of him isn’t there. Izuku isn’t all there.
Does it matter, though? Does he care?
No. Not really.
“You think it’s your fault,” Izuku ponders out loud, eyes never leaving Kacchan’s face, taking note of every shift in his expression. Every frown and every stuttering breath, every cruel curve of Kacchan's sneering mouth. The wild look in his eyes. “You think I did it because of you. You think I did it to spite you, don’t you?”
It’s brief, but it’s there. That flash of fear. Of anger and guilt mixed into one explosive, nauseating bang. “What the fuck are you—”
“I always knew you were a self-centered egomaniac,” Izuku says, in genuine honesty, “but you know, Kacchan … not everything is about you, though?”
The flare of absolute fury swallowing Kacchan’s face is the only warning Izuku gets before those hands reach to hurt him again. With a strength Izuku doesn’t know he has, Izuku takes those angry hands in a vice grip. The surprise is clear; in a rare second, Kacchan is stock still. Distantly, Izuku registers that the whole class is dead silent, watching the fiasco goes down. Someone should call a teacher. Izuku doesn't really care.
“‘I’m going to fucking kill you,’” Izuku recites. His eyes are pierced, hard, to Bakugou’s. Unleaving. Unmoving. “That’s what you always say to me, isn’t it? That you’re going to fucking kill me?”
Izuku pulls those hands in a hard yank, so that they are right next to either sides of Izuku’s face. “Try it, then.”
Kacchan looks at him. Anger frozen. Dumbfounded, even, and scared. This time, the fear is palpable in his eyes. No one else could see it, maybe. But Izuku knows him since they were four. He's never seen this kind of vulnerable look in Kacchan before, and he is almost fascinated by it.
“I’m going to be a hero, Kacchan,” Izuku tells him calmly. Steady as a pond. “If you don’t want me to, you’re going to have to kill me. So try.”
It’s so easy. It shouldn’t take much. One giant explosion or two. He knows Kacchan’s capabilities, and he is more than capable to do Izuku in. It shouldn’t be much different from blowing his head with a shotgun. Not something Izuku hasn’t fantasized about.
(Something is wrong. Something is wrong with him.)
Snapped out of whatever shocked trance he was in, Kacchan yanks his wrists free with a growl, and shoves him back for a good measure. Izuku lets him, and they stare at each other in a tense, anxious instance. “Fucking freak,” Kacchan spits, finally. His voice shakes from tightly cinched fury and other unnamed, denied emotions. Izuku blinks, and doesn’t reply.
The bell rings. The class begins.
No one talks to Izuku for the rest of the day, other than the teacher. He doesn’t mind. The teacher takes the flower away though, which is a shame, Izuku thinks. She mutters something about mistakes and counselling and Izuku really could not care any less. She has always turned the other eye whenever the other kids get rough with Izuku, anyway. Whenever Kacchan starts hurting him.
He pays some attention when she gives him the form for future career prospect, though. Barely registering her lecture, he writes: UA High School.
In the train, Izuku taps the blunt end of his ballpoint at his Vol. 14 notebook. It’s opened on the first page. He taps a few times more, right on the line where he’d written his name the other day. Midoriya Izuku.
He drags the ballpoint halfway down across the page, where he’d written: Drawback = ?
Apathy —he scribbles, and stops. He scratches the word out, and shuts the notebook. His heartbeat is steady. Consistent. He doesn’t know when the high ends—because this must be some kind of a high; Izuku never knows the true meaning of the word carefree until now. Despite everything—he is utterly and completely still. The core of him. He barely fidgets. He doesn’t stutter.
The fog starts to disperse. Slowly, so very slowly, but he knows. This doesn’t last. And he … doesn’t want it to last. Does he?
It’s his stop. He gets off.
The homeless man isn’t at the station anymore. Izuku pulls out his phone. His mom has sent a dozen today. And it’s only been seven hours of school. He replies each of her texts. She doesn’t need to worry more than she already has, after all.
His station is only a few blocks away from his house. Another block, and he already sees the Seven-Eleven he usually goes to. Maybe he should buy his mom some ice cream?
Izuku doesn’t realize he has stopped breathing until his steps halt.
He doesn’t know what happened. The next thing he knows is that he is throwing up violently at the side of the street.
It’s like getting woke up violently by a blaring morning alarm. Like getting hit by cold water, or slammed by a semi trailer-truck at 80 mph to your demise. Izuku retches, and heaves. He cringes at the sight. Who is going to clean these up? He thinks in muffled remorse. He always makes messes everywhere…
Another wave of nausea blasts him and he vomits until he can’t anymore.
“You okay there, buddy?”
A pack of tissue offered to his line of sight. He would reply, but he is busy dry-heaving on a now empty stomach. His mouth tastes like acid and breakfast. He takes the tissue with trembling hands though, and nods. Nodding only makes him look like he’s having a seizure on top of his vomit hysteria.
He doesn’t get it, he thinks, stunned at his own abrupt malfunction. He was alright. He was perfectly fine, and now he can’t—he can’t—
“Whoa, buddy, breathe,” the person says, but it’s so far away, so far away. He is the one underwater. He is the one unreachable. Not them, him. He’s sinking fast and quick and there is no lifeline.
Izuku gasps, takes a violent, body-wrecking breath. He has never had this kind of panic attack before. He thinks he is dying. “Breathe, that’s right, keep going—just keep breathing—“
He doesn’t know how long that went on. His legs feel like jelly. He blinks. “You’re the cashier,” Izuku says hoarsely.
The Seven-Eleven cashier lady stares back at him. She is in uniform, hair still wet from shower. She must be on her way to work. She looks pale, staring at him like he just woke up from a grave. Which. “Do you have … anyone I could phone?”
Izuku reels, stuttering forward in a sudden burst of nervous energy. “No, no, that’s not—not necessary,” he feels like he just woke up from a long slumber. He is wide awake, anxiety and all. “Thank—I’m so—“ he frowns, struggling to form the words. “I’m so sorry,” he blurts, after a battle with his brain functions. “I’m so sorry. I’m—thank you, I need to—I need to go.” Now. He needs to go now.
Stumbling, he jolts into a pitiful power-walk to the vague direction of his house his brain provides. Behind him, he thinks the lady is saying something—but he can’t handle that right now. He doesn’t know how long he’s walking, he doesn’t even know if he’s passed the Seven-Eleven or the spot where he—
His feet stops in front of his apartment. He takes a moment to lean against the brick wall, grounding pressure on the back of his head. Of course, of course. Drawback. He huffs a laugh, maybe a sob. Of course.
Before anyone else could notice the mess that is Midoriya Izuku, he drags himself inside. His hands are shaking so hard he keeps dropping his keys as he fumbles his way in.
“Mom,” he calls, and hates himself for it. No one is home—she is still at work. Of course. Good. Good. She can’t know about this. She—she can’t know about this. Whatever this is. He blinks tears from his eyes. He can’t handle being in this uniform anymore, and in the hurry of getting it off, he almost rips it apart. He stares at the frayed, ashen fabric that’s left of his collar. Kacchan.
Kacchan. Kacchan. Shit. Izuku’s legs go down, hard, under his precarious trembling weight. He hits the floor and he can’t even feel it. Kacchan.
What was Izuku thinking?
Nothing, he realizes, with a burgeoning horror. He wasn’t thinking. The whole day, and he wasn’t thinking at all. He struggles to grasp the person he was this morning, the person he was after he woke up in the—in the morgue. The cold, dead thing in his chest. The sensation of unmitigated detachment. The knowledge that he wasn’t all there, and he was perfectly fine with it.
The pure bliss of not giving a single fuck.
Izuku isn’t stupid. This is messed up. This is wrong.
He pulls out his notebook, the tremor still painfully visible in his hand as he opens the cap of his pen. Drawback = ?
He writes: addictive.
He slams the book shut.
His mom comes home at five with a martial art brochure in hand. “Izuku,” she says excitedly, “I think you’d be interested in this.”
Izuku stops sweeping the living room and takes the brochure curiously, if warily. It’s a new opened dojo just a few blocks away. It offers aikido, judo, kenjutsu—he tears his eyes away. His mom is staring at him expectantly with bright eyes. “Why?” he says, before he could stop himself, and the sight of his mother’s enthusiasm diminishing visibly pains him. “No, no, I’m interested!” he hurriedly attempts to placate. “I’m definitely, definitely interested, it’s just … didn’t expect it, is all.”
He really didn’t. He knows his mom wants the best for him. He knows she loves him more than anything in the world. At times it’s suffocating, like how a mother’s love does, but Izuku wouldn’t trade it for the world. But he also knows, that—that regarding his … affinity, with heroes, she isn’t always … onboard with it. It’s all with his safety in mind, he knows, but—
“Izuku,” his mother holds his shoulders gently with both of her tired, working hands. “I know I haven’t been the most supportive with your dreams.”
Izuku opens his mouth. And closes it again. Speechless by the conversation. Inko’s grip on his shoulders is firm, and warm, and grounding. Her eyes, kind and intelligent and pained, searching his face. “I know that. And I regret that,” her voice trembles. “And I won’t make the same mistake again. Ever again.”
Izuku thinks about that trip to the doctor, years ago. And what comes after. The tears in his mother’s eyes, the unstoppable stream of them, and the quiet, final whisper of apology. Like him, she lost something that day.
Maybe it’s just his imagination, but right now, looking at the sheer, unmoving conviction in her mother’s eyes, he thinks she got it back: hope.
“You’re going to be a hero, sweetheart,” she smiles, and it’s so comforting. It’s so full of love for Izuku. Tears prick Izuku’s eyes. “And I’m going to make sure you’ll be a great one.”
Izuku cries. And then his mother cries too. They have dinner later than usual that night.
His chest constricts painfully with each shuddering breath he takes. He knows he can’t hold out any longer—he’s approaching his limit soon—so he runs even faster, taking in every rush of adrenaline and pain and the wind in his hair.
The air tastes of seasalt and his own body sweat. His muscles are screaming, lactic acid rushing in. I’m going to die, he thinks, dramatically, before his legs finally give and he falls to a stop.
He lies on the sand. Above him, seabird croons. His throat is parched to hell and back. He grabs his water bottle and dumps the content to his mouth like an animal. From the horizon, dawn has just finished breaking, casting mellow, gentle purple bleeding down the sky. The sun rises.
With a start, Izuku realizes, that he feels great. He smiles, small and self-deprecating—just an unsure twist of his mouth. He really should make this running thing a habit. His therapist did say it should be good for him.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”
The stranger who has been running ahead of him is now next to him, smiling tentatively. He is a skeleton of a man, gaunt with a sickly pallor. But there are some healthy red to his cheeks now, courtesy to the run, perhaps. Izuku has been fearing for the man’s life—due to his wet coughing—but this close, Izuku realizes in half-awe and half-horror that this man towers over him.
Izuku has never been the tallest person in class, but this man must be at least two metres tall. Registering that it’s rude to gape at the person who is starting a conversation, Izuku ducks his head shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ye—yeah,” he stumbles a bit, before regaining his composure. “It’s gorgeous.” It really is. He drags his eyes from the man to inspect the now brightening sky, vast and blue and pink. Izuku smiles. He hasn’t seen a sunrise in a long, long time.
“I never saw anyone else running around here before,” the man begins, before another wet cough wrecks through him. Izuku averts his eyes, determined not to let it bother him. He really hates being rude.
“Ah, yeah,” Izuku can see why. Dagobah beach, despite the beautiful sunrise, is a hideous trash dumpster. But that’s exactly why he’s started to run here, of all place. “I like that, um, I like that it’s empty.” It makes him less nervous. “Also …” he slows, tentative. “Well, I was thinking that maybe … I could start cleaning it up, bit by bit?” it could be some kind of project, or sort. And he needs to work up some muscles, anyway. The dojo has been great so far, but it also reveals to him that he lacks endurance and strength. He is a fast little guy, though, so he has that going for him.
The man stares at him, before smiling. For a moment, Izuku is struck with a weird deja vu. Something is familiar about it—and then it’s gone. “That’s a fine idea, young man,” the man says. His voice is soft. Despite his height and emaciated figure, Izuku finds it hard to feel threatened, or intimidated. This man feels kind. “Ah, my name is Yagi Toshinori. What’s your name, son?”
Izuku makes up his mind. He doesn’t talk to strangers, but—it’s a good day. An actual good day, one in a million. And this looks like it could be a start to a friendship. Izuku doesn’t have many of those.
“Midoriya Izuku,” he smiles, bowing respectfully. “Nice to meet you, Yagi-san.”