Chapter Text
Shouta blinks, nearly lifting a hand to his eyes to try and rub the image away. But he blinks again, and the sight in front of him has still not changed. Taking a calming breath, he moves forward with a certain level of caution, not wanting to startle the person sitting precariously on the ledge. A fall from this height would certainly do a catastrophic amount of damage. Small, hunched, and mumbling beneath their breath as if they’re pleading for something, he doesn’t really know what to make of them at first. Once he’s closer, Shouta makes his footsteps known and the kid—because they really can’t be anything else—stiffens. He knows this has to be done carefully. If this situation is what his gut is telling him it is, even one wrong move could scare the kid into doing something entirely rash and violent. That’s not how he wants this to end.
Shouta sits next to the kid, leaving enough space that he shouldn’t feel threatened, but the mumbling stops. They sit in silence for a while, watching the setting sun paint the horizon a myriad of warm tones. Something far too comforting for the riotous feelings brewing in his chest. He tries and fails to not notice the criss-cross of scars both old and new across the kid’s exposed arms, his heart sinking at the realization—and confirmation—of what he’s found. Tears line his eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall.
“You’re the pro hero, Eraserhead, aren’t you?”
Startled by the meek and weak voice, no doubt worn from the torrent of tears he can see still drying on the kid’s cheeks, Shouta nods, then sighs, knowing the kid hasn’t looked in his direction since he arrived. “I am, kid. Will you tell me your name?”
The kid laughs harshly, wet and ratting. “I don’t think it matters anymore.”
Shouta exhales roughly, tucking his chin into the capture scarf around his neck. “Is there someone who it would matter to?”
The nature of the question finally gets a reaction from the kid. He glances at Shouta, brows lowered in confusion. “I’m sitting on the ledge of a ten story building, debating if it would hurt more to jump or to walk back inside. I wouldn’t have arrived here if I mattered to someone.”
Shouta winces, failing to stop the reaction. He laughs, knowing it sounds wrong, but he can tell that this kid usually has some spunk. He must be as bright as the sun, and Shouta hates that his glow has been dimmed. “I suppose that was a poor question. My bad, kid.” After another long silence, he tries again. “Can I ask you something else?”
“I’m not going to stop you.”
Shouta debates between asking something that could spook the kid, or something mundane enough that it’s his chance at distraction. Something tells him there’s a slim possibility of him convincing the kid to do anything. Deciding that he doesn’t particularly like either of those options, he turns to something else. “I had a friend named Oboro in high school. Him and Hizashi. They were friends before they found me, and I got adopted by the two most outgoing people in existence. It was honestly a nightmare at first. I preferred silence, and with them it was never quiet.”
“None of that was a question.”
Shouta glances at the kid and raises a brow, daring him to contradict him again. “Can I continue?” Startled, the kid nods, averting his eyes and glancing towards the ground. Shouta hopes that he hasn’t scared the kid, and continues. “The three of us went to U.A. High together. Do you know of that school?”
“The school that houses the most promising of our future heroes? Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
Shouta once again feels that in any other situation, the kid is spry, downright delightful—someone who shines so bright others can’t bear to keep looking for too long—and so much different than what’s sitting next to him right now. He’d do anything to see a smile on the kid’s face. A hint of the quick wit he knows is hidden somewhere in there. Anything that would symbolize there’s something left other than macabre resignation. “Out of all the classmates I had around me, I knew that Oboro and Hizashi were going to be something great. Even as teenagers, they had the kind of personalities best suited for being a hero. Always helpful and ready to step in when someone else needed help—whether it be a struggle with class work or someone having difficulties with their quirks. Outgoing and friendly. But, Oboro, most of all, was selfless, more so than Hizashi or I ever were. Always putting others before himself and never caring what consequences that might bring upon him. As long as everyone else was safe and unharmed, what he suffered didn’t matter.
“Although it was one of his greatest strengths, and what ultimately made him a hero to me, it was also his downfall. He always threw himself in front of Hizashi and I, no care for his own personal safety. More often than not, he was covered in bandages. Almost always had one on his nose because of how badly he broke it. It never was straight again, but it never bothered him. It was worth the price of being a hero to him. What’s a broken nose compared to the life and death of innocent people? It was a no-brainer. We tried our best not to fault him for his decisions, and were always there to patch him up when the worst of it was over.
“Still, no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t save Oboro from his own selflessness.” Shouta glances at the kid, checking to make sure he’s still listening. To his surprise, the kid’s looking at him, his stare intense and unsettling. Like he was looking straight through him and not at all. Shouta doesn’t think he’s ever seen eyes so green. Eyes so haunted. Whatever light Shouta was sensing in this kid, it’s deep and has been blown out so many times, he wonders how he keeps it lit any more. It’s weak and sputtering, a wick burnt down to a stub. For one so young, he’s so, so tired. Shouta leans closer, nearly bumping their shoulders together. “Are you still with me?”
Slowly, the kid nods, swallows audibly. Quietly, he says, “You couldn’t save him.”
Even though it’s been years since that day—when he lost one of the brightest lights in his life—the pain is still fresh. His throat dries and swells, near to the point of pain. But he forces out the words. The kid deserves it. “I couldn’t save him. But he saved me.” The kid closes his eyes and inhales deeply, shuddering even though there’s no breeze.
“How?”
Shouta inhales, holding the breath until it feels like his lungs are going to implode. “Oboro pushed me out of the way of some falling debris while we were working a mission—not even supposed to be engaged in combat with how young we were. But something went wrong, and when the dust cleared, he was the one under the slab of fallen concrete, and not me.” Shouta is quiet for a long while. He steals glances at the kid, noticing that he’s looking more gathered. He’s no longer breathing raggedly and he almost looks calm. Shouta finds it within himself to dig more painful details out from his battered heart. “Sometimes I still blame him for what happened. I wonder if it would’ve been better if he never pushed me out of the way. Oboro was the better of us, the one meant for great things.” Shouta rasps a laugh, the noise sounding wrong even to his own ears. “He was a hero, long before any of us had the chance to realize it. He deserved to live far more than I did.
“But that’s a selfish way to think about it. As much as I feel remorse for what happened, I know he would be pissed if I so much as thought any of it was my fault. It was just who he was. He saved people. It’s what he did. And there’s nothing better I could do than to honor him by doing my best to do the same thing.”
“I was born without a Quirk.”
All Shouta can do is blink, the statement so unexpected it leaves him speechless. But instead of trying to form coherent words, he notices that the kid finally looks like he has something to say. So he waits, and he listens.
“My earliest memories are of others talking about their Quirks, theorizing what they might get one day from the combination of their parent’s power. I didn’t know what I would end up with, but I was so excited from the moment I learned there was a chance I could one day save people. Be the one who would make people feel relief when they were in danger. I had the most noble of intentions, but that wasn’t enough. My friend, Kacchan, was the first one of us to develop his Quirk. Explosions—which were only right considering he had the most volatile personality I think I’ve ever encountered. But…that was when Kacchan suddenly wasn’t such a good friend to me anymore. More and more classmates manifested a Quirk, and suddenly I was the only one left without one. It never came—and never will.” The kid smiles, and the sight scares Shouta. It’s broken, just like the one wielding it. “Medically unable; those are the exact words the doctor used. Born with a defect that made it so I would never be anything but ordinary.”
“You really believe that?”
The kid startles, turning to look at Shouta with widened eyes. “What do you mean?”
Shouta exhales slowly, gaining composure. “You believe that lacking a Quirk makes you ordinary? Kid, that’s a load of shit.” Some part of Shouta rejoices in the stunned expression he’s elicited. Anything is better than the fragmented facade the kid’s been wearing. Shouta tentatively reaches over and lifts the kid’s chin with a gentle touch, making sure not to move too fast. When their eyes finally meet, Shouta puts every ounce of emotion he has into his next words. “You are special because you exist. There is never going to be another person like you. You bring something to this world. Some people have more impact than others, but that doesn’t mean the effects aren’t felt all the same.”
Shouta despairs when tears line the kid’s eyes and spill over. That’s really not the effect he was going for. Carefully, he draws his hand back, giving the kid room.
“Kacchan told me that maybe I would have a chance at getting a Quirk in my next life. He told me to take a swan dive off a building…and I ended up here. Still taking his advice, even after all these years.”
The admission stuns him into silence. A gaping, sucking, consuming silence. Shouta knows—he knows—that this final comment was simply just a tipping point. Not nearly the worst this kid has had to endure. The myriad of scars on him, the utter brokenness—they all point to one simple conclusion.
The life this kid has endured has never been easy.
“Look, kid. There was a reason that I wanted to tell you Oboro’s story. Yes, he was my best friend, and I feel his loss everyday, but that’s not the message I was trying to send.” He gives the kid a second to calm down before he continues—or maybe he’s doing his best to compose himself. “Oboro was the first of the many that I wouldn’t be fast enough to save. A life that I felt was worth more than mine. But what I waste I would be, if I didn’t do the right thing and continue living a life that was worth it. Saving people is a noble pursuit, there’s a reason why so many people dream of becoming heroes like All Might and Endeavor. I may never be famous as they are for doing my part to help others, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to stop doing it.
“So what can I do to save you, kid?”
The kid averts his eyes, looking at the empty space between his feet, dangling over the edge. “This was never about Oboro, was it?”
Shouta sighs, his shoulders slumping. “No—this has always been about you, kid.”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know if I want to be saved.”
This breaks Shouta’s heart. He knew it—could tell just by where he and this kid were sitting. There was no going back from the pain. It was an endless push and pull of which direction was going to be worse. In a far corner of his mind, he’s known this entire time that he could simply wrap the kid up in his capture weapon and physically remove him from the roof—but that’s not what this kid needs.
No.
This kid needs to know that there is someone who is there for him. Someone who he matters to.
Because without a doubt, Shouta knows that if this kid were to die, it would matter to him. He would feel the pain nearly as acutely as he does the pain of losing Oboro. But he’s in no position to make such a claim out loud—and hopes with his entire being that by just sitting here, getting to know the kid—that he’s showing him that he’s worth the time. Worth the effort to save. That he deserves more than the pain he’s suffered.
Shouta nearly startles when a weight settles against his shoulder—but he quickly realizes that the kid has leaned his head on his shoulder—and Shouta so badly wants to wrap the kid in a hug. It’s what they both need right now.
So he does, and when the kid buries his face in Shouta’s chest, allowing himself to be consoled, the restless, writhing worry in his heart quiets. “I’m here, kid. I’m not going anywhere.”
Shouta spends as long as he needs whispering soft assurances, soothing a hand up and down the kid’s back, and holding him as tightly as he dares. The sky has turned a midnight blue by the time the kid quiets, and Shouta decides that with the setting sun, his fight is over.
The kid doesn’t protest as he’s lifted into Shouta’s arms, and remains compliant even when Shouta starts walking away from the ledge. It seems that both of them release breaths of relief.
“Izuku.”
Shouta blinks and looks down at the kid he thought was asleep. “What’s that?”
The kid blinks slowly, as if rousing himself—or fighting off the exhaustion he’s no doubt feeling. “My name’s Izuku.”
Izuku lets Shouta carry him away from the ledge, knowing that there’s at least one person in this world that he matters to. No matter what path he chose today, it was going to be a hard choice. Sometimes, the hardest thing is to keep on living. But Izuku knew that the difficulty would be worth it. His fight isn’t over.