Chapter Text

Izuku was going to pull his wings off his back.

He was going to take Eraserhead’s capture weapon and strangle his limbs until they lost circulation and fell off like keloids. His wings fucking hurt, his bank account hurt worse, and every time the adults looked at him Izuku felt his skin peel up like boiled scales.

Fuck.

—

Go back for a minute.

You have to go back for a minute to understand what was happening. People around wouldn’t tell you, so you had to go back in order to make sense of everything happening around you.

Again, go back. Again, all around.

Izuku Midoriya had a track record. Would you believe it?

Well, probably not. Something about going. Something about actually leaving. Something about his parents actually fighting and people getting the wrong idea because there was one fight that the neighbors heard, and they never asked again afterwards. (Izuku thought they were cowards for that. He couldn’t blame them. He couldn’t. His heart hurt too much whenever he tried.) Something about running away. Something about his parents not keeping him, too much work—not from him, or about him, but because they worked a lot—Dad overseas, Mom volunteering and barely getting paid anything to teach emergency medic classes—and Izuku was in school or at the library, not his house.

They loved him a lot. They loved his track record too, actually.

High scores. Even though he cried most of the time, stressed out, pulling at his hair, praying to the invisible man above him, he was granted high scores. Top of his class, even when he wasn’t flying above them or settling in uncomfortably in tree branches. Like this: Izuku was good at a lot of things. Mostly just enough to get by—but he could ace the tests, recall the material. He started fumbling when the weather got bad.

Track record. Bad scores? Bad activities? No school clubs? Known to skip class and vomit in the school bathrooms for reasons unrelated to rotten food or bug-infested rice? Something like that.

But, there was something else.

A different kind of track record. A different kind.

Not that his parents really—like—knew about it. Knew how complicated it was. How deep it went. Bad wings, or whatever. Grew into them later than all the other kids. Gave his Dad quite a fright when little wing-buds appeared on his backside, you know? The track record, though, was about something else. Like: go-go-go-go. Izuku pressed his hands to his head. Pulled at his hair. Dreamed. Slipped between the steps and the stairwell and the skies and the rooftops.

Izuku Midoriya might have a quirk, but there was something lacking in the supplies. In the meaning. What meaning? Who could guess. (You couldn’t guess. You couldn’t. It wasn’t fucking possible to guess.) He slipped, sometimes, and it scared his Mom and worried his Dad and he couldn’t help it, exactly, but the teachers were sick of it happening, and the guidance counselor was concerned in that weird low-class middle school way, and Izuku tasted smoke in his throat when he wasn’t tasting second-hand menthol or mint. Not that the smoke was second-hand, though. His parents didn’t smoke. His father breathed fire.

You know.

Things got complicated in their little family tree.

He flew at night, normally. He wasn’t supposed to, because it counted as using his quirk—unregulated—but flying was better than walking. He soared for miles, blended into the night. Dark green to dark brown to pale, like his skin, folded up. Thickened feathers, too long pieces, strangely attached, fluttering, eight feet wide. Wingspan. He could fly. He couldn’t duck into sharp corners as easily as others, but he could learn how, and that meant he preened.

Track record. Haha.

Izuku was, well, a little everywhere. All over the place, you know?

His Mom didn’t travel like Hisashi did, but when there was a big business thing, Izuku almost always ended up on a plane visiting wherever it was his Dad was businessing in. All over. Overseas, often, yeah. The suits and clothes in the master bedroom’s closet were often missing or unused for months at a time.

Izuku liked taking his Dad’s overcoats, the fancy ones—but not the overly expensive ones—and tugging them on. He liked wearing them when he was out and about, adding to his record. (It wasn’t a bad crime, it wasn’t. He refused to believe it was bad to do what he did. Some bullshit. Petty. Something about control and order. What was worth maintaining? People died. Izuku wanted to—didn’t say so out loud—and followed the sirens and watched from pinpoints on rooftops. He was a kid. He was a kid with a key to the front door. So independent, you cheered. Izuku, by young teenage nature, a tale as old as time, used the key to sneak out at night. His parents were probably aware of this. Mom gave him knee-pads, said something about protecting yourself if you ever have rough landings. Dad let Izuku keep the dark blue overcoat. Fancy thing.

Izuku was doing what people called illegal and illicit activities. Izuku was doing what he did best, actually. He was okay or decent at everything else. High scores or not, it didn’t feel like success.

But like this? This?

Fly, birdy-thing, fly. Izuku liked to tap out. There was a proper term for it, one he didn’t like hearing or saying—made everything too real, and he didn’t want it to be real like that—but that thing was what he was doing. Yeah. Yes. That thing. That thing that he would not say out loud, or type into Google’s search bar. He didn’t want to have confirmation.

(You would hate it, too, if you knew. If you really, completely knew. It stung.)

Tap out, or something.

Izuku liked diving through clouds, getting high up in the air when no one could see him or know him or miss him. Diving through the cold mist, not fluffy or soft. Just gentle condensation, if anything. Track record! Illegal quirk use. Interference with the law department—probably—interference with the justice system. Vigilantism, sure, supposedly. Not that he was a big thing or anything. Izuku wasn’t big, he didn’t want to be, so he wasn’t.

So.

Like this: go back, please wait, go back—

—

He didn’t have friends to share this with, exactly, but he was certain someone knew about it. If anyone didn’t, and didn’t think it over, Izuku would be mildly surprised. Really. He would actually be surprised.

Then again, how else would he have gotten away with it for so long?

Maybe no one knew. Maybe.

—

EXPLANATION, WRITTEN BY IZUKU MIDORIYA: Kill yourself. Or don’t. Either one. It’s your funeral, not [REDACTED]’s.

—

Izuku didn’t tell his parents he wanted to die.

He wasn’t even sure how one would go about doing that, actually. It wasn’t like he had any reason to want to die. It wasn’t like he had any reason to want to not be alive. Dying might not be the right way to say it—wanting it to be over, maybe, might fit the ticket more.

He could say it like this, and he practiced it in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Mom, Dad, I want to die,” Izuku said.

But it sounded wrong, and he didn’t know how to say it without sounding stupid. When he googled it, he got helpline and hotline numbers, and none of them gave him a direct phrase. Get help. Don’t kill yourself. Don’t take those pills. Please sit down. Please think it through. Get help. Ask. Tell someone. Tell someone. Tell someone. How? That was the question.

Also, another question: why?

Like, fucking why?

Was he ever actually going to kill himself? Or was he just dreaming for death? An end in a way that wasn’t so direct? It wasn’t like he was going to get hit by a car or something. He didn’t want to die like that. Bullet to the head? Was that any better? He didn’t know.

Google wouldn’t give him a good answer, and he didn’t want to clog his search history with things like that. It would be hard to explain, right, and scarier for his parents than just coming clean.

Izuku stared at his reflection in the mirror. He took a deep breath. “Mom, Dad, I’m suicidal,” he said.

The silence was quite loud.

He sighed. Now it just sounded like he was trying to come out.

—

There were good things going on, though. Ignoring everything else.

There were a lot of better things happening in the dark. Late at night, you know. Trembling, twisting. Skin turning blue and purple, healing gold and tawny days after the fact. Fists and guns and knives and quirks and blunt surfaces and shaky things, shakier things by a kid.

Izuku was a vigilante. That was what the law classified him as, though it felt rather—well—inaccurate. He was lackluster, and real vigilantes were on a different wavelength. Just as there were help systems for heroes, there were similar systems for vigilantes, villains, the whole lot. (Give him the fucking lot.) And listen, Izuku wasn’t the worst kid you’ll ever see. You’ll see a lot worse than him. On the other hand, he was one of the least helpful vigilantes around. He didn’t involve himself fully into these things. He kept eyes and ears, stalked and flew about. If anything, he was some kid with a deathwish and a bad mindset.

This meant—

Well—

“God, kid,” Eraserhead snapped at him, “What the hell are you doing?”

Izuku groaned, exhaustedly, and there was blood all over his wings. He stumbled onto the roof, still exhaustedly, and tumbled down into an unceremonious heap. “What I want,” he muttered. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Eraserhead told him, and he was serious and solemn and angry and not kind.

(FOR CONTEXT, READ THE LAST EXPLANATION. DID IT MAKE MORE SENSE?)

Izuku rolled back over, trembling. His ribs pressed awkwardly into the rooftop. He settled into a side-lay, breathing harsh, and threw a wing over his body to try and hide the obvious gunpowder and blood that stained his other half. Ugh. Vertical halves were so annoying. And this was a good jacket, a good shirt. Why did someone have to try and shoot him? He didn’t realize he was a fucking shooting target. Fuck. “Whatever,” the kid said, intelligently, “Then the province pays for my funeral, right? Cremate me.” He shuddered fakely, to sell the stupid act. “It’s cheaper than a grave.”

Eraserhead was furious at such a comment. He came over and knelt down next to Izuku, not hesitating for a second before grabbing the kid’s wing and prying it away from Izuku’s side. He started to talk, “You—”

He didn’t want to hear this shit!

Same old lecture from the same old man who knew literally nothing! Crazy work! No thank you!

The kid, of course, flung the limb back at him with as much force as a tired fourteen year old could. “Oh, fuck off!” He yelled, raising his voice, and he clamored upwards to really do the whole angry-bit.

Shouta Aizawa, better known as Eraserhead by law enforcement and other law-adjacent people—vigilantes and villains included—was the man who had been tracing Izuku for a while. Yes, tracing. Not tracking as much as it was realizing who was at the scene and keeping notes on it. Izuku wasn’t very traceable at night. Fly up way high? Boom. Now you just need a cloud or a black canvas of stars and city pollution and you’ll blend right in until you can find a better place to hide. Eraserhead was an underground hero with extensive training and a rather deftly stashed arsenal of skills and supplies. Izuku was convinced that the man wanted to strangle him—the kid—but held off just because he was a child. Morals. A man of character. Neat.

He flapped his wing again, still strong enough to move, and huddled into an ungrateful sitting pose. His legs felt like jello. He wished he could get up and take a running leap off the building, become an angry but beautiful swan. “What the hell is your problem?” Izuku demanded, hotly, “You don’t just grab people!”

“You’re bleeding,” Eraserhead said tightly. “Normally, I wouldn’t go beyond asking unless you were concussed, but you’re a fucking migraine, kid.”

“Boohoo,” Izuku said, again, and smacked at the hero’s hand with his real arm. “Stop—”

“No, you,” The man raised his voice, and he pried a compact first aid kit out of one of his pouches at his belt. It was a small kit. Probably limited supplies of every variation. “You need to stop. You need to stop this repeated—” he I clicked the kit, pulled free a palm-sized bottle of antiseptic, and then a clean cloth from within the tiny little box. Izuku narrowed in on the antiseptic like it was holy water, and he was a demon. “—shit, need to stop putting yourself into the line of fire when you don’t know what’s going on—”

“She had a gun! She was going to shoot!” Izuku threw his hands up, outraged, and he leaned away rather violently when Eraserhead uncapped the bottle.

“—you aren’t a hero, and you shouldn’t go as far as to call yourself a vigilante,” Eraserhead was still saying, talking over Izuku but never actually yelling. A migraine, he had said. His hands moved. “It’s dangerous, and you doing this kind of thing isn’t going to save anyone, or—”

“Put that down,” The kid snapped, before the man could even get a drop of the liquid on the cloth. “Right fucking now, put that–put that down,” Izuku’s hands spasmed, and he was leaning away, and there was a long gash on his left wing and it had torn clean through the skin-thing membrane. The kid stared wide eyed at the hero, blank, shell-shocked—could this count as fear or was it just straight anger? He hissed, again, and his voice trembled like he was a little kid, “I swear to god, Eraser, put that down.”

“—yourself,” Eraserhead finished, looking up as soon as the words exited Izuku’s mouth. He closed his jaw. He didn’t pour the antiseptic.

“Put that down,” Izuku repeated, hotly, and he was angry.

Yeah. It was anger. A collective moment of silence, just the city noises following. No cursing, until right now, right now: fuck. Fuck. Why couldn't it be fear? Why was it—

(You weren’t made for this. As much as you say you were, you really weren’t, and it stung every time you were reminded of the truth. Heroism was a pipe-dream and you were the crazy fuck who made it a bomb. Transitional. Sensational. Inspirational, absolutely insane in the membrane, whatever the fuck. From this to that. Mommy and Daddy didn’t know what you were doing. They didn’t know. They thought it was partying. They thought it was late nights at diners and arcades with the nonexistent friends you say you have. That you don’t have. That you won’t ever have, because you were too busy doing this, all the time, every night. Vigilantism. V-I-G-I-L-A-N-T-I-S-M. Except you were fourteen and stupid, dumb, always dreaming, and you weren’t strong or fast or special in any way, and you barely got by. Why were you here? Why did you bother? Everyone knew that you weren’t able to do this, that you weren’t made for it, weren’t ready for—)

“Kid,” Eraserhead said, slowly, and all his anger had disappeared with one collective breath.

Izuku’s throat felt hot. His skin, too, like he was burning up on the inside. He probably was. “No,” he repeated, slower to match. He stuck out his hand. No gloves, gritty—there was blood drying under his nails. “Just give it to me. I’ll do it.”

“Your hand is shaking,” Eraserhead told him, but he was quieter. Not as obviously angry. He looked steady, now, and he held the antiseptic and the cloth and knelt on the roof in front of Izuku. Waited.

(Keep waiting.)

“I don’t want you to,” The kid told him, low to the solid space beneath him.

“I could,” Eraserhead murmured, and there it was.

There it was. The softeners that Izuku despised. The softness that heroes would normally have when dealing with injured kids, vigilante-adjacent or not. I’m not who you say I am, Izuku’s hands hurt. His wing was starting to throb painfully, the long gash finally making a way into his mind. Strong, sturdy. He didn’t want to be helped. He didn’t want to be known. He had a paper plate over his face with eye holes made by an orange box cutter. Fancy little thing. Far better than his other ideas of a disguise.

“I don’t trust you to,” Izuku corrected, and he glanced away and then back to the man’s capture weapon, unmarred. He wished he could breathe fire like his Dad. He wished. The anger was sharp and fresh, and there were tears in his eyes when he said it. “So,” he struggled to make himself strong, “Give me the damn—”

Eraserhead extended the antiseptic and the cloth, didn’t say anything else.

Izuku dumped the bottle onto the cloth, unceremoniously—he never claimed to be graceful or grateful—and took the wetted cloth and twisted his wing uncomfortably. He made it fold and tangle and wrap closer, forwards facing, backwards-bend. Took one moment to steel himself, and then plastered the cloth over the long gash and started swiping. Pain sprung up quickly, and he was three seconds away from crying or cursing or campaigning for his own trial to end with the death penalty, but then it smoothed out and the awful pain turned into a distant throb. Finally, finally. He blinked at the wound, the way red spilled up as he cleaned it methodically. A clean slice. Stitches were probably needed. He breathed.

The hero waited for him.

Normally, they didn’t fight. Normally, he promised, really, they didn’t fight or yell. But Izuku was—crazy, only getting crazier—and Shouta Aizawa seemed adamant on stopping the decline. The spiral. Izuku swallowed bile. He wished he was at home, wished he painted his ceiling red instead of his jacket.

“Do you know how to put in the stitches?” Eraserhead asked, finally.

“Yes,” Izuku muttered.

He handed the bottle and the cloth back to the man, wing shaking and trembling like it was a separate entity, hurt by its roughened treatment. Just a limb, no stronger than one of Izuku’s arms. The hero accepted the items back into his possession. He was still watching the kid.

“Are you certain?” Eraserhead pressed. He was quiet when he did. He was quiet. Izuku wished he would be loud again.

He scoffed, “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

(Go home, kid.)

—

Mom (7:24am): Did you make it to school okay?

baby boy (7:25am): yeah I’m all good
baby boy (7:25am): I’ll text you at lunch

Mom (7:25am): Have a good day, sweetheart

baby boy (7:27am): I love you

—

His Mom looked at him funny, like she couldn’t quite put her finger on what was wrong with her baby. “Are you okay, honey?”

“Yeah,” Izuku croaked, and he had a fever and a busted wing. He kept it folded, healing incorrectly—a jagged scar that was tender had already formed. Six days after the incident, and his mama was just now noticing. Izuku felt like the forgotten pet project in a kindergarten class. He wanted to crawl into someone’s arms and die. He wished his Mom would let him. He wished. “It’s just,” the kid’s eyes burned, and he shook his head, “I’m a little stressed.”

Mom softened immediately, coming over and pressing her soft hands into his shoulders. She gave him a squeeze, empathetic. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and pulled him into a hug.

Izuku felt like he was suffocating.

He let her hold him for a few seconds, maybe thirty, and then pried himself away. He couldn’t hide how he gasped for air, almost choking.

Mom looked spooked. “Izuku?”

“Sorry,” He echoed, choking a little, and he bundled his hands into his shirt and tugged it away from his neck and torso, trying to pull. He didn’t feel better. He wished he could crack open his chest and pry his lungs out, let them exist outside of a flesh body. His body. “Sorry, Mom,” he repeated. “I just—”

“No, it’s okay, it’s alright,” His Mom said, and she understood, and she looked so sad. She glanced at his trembling shoulders, his tense wings. “Your father is like this, too. It’s not your fault.”

Izuku’s eyes burn.

—

Eraserhead (4:29am): Do you need anything the next time we meet?

it’s not me (6:42am): don’t contact me about this. I’m studying right now. Can’t afford to think about other things atm

Eraserhead (6:43am): Good luck with your studies. I’ll bring food next time.

it’s not me (6:57am): I won’t eat it [Read 7:01am]

—

Izuku stretched his wings out, tried not to imagine himself falling off the edge of the building. It was hard not to imagine. Most people would be too nervous to sit so close to the edge. Too nervous. Too sane. Something like it. But if you were a vigilante, or a hero, or any kind of fighting-figure, you had to be a little crazy to get the job done. If you weren’t missing a few screws, how could you get anything done?

“Do you want to be a hero?” Eraserhead asked him.

“What?” Izuku muttered, not paying attention. He watched the cars below him, their headlights and brake lights glinting in the night.

“Kid,” Eraserhead repeated.

Izuku pulled his attention away, finally, stomach wrapping itself awkwardly around the part of his soul he was convinced wasn’t real. Because he was a kid, and not strong, and not like actual heroes or real villains. He was just around. He wasn’t particularly quiet or loud. If anyone saw him, they would see him, recognize him. But he was a nobody. Not because no one remembered him. But because his impact was nonexistent, and he did this for selfish reasons. Fire licked at his throat when he leaned close to the American candle in his room, black smoke tickling his skin when he swallowed. He didn’t breathe fire like his father, though. He didn’t have that kind of power. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t.

“What?” Izuku repeated, and he was tired now, and his wings stretched again. “Can you say it again, whatever you said?”

His wings weren’t like a bird’s, he wasn’t graceful like hawks or owls. He wasn’t giddy like geese. He wasn’t like bats, or sugar gliders. He wasn’t sure what he was like. A strange combination of factors that allowed him to fly. Skin and membrane and hollow bones. Light on his feet. Happier when near warmth, but never happy enough to fix his head.

Eraserhead was staring at him again. Izuku looked over his shoulder,ignoring the cars in order to frown at the underground hero. “What?” He muttered, not wanting to get a lecture. “Was it something important? I swear I won’t forget. Just tell me again.”

“Do you want to be a hero?” The man repeated, probably for the ninth time.

Oh.

Say you’re sorry, someone said in his head. It sounded an awful lot like his mother when she was younger and not on two different medications. Don’t leave him hanging, say you’re sorry. Be a hero? Who was Eraserhead kidding? He wet his lips.

“Sorry, no,” Izuku mumbled. “I wouldn’t make a dent.”

“What does that matter?” Eraserhead asked, and he sounded solid. Izuku blinked sluggishly at him. The man stared at him, unblinking, and he didn’t need to use his quirk or scarf to render Izuku’s wings useless. “Making a dent or not is subjective depending on what you’re trying to do. A speciality.” The man tipped his head down, finally walking closer to the edge. “I asked if you wanted to be a hero, not if you’d change the world.” He looked over the edge. Izuku imagined pushing him off. He slid his wings closer to his own body, inching away from Eraserhead’s space. The hero turned his head, looked at Izuku with black eyes. “Do you?”

Izuku stared back at him. His shoulders raised, started hunching, and he wished he was wearing one of his father’s business jackets. He wished he wasn’t in some old jacket, zippers busted, patches of hero-names and random foreign brands all over the fabric. He winced, shook his head, “How would I know?”

“Most kids know,” Eraserhead told him.

Well, he wasn’t most kids. He licked the roof of his mouth, looked away from Eraserhead. It wasn’t—like that. Or anything. He didn’t want to be a hero the way he wanted to live. Or wanted to die. Heroism wasn’t something he wanted.

It wasn’t.

“I don’t,” Izuku worried his lip between his teeth. He wished he liked nicotine. He wished he had poison, plans to die, not unofficial ideas of how to make it look like an accident, a mystery; he wasn’t meant to be killing himself, he wasn’t even fifteen yet. “Graduation is a long way away—why would I think about heroism?”

“You’re a vigilante,” Eraserhead muttered, the words dragging at his throat.

Izuku’s shoulders shook, and he squeezed his wings closer to his body. You’re mean, he thought. My parents aren’t mean at all. Why are you so mean?

“You said I wasn’t,” Izuku snapped, and he hated how he sounded like a child. He was always a child. He didn’t want to be reminded of it. “You said that I can’t call myself that,” he waved his hands. “So, no. I’m a kid partaking in vigilantism.” He scoffed. “Not a vigilante.”

There was a long silence.

Izuku’s stomach curdled. He wished he wasn’t hungry, wished the nausea would go away. Fuck you and your stupid rules and your stupid expectations. You didn’t know me. I don’t know me. But I know me better than anyone else—including you—so stop fucking acting like you desrve any input. I’ll do what I want with my life. It’s my life. Fuck you. Fuck you. He didn’t say this. He squeezed his hands together, breaths harsh.

The hero looked at him. “You need to figure out what you want to do with your life.”

“Oh, yeah, as if,” Izuku mocked, wings shuddering. He unfolded them, stood up, and shook himself off. “I’ll just kill myself once I expend all my other options.” And when Eraserhead grabbed at his scarf, about to—

—do something—

(—who knew what?)

Izuku had already danced away, gliding down from the roof with sweeps of his wings. He scattered and landed ceremoniously on the roof on the other side of the alley, the whirlwind of cars on the road somewhere below to the left of him. He pointed at it, haughtily, “I’m just kidding! Don’t think so hard about it!”

Eraserhead was staring at him from the other roof, perhaps murderous.

Izuku flew home.

—

The skin coiled too tightly.

He was staring at it wrongly, by extent, and he knew that was bad, too. It was always bad when he did it. No one ever said it was, but it fucking was, and Izuku was weak to the whims of his brain. Hook his nails at the ends of his fingers at the delicate skin of his wrist. The dry part of his elbows, the softness of his belly. Thin, he was thin, but he wasn’t particularly strong—not fit, not in shape.

He didn’t like the idea of the muscle.

He didn’t like the idea of the skin, either. He wanted to tear it off; put his teeth to his thumb; carve the nail out with his incisors, make it hurt, just so he can make everyone who ever doubted him doubt him even further.

Izuku was looking at his shoulder blades. He shouldn’t, exactly, because he knew what happened if he looked at it for too long.

(A lot of people knew, but, ah—)

“Hurry up,” One of his classmates yelled over their shoulder, having seen Izuku start geeking out about his wings, grown from skin, attached to him easily.

It was the only part of Izuku that was strong, sturdy. Everything else wobbled eventually, weak, pale, wrong in some manner. Izuku’s wings weren’t delicate. They weren’t prone to injury the way the rest of him was. (But he could take them apart. He could preen the chunks apart, make himself frayed like bad rope, make himself look more like a bird than a human-wing-dragon-thing. He could.) Izuku unfurled his left wing, started unfolding it. He wasn’t like a bird, folding once. Izuku could fold his three times, bundle it and bundle it further. Keep it pressed far closer, previous material. Better maneuvering, even though he couldn’t maneuver perfectly in the sky—the tri-folding mechanism just wasn’t the same airborne. It was better, maybe, compared to other birds with their two-fold wings, but it wasn’t very efficient. There were too many joints, tendons, too many chances for injury. Not very effective.

“I’m hurrying,” Izuku muttered, even though he really wasn’t.

Being a weird classmate had its perks.

They didn’t bother him all that much. They didn’t talk or tease, exactly, because he wasn’t good enough to be friends with—but not bad enough to be the victim in bullying. He was, miraculously, allowed to get through the day with only teacher scoldings, and weird student looks.

“You can’t look at yourself all day,” A tall boy said, and he was fixing his hair next to Izuku’s right. “C’mon, Midoriya.”

He had wild yellow hair and a mean streak in his eyes. Probably from one of the other home rooms, sharing this hour because it was physical fitness. Izuku didn’t know him. Then again, he didn’t know everyone. He kept tabs, tracks—mentions and records of certain people. Most of his homeroom, for example, or the staff at Aldera. They were graduating soon, and seeing as Izuku’s only concern was his pending payment for his uniform replacement, he was set to graduate without issue. He winced when the other guy grinned at him, mean.

(Just because he knew you, didn’t mean you had to know him, didn’t mean anything important. Just—)

Be mean back, Izuku thought. He smiled, nodded, and didn’t do that.

“Yeah,” He agreed, fake-cheer, “I know, I know.” His stomach tied itself into knots. He was here, and he didn’t want to be, and his wings were wrong. He wished he could snap them all into pieces and come back later, return to a perfect body.

The mean guy waved, slipped out of the bathroom.

Izuku looked at his reflection. The bathroom was neatly sized, messy, and not his favorite place to be. On the other hand, he didn’t want to run laps right now. He was in his gym uniform. He was better suited to looking at his wings, ignoring the fact he needed to put his white shirt on. He held it with his hands, eyeing his shoulder blades in the mirror. He wanted to take something and hack each wing off. Sell them, maybe? He didn’t know where a market was for that. Yes, definitely a market. No, not a way out.

He didn’t want to go to class. Gym was one of his worse scores, if only because he did the absolute bare minimum. The teacher definitely hated him. Something about being a sore loser? Well, you know—Izuku wasn’t that fast. Or that strong. He had wings. And a good head, most of the time.

That was what it was. Yeah.

Yeah.

Izuku sighed, traced a pattern into his shoulder. His hands shook. He wanted to wrap his neck with one of his mother’s scarves. He wanted to take a gun and shoot himself over the carpet, make a mess. (He wanted a clean death. He didn’t even want a death. What the fuck was he even going on about?) Izuku blinked, dropped his hand from his shoulder. It was scarred. Seven freckles dappled the skin. He looked at it for a long moment, breathed out, and then finally began pulling on his gym shirt.

The class had started seventeen minutes ago. Izuku was surprised the coach didn’t send a kid back in here to drag him out.

That was normally what happened.

Despondent kid, they would say, bitter. He could do better. He chooses not to. He chooses to be a delinquent, even if he has good grades, and doesn’t fight. He’s still disorderly. Izuku’s Mom would say then let him do better. That would be the end of the conversation. Inko Midoriya would make Izuku call his Dad on the way home, talk like it could help. Wasn’t she the nurse? Why make him talk to dear old Dad, far away in some other country? Working? Okay.

He sighed, long and slow, and left the room. Go to class. Go run laps. Go and try and catch up to your peers, so far ahead of you. His hands were all numb, clammy. Ugh. Ugh.

He fucking hated when that happened.

(Like this: go-go-go-go.)

—

EXPLANATION, WRITTEN BY IZUKU MIDORIYA: There is something wrong with the son, [IZUKU MIDORIYA]. Please be aware. Vigilance is of the utmost importance. [IZUKU MIDORIYA] is quick to fly away.

—

Vigilance was important.

That, well, because Izuku was a vigilante. Only sometimes. By the law’s definition, he was partaking in vigilantism. Sure. So, that made him a vigilante, or a very confident risk-taking civilian. Illegal involvement in crime or stopping crime. Using a quirk to stop crime made you a vigilante, though. In most cases.

So, again, it was kind of crazy, right? It didn’t matter what you did, mostly, because they were probably going to arrest you anyway. Fucked up, huh. Yeah.

Too bad, right? Deku didn’t really know, but—

(But what?)

—

July came and so did his birthday. Like most of his birthdays, he recieved a nice chunk of cash—which he put in the shoebox under his bed, a carrot cake, and a three-hour phone call with his father, who sadly, couldn’t make it back in time. But I’ll be back in four days! Hisashi had assured him. He, also, received a text from Aunt Mitsuki wishing him well. He sent her a thank you GIF back, silenced his phone, and watched a movie about All Might with his Mom on the couch. She combed her hand through his hair and said she was proud of him. He thought about killing himself for the entire day. Fourteen to fifteen. School would be over soon. Shouldn’t he be, as well?

The July heat clung to his face when he went out that night. Dark skies, high temperatures. He soared the skies, left his bedroom window unlocked, and landed on a roof a few blocks away from a convenience store. He bought a blue raspberry slushie and sat on a roof while scrolling on YouTube.

He did not respond to any of Eraserhead’s texts, or any of Kacchan’s. He smiled when his alarm went off at 3:28 AM—and then he flew home.

(He, pointedly, did not kill himself.)

All in all, a good birthday.

—

CHECK IN WITH YOUR LOCAL VIGILANTES. YOU NEVER KNOW THE NEXT TIME THEY’LL TRY TO SHOOT THEMSELVES.

—

Izuku didn’t know any local vigilantes. Then again, most people wouldn’t.

Trying to get to know people fell into the reality category, a category he was not inclined to participate in. Not that anything else was much better. He hated dreaming. He hated thinking. He put his headphones on and drew over the wall above his bed. Paint dropped down. It fell onto his bed frame, his pillows. He wanted to cry. He was too tired, so fucking tired. He painted another face. Made stop-motion out of old memories; a father smiling, a mother laughing, a boy racing Izuku with red dragon-like wings.

Here it went: go, baby boy, go.

Izuku wanted to cry a lot of the time. It felt stupid, given his age. Fifteen years old.

He had been sneaking out of his house for a few months now. He liked stalking hero forum pages. He liked spending his time at the library or in his room. He skipped class to vomit up his empty stomach, make it emptier, taste acid. He didn’t do this all the time, but sometimes.

Just some.

No need to totally mess up his esophagus.

Just sometimes.

Skipped class, played dumb games on his phone. Surfed the internet about things that had no real importance. Never psychology. Never news outlets or school mentions. He analyzed what he could, when he wasn’t quite aware. Never when he was fully present. Never when he understood how bad things were.

His favorite class was art—stupid, odd—the teacher didn’t like him at all, but Izuku loved it in that damn room. Never skipped a lesson. Never missed it. He could be feverish and ill and hallucinatory and he would still show up to that class, dreaming—hated that he was dreaming—but still speaking and answering the lessons as they learned art principles and theories. Charcoal sketches. Watercolor nightmares. Trying to vocalize the thing in his head, that stinging ache, that bitter pain. Taking home quizzes and materials and recommendations, writing down brand names, researching techniques and trying to understand what he couldn’t name.

Mom loved the art he brought home; heroes and villains, complimentary colors, twisting battles, acrylic and oil and tempera paint.

Oddly done self-portraits, curly and swirly green hair, oil pastels that blended together awkwardly. Bad eyes, strange, too-big on the screen. Coiling poorly. Ugly? Or not. He never showed Mom those portraits, just took them home and threw them under his bed. In a cardboard box. Next to the shoebox of money he had been stockpiling for a while. You know. Just in case.

But, well, here was the other thing?

And it was a pretty big thing. Sometimes. Or, at least to him, it was a pretty big thing.

Most people didn’t know him the same way they didn’t know about, of, or truly know any local vigilantes. Crazy, right? Well, no, pretty average. Normal for normal civilians. It was why Izuku could put on a paper-plate and tied it with a string, cut out eye-holes with safety scissors—Mom took away all his razors last month, worried, not explaining herself—so safety scissors it was—and boom: certified local vigilante at your service.

Izuku didn’t know any local vigilantes.

He couldn’t really, like, check in with them. Not that he would have much luck. He was too nervous to check in with anyone. Ask, talk.

He got all keyed-up, angry or fearful or both.

He was a local vigilante. He liked talking to people in the dark, helping teenagers sneak home, and shielding people from robbers in the night. He also, by extension, liked stalking the robbers and muggers and strange people doing worse things than him and then call helplines anonymously. Because, yeah, he was pretty anonymous. No name. Yikes. Never gave himself a name. Deku was too obvious. Everything else was cheesy or cliche or ugly in his mouth.

“What are you thinking about?” Eraserhead asked him.

Izuku’s eyes twitched, and he looked at the man flatly. “Nothing,” he said, “Literally nothing. Why?”

He was wearing a brown paper bag instead of a paper plate. He drew scrabbly lines where a fake mouth should be, and cut out almonds for eyes. His hair clung to his neck. He duct-taped the damned paper to his neck. It was the worst mask he had ever used. It was hilarious.

“It’s never nothing,” Eraserhead said, and Izuku sighed loudly and dramatically.

He was a burden. That was his thing—burdensome, loathsome. Of course he was thinking about other things. Of course. Why did Eraserhead need to know?

—

Graduation came and went. He was allowed to graduate because his Dad got the uniform replacement fee waived, somehow. (Hooray.) Izuku cast a glance in Katsuki Bakugou’s direction, couldn’t help but look away as soon as he had seen enough.

(Talking to him was too much. Even looking gave Izuku a headache.)

“Kacchan,” He said, in goodbye, and he bowed his head a little when they passed each other. Kacchan hadn’t done anything, just glared at him. A win is a win, he assured himself, and then left it at that.

His Mom was excited that he was growing up. Dad came home to see it—brought souvenirs. Izuku didn’t ask where he had been, didn’t ask about it—because it would sting—and Izuku was trying to ignore all of that. But graduation was almost nice. He was dreaming for most of it. Slipping in and out of space, of his name. His own skin. Too much, too bright, make it red or blue or green or yellow or spades or checkered. He bit his lip hard and swiped his hair out of his face after completing the ordeal that was moving on from middle school.

“Did you apply anywhere?” Dad asked him.

Izuku shook his head. Stupid, dumb, useless high school applications. “I was just going to ask you,” he mumbled. “For help picking somewhere. Mom said to ask you.”

“Oh,” Dad said, and then he nodded kindly and smiled big. “Of course, then!”

—

Eraserhead (7:40pm): Are you safe?

it’s not me (7:46pm): Please stop asking me that when it’s obvious that I am safer than most kids my age

—

Who the fuck was [REDACTED]?

Izuku blinked. He didn’t know. Something was wrong, again, not that it never stopped being wrong—it was just more obvious, this time. Right now.

PICK UP THE PHONE, Izuku thought, and he felt loud and mean and awful and rude. He felt—really, really, really bad. And that was bad enough, but no. No, there was more, there was more! And he was burning alive and the carpet was blackened and there was fire pouring from his Dad’s throat and he hadn’t seen Dad in so long, wait, please, stop standing there, stop choking, please! But Dad was burning and burning and Inko was screaming at the fire, screaming at her son to get out, quick, or they will all die in here.

(Do you want to die?)

Izuku threw his phone, struggled, screeching. He ran towards his mother, wings unfurling. Trifecta! Some holy grail as fires licked the fields! And Dad was losing it, and Mom wasn’t leaving, and Izuku didn’t want to be alone, but—

(Well, maybe not yet. And certainly not like this.)

“Mom, go!” He was shouting, over and over. He wrapped his wings around her, pushed her onto the tiles. Tried to cover her. The ceiling was smoking, Hisashi was burning. His throat could only take so much heat, so much fire—Dragon Breath. Blue and red flames, hot, so terribly hot, and it bled outwards and Mom was on the ground and she was sobbing and there was char and smoke and death and go-go-go-go.

He wrapped his wings around her, felt fire lick at his skin.

But it was—

—

Izuku was fifteen years old.

He was born to a mother and a father—most were—and lived in the heart of Musutafu. He had freckles. He had teeth. He had eyes, too, and skin, and hair, and all the necessary organs to live and thrive. He had hollow bones. Good for flying. Good for pulling the air under him. He had wings to match. He was fifteen. He was good at science, better at literature—memorizing terms, laws, acts, events and names—but adequate at math. Okay at English. Okay at a lot of things. Not particularly great at anything. He graduated middle school a few weeks back. He would be sixteen this July.

He was sitting on a hospital bed. He was, also, simultaneously pretending he was anywhere but a hospital bed.

“Kid,” Aizawa muttered, too soft to be worth responding to.

The kid pretended he didn’t hear him. Izuku Midoriya had wings that stretched out roughly eight feet on either side of him. They were currently bundled up uncomfortably, featherless—fake feathers, not real feathers—and wrong in certain places. Bandaged. Wrapped. Damaged. Too bad, he could say, but he didn’t want to say. His Mom would say something like I’m so sorry, honey, I don’t know how to help. She used to be a nurse but she stopped practicing years ago. Now she couldn't practice at all. He didn’t mention it. He hoped Aizawa would leave it alone.

Shouta Aizawa was a hero. He was also, more importantly, the man who found Izuku after the accident.

(The Accident.)

Emphasis.

You had to emphasize it, separate it from what you now saw. What you used to be doing, what you couldn’t do again, what you would now be stalked for. Because it hurt. A lot. And that was bad enough.

“Midoriya,” Aizawa corrected himself, and he was still too soft spoken in this moment.

Izuku had burns all over and skin grafts and morphine. He did not have his parents. He did not have his vigilante costume—because that was what it was, a costume—and did not have anything to prove that the fire was an accident. Not a murder, not a murder-suicide, not like that at all.

An accident.

“What?” Izuku mumbled, because he was weak, and sometimes he wanted softness before brutality. He pealed his eyes open and stared at the hero next to the bed, in a shitty hospital chair. “What is it?” He asked, and it hurt, and he wanted his Mom and his gun and his phone—wanted his shoebox of birthday money. Nine years worth of birthday money that he had been saving up. His gaze was watery, colored in wrong. “Did you need something, sir?”

“Kid,” Aizawa repeated, again. “Just—”

Because it was Midoriya or Kid and never Izuku or NOWINGSFORREALNOWINGSATALLEVER. Sorry. It was better said as no-wings-for-real-no-wings-at-all-ever. Sorry, again. It could also be said as No Wings. Or just Wings. Or something similar, because Izuku never gave himself a name.

(Eraserhead had never pushed for one. Not after the first few nights being empty-handed.)

Vigilantes, psh.

Why would he have given himself a name? He had never bothered on doing anything serious. Fifteen year olds shouldn’t be involved in anything serious. They shouldn’t be involved in anything, half-baked or good or grand or real or fake. It just—you know. Well. It shouldn’t happen.

“I’m fine,” Izuku told the man, finally. He sounded like a liar. “I’m fine. Stop worrying.”

Aizawa looked at him.

(If he knew who you were, would he bother looking?)

Izuku’s eyes were wet. He looked down to the white hospital blanket that was wrapped over him. Neatly tucked in, like he was going to stay here for a while. He didn’t want to. He didn’t. What was the point in staying? No one ever did, and no one wanted him to, and you knew that. You. He wished he could scratch at his arms until the skin rippled away like orange peels.

“Stop worrying,” Izuku repeated, and it shouldn’t be like this, it shouldn’t be anything like this at all. He licked his lips—cracked, raw, dry—and tried to put it together.

“Midoriya,” Aizawa said. “Your mother and father are dead.”

“I know,” Izuku whispered. “I know.”

Through it all, of course he knew. Why wouldn’t he? He had been awake. He had been aware, more aware than anyone else. He had tried to cover her with his wings, after all. He had tried to drown out his father’s fire with water, tried and failed, tried and failed. Stumbling, like a fledgling, like a bird and not a dragon. Not his father’s son, but his father was long gone, and smoke rumbled in a bad apartment. Now that place was burnt and dead and gone. So was Inko Midoriya. So was his bedroom, his belongings, everything.

Of course he knew that his Mom was gone. He had tried to save her, push her out of the apartment. Tried to cover her from the flames. Tried to make it better, tried to—

Aizawa scrubbed his face with his hand. He looked exhausted, utterly heavy. “I’m sorry,” he said, to the room, to Izuku. It still hurt to hear. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I am, too,” Izuku mumbled.

It hadn’t really hit him yet. It wouldn’t, he knew, for a few weeks. A few months.

Grief never hit him until later, after the sun rose and the skies were pink and he couldn’t send a photo to his mother’s phone. Couldn’t share. Couldn’t see her smile, hear her say words of joy. Couldn’t go with her to Thailand, follow her husband through his many business trips. Couldn’t talk to Dad on the phone, or see all the tickets, the bus passes, the many different videos of his father trying foods that made Izuku’s curiosity and attention span reconnect with reality. Couldn’t see them again, you know? Bad company. Bad shit. He didn’t feel ill yet. Maybe—not like, not real, not real.

“Stop worrying,” Izuku said again, because Deku was weak and useless, and the winged boy who flew at night and interrupted minor crimes was considered dead in a house fire, a failed murder-suicide.

—

CASE SUMMARY, WRITTEN BY IZUKU MIDORIYA: A domestic dispute that was started by [HISASHI MIDORIYA] resulted in a quirk-made fire. See: DRAGON BREATH. The domestic dispute has been classified as a murder-suicide. The man attempted to kill his wife, his son, and himself. A vigilante interfered due to personal relations with the son. The wife, [INKO MIDORIYA], the husband, [HISASHI MIDORIYA], and the vigilante, [UNNAMED], were killed in the fire. Before time of death [8:17 PM], the vigilante [UNNAMED] called a legal associate in attempt for backup. [ERASERHEAD] entered the scene per the call. The son, [IZUKU MIDORIYA] was recovered at the scene with severe injuries. The fire within the apartment was controlled and confined. No other casualties. [IZUKU MIDORIYA] is now in a hospital. No location provided for safety of the patient.

—

Izuku hated summaries. He, also, hated lying to people’s faces. He was good at it, numb to it, never actually paying attention when the bullshit slipped from his lips, but hated it.

“So,” Izuku fiddled with the hospital bed blanket. “Uhm.”

“You called a vigilante?” Tsukauchi prompted, quietly. He had a pen in hand. A clipboard. He was being very patient and very kind, given the situation.

(Not kind enough, you think, but don’t say.)

“Well,” Izuku muttered, petulant, acting like it—stung, a little—and so he winced. The detective looked at him, softened his gaze, and waited. Izuku wet his lips. His hands were cold. He felt numb, even with the room being warm, even with the blanket being tucked around him neatly. “Well,” he started again, quieter. “I didn’t call—a vigilante.” Winced again. “Not that one, or any other.”

“Okay,” Tsukauchi agreed, writing it down.

The kid was rather certain this man had a truth quirk.

Izuku might hate lying, but he hated lie detectors more. It made everything far more complicated than anything had any right to be. His eyes stung. His skin, too. He needed more Vaseline, maybe a skin graft, maybe more fish scales. His back hurt. He hurt. He wished he was like his father, scared to die. Wished he wasn’t careless. He wished he could lie with great ease. He wished the lies would flow like a river, not a mudslide. He wished he was asleep. He wished he was dead. He wished he could keep going forever, alone and careful.

He swallowed. “So,” he muttered, again, trying to make it sound okay. Sound better. “I didn’t call a vigilante. I called, uhm—well.” He winced again. “It wasn’t a vigilante,” he confessed. “Not to me.” He tugged at a string of the blanket, upturning thread. “My—”

“Oh,” Tsukauchi understood. He understood the story Izuku was making—falsehoods, but to a lie-detector, well, what was the difference? Blur the lines. He blinked twice, and honey-brown eyes went through a multitude of emotions. His brows furrowed. “You didn’t know?”

“I did,” Izuku replied, honestly, weakly. “But they said—I said—they, you know, promised.” He shrugged. “To be careful?”

“To be careful,” The detective echoed.

“It was like,” Izuku gestured, with bandaged hands. “Some kind of movie, you know, and, I liked it.” He had a broken arm. It wouldn’t move correctly. “They said they would be careful,” he demurred, wallowing for effect. “Said that they understood, you know?” He laughed weakly. “Birds of a feather flock together, or, or something. I liked them.” He did, he used to. He used to like them. Deku liked Izuku. It was different. “They liked me, I think. We got along.” Sometimes. Sometimes, yes, Izuku liked Deku, however weak and useless. He swallowed. “And it wasn’t—dating, that’s not it! But, uhm, it was,” he waved his hands again, eyes watering. “Something. And my Mom—she, uh, she really liked them, you know? Wanted them around. Wanted them around forever.”

“I see,” Tsukauchi murmured, and he was soft, and Izuku hated soft people—made him ill—but this was different.

This was necessary. He was necessary. And he had no cash and no way out and you might not ever fly again, the nurses whispered about him, around him, over his head. It was different. It was so—

His Mom had always wanted him around. Always hoped he was okay. Always hoped that the school treated him alright, that getting his wings late didn’t isolate him—that being quirkless, even if only for two years, didn’t mess him up in the head. It did. So did growing wings from his shoulders, from his spine, bone and skin and leather-like material, feathers but not quite, sturdy and sharp—sprout from spine, from skin, from the unearthed potential of a dragon-like quirk.

Oh, goodie. But his Mom wanted him to stay. She wanted him to be happy. Izuku wasn’t sure he was happy, you know? It hurt. It hurt a lot.

Izuku’s eyes were burning, and he wished it made sense, wished all of it was real.

It was already true.

But there were no birds. It was just an accident, a quirk accident, and no one believed the suicidal kid that his parents had troubles, but not murder troubles. That there was only Izuku, Inko, and Hisashi in that apartment.

“Yeah,” Izuku choked, like it made sense. (Not really.) His palms were boiled over, blistered. He wanted to tear his skin off with his teeth, all his teeth. He wanted to cry. He wanted to kill himself. He wished he had a razor. He wished. “I just—we were just hanging out. Homework. Same age, same studies, so we—“ and he winced, and choked, and he was starting to cry again. The tears burned his skin, tender from fire. “—were studying, and then, we heard yelling, and—“

The detective set the notepad down, didn’t bat an eye. He leaned closer, urgent concern etched into all his features. “Midoriya,” Tsukauchi said, and he was gentle when he put his hand on the side of Izuku’s bed. Not on Izuku, because the kid was bandaged and hurt. But got his attention. “You need to take a breath, okay?”

The kid was wobbling, crying now, and he was burning up. His wings shook, wrapped uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he gasped for air, agonized, a liar, “I’m so—”

“I understand,” Tsukauchi said, and Izuku was already in the rabbit hole. His wings trembled, and he couldn’t hide himself in leather feathers, so he just choked and shook his head. The detective murmured soothing phrases. “Please, don’t push yourself. It’s okay.” His hand reached, tried to, but settled back down. Can’t touch. “It’s not your fault. You did everything you could.” Tsukauchi sounded genuine, sounded real, “It’s not their fault, either—you both did all that you could to help.”

Izuku tried.

So did his Dad.

Trying so hard to put out the flames from his throat, coughing and hacking and choking. Izuku hadn’t been awake. He had been so cold until he heard his Mom scream to get out of the house, quick, get out, it’s a quirk accident. They tried to put out the fire. They failed. Hisashi had choked and burned and scrambled, tried to apologize with flames licking his tongue. Izuku had tried calling Shouta Aizawa, tried, panicking—please, please, please, please help, a man is losing control of his quirk and the apartment is burning and his wife refuses to leave the home without him and they’re burning and they won’t let me take them out of the premises, please, please, please help, Eraserhead, please!

And then it went black-out, all smoke, all done and over. Izuku had collapsed on his mother, covered her with his belly and his wings, hid her. She had been choking on the smoke. Izuku had, too. Fire immunity, barely. From his Dad’s side.

They died.

All of them died in that fire.

Deku was the creature that got to escape and lounge in a hospital bed, afterwards, a fractional thing, long gone. No more Mommy, no more Daddy. Like this: all alone, all alone, time to go-go-go-go.

All alone.

Izuku sobbed and kept sobbing. The detective stayed with him. The interview concluded there.

—

ANOTHER EXPLANATION, WRITTEN BY IZUKU MIDORIYA: I hate the clouds. I can’t fly anymore. I hate you all. Fuck you.

Chapter Text

The crazy part was that Izuku didn’t cry again during his stay at the hospital. His eyes stung, and he was young, and he didn’t mention the unceremonious bruising on his ribs or knees—most would assume it came from trying to cover his mother, hide her, or stop the fire from spreading—but he didn’t cry again. His wings were ruined.

It was—

(What are you gonna do now, wingless boy? That's you.)

—well, anyone could figure out what it was.

Izuku focused on picking at his nails to the best of his ability. He focused on zoning out so hard that he forgot where he was entirely, heart rate spiking when he returned to the real world. Fading in and out. Because he had to. Because how else would he make this better? It was really bad. There was no way to make it good, so he had to settle.

It was, well, again, pretty bad.

Yeah.

And it—

(STINGSSSSSSSSSSSSS—)

—had been said before, and now it was said again. It was loose in his belly and made him ill. He felt ill. NOWINGSFORREALNOWINGSATALLEVER. Sorry. It was better said as no-wings-for-real-no-wings-at-all-ever. Sorry, again. It could also be said as No Wings. Or just Wings. Now he had no wings, none that worked, and Aizawa stared at him from the hospital seat and frowned. Izuku had no next of kin. Something like that. They even tried to track down his Dad’s brother—half-brother, or something, therefore Izuku’s deadbeat uncle who never showed up anywhere or answered any of the Midoriyas’ texts.

So, here he was.

Aizawa was looking at him oddly. (Did he know?)

Izuku didn’t ask. Not yet. He didn’t want to know if the man knew, not yet, not yet. Too soon. He lost his parents, he didn't want to lose another person—not unless he was the one walking away. Izuku was selfish like that. Be in control of who flees. You always—

“Kid,” Aizawa said slowly, “You can say something. Anything.” He paused, and he looked tired. “I can’t explain much if you don’t ask.”

The kid licked his lip, tried to imagine stealing chapstick from a dollar store. “Can you drive?”

The hero stared at him. “Yes.”

“Can you drive well?” Izuku corrected, just to fill the silence. The softness was too much. The quiet raise of up-and-down-and-up was too much. He wanted the burn, the shake, the twist of a knife or the sound of an angry face; anger as a whole; the threat and promise of a failing grade in his biology class. Something. He wanted something.

“Kid,” Aizawa said, reproachfully.

(These are not the questions you should be asking, said the man. You should be asking other things. Things like: where will I live, where will I go, why did you take me in, why haven’t you ratted me out, why are you looking at me like that, why do you care? Just to name a few.)

“Well, can you?” Izuku snapped, and anger boiled over with fear, and he wished he could find a gun. He wished the hospital didn’t have a bunch of different loops and hoops. He wished no one knew his name or his face or his life. He wished everyone would go away. “It’s important, you know,” Izuku continued, and his wings hurt, and the skin was surely scarred and beyond repair, because that was what all the nurses said. They're so damaged, they said, sadly. Poor boy. Izuku’s eyes burned. He wasn’t poor or pitiful. He wasn’t. They were being stupid. Fucking stupid. “What if you mess up and send us off the road? Worse than me driving, I bet, so—”

“I’ve been driving for eleven years,” Aizawa said, calmly cutting off whatever ramble Izuku was about to spew. The man stared at him. “I know how to drive,” he reiterated. “Never had any traffic incidents.”

The kid huffed, and the air wasn’t enough. It was never enough. He felt like he was dying. No Mom, no Dad. This was so fucked up. It was so, so, so fucked up. He should have thrown his Dad out the window, caught him as they burned together. He shouldn’t have panicked or froze up. He shouldn’t have been scared. He shouldn’t have tried to save his Mom, he should have just left. Why did he have to play hero?

(There was no point to being a hero. Leave it to the professionals.)

He looked down at the hospital bedding, muttering, “Not even speeding tickets?”

“Not even those,” Aizawa replied, dryly—barely concealed wariness written. He rubbed his face, “Kid. Is there anything else you’re going to say?”

No, he decided. And it went like this, very quickly: fuck no. No. His eyes burned again, worse. No, because you don’t need to know. I don’t want you to know. I want my bedroom back. I want to paint again. I want my Mom and my Dad. I want to skip high school. I want to cry. I want to die. Kill me. Too bad you can’t erase my quirk. Cut off my wings, strangle me. Why are you here? Why did you agree to take me in? Why? I hate it. Don’t do it. Don’t. Say you changed your mind. I don’t want you to know. I don’t want you to know me. ME. I don’t want to. I don’t. His eyes were burning and he was trying not to cry. He curled his fingers into the fabric. The knuckles were bruised. There were bandages. His other arm was in a cast and he couldn’t fucking move it. He was so mad.

“No,” Izuku whispered. “I’m using Article Thirty-Eight.”

“Article Thirty-Eight,” The hero repeated, blank-faced. Izuku just nodded, furiously, and stared at his spasming hand, unable to grip the bedding. He wanted to cry. He didn’t. And he didn’t say anything else. He wasn’t going to incriminate himself for this. Fuck you, Scarf Man. I win.

It didn’t feel like winning.

Ugh, god damn it—

Why didn’t he plead Article Thirty-Eight when talking with the detective? What the fuck was wrong with him?

Now the story was that he was dating a useless vigilante! He was the useless vigilante! This was the worst plotline he could ever be on! Don’t worry, this entire situation is a canon event and happens to every vigilante at least once. You want to rip out your hair at the idea.

“Are you okay?” Aizawa asked him.

Izuku wanted to tell him to go lose his parents in a traumatic fire and deal with everyone calling it a murder-suicide when it was an accident. Does this sum it up for you? You want to yell. Your skin hurt. Everything hurt. Is this not obvious enough? Is it not enough? Do you not understand? Go lose everything and ask again! Ask again! Izuku was not a good kid, exactly, but that didn’t make him evil. Bad, sure. Not a hero at all. Not very heroic, either. He was a kid. What did anyone expect? But, you know, he was threading his hair and twisting his hands and dreaming his dreams, coming back to a world that did not notice when he was missing. His Mom would notice. His Dad, too, because that man was a Life360-obsessed stalker, even if he never admitted it to his son or wife.

“Thirty-Eight,” Izuku reminded him, very glumly.

He wished he had his phone. Or his notebooks. Or even his dumb middle school certificate that he never took out of his yellow bag after the last day of school—graduation day. Kacchan would be pissed, huh. Good thing Kacchan didn’t know.

“Okay,” Aizawa agreed, and blessedly did not ask again. It was as close to freedom as Izuku could get.

—

EXPLANATION, WRITTEN BY IZUKU MIDORIYA: An educated guess can be made about the son, [IZUKU MIDORIYA]. Even though he says he is okay, and proves it by showing his blank arms, you should check his stomach or wings instead. Excessive preening or scratching should be looked for. [IZUKU MIDORIYA] might be a cliche suicide-go-getter, but he is, in fact, unique in his methods of destruction.

—

Izuku wasn’t crazy.

Or, at least, not in the traditional sense?

He wasn’t crazy enough to stalk anyone, exactly. Not creepily. He was pretty sure. Not creepy stalking, just normal people-watching paired with the steady thrum of analysis hotline in the back of his skull that was paid in blood, funded by bad grades, and terrible hopes of the future. Enter: Hero Analysis for the Future, Volume Thirteen!

He wasn’t crazy. He was just—lightweight. And tired. And scared. And more or less ill, you know, up there. People didn’t always notice.

Said he was just a bad kid, you know. Of course you knew. Who wouldn’t?

Izuku Midoriya was a bad kid with a poor record, not that he started or finished fights. He was a loner, and a chronic class skipper. He daydreamed all the time. He had two distinctive feelings, and that was numbness or anger. Or snark—but that was more vigilante-based than anything, and seriously, what right did a fifteen year old have to be snarky? Especially with a shitty costume, makeshift, completed with a paper plate duct-taped to his face? Fucking ouch, really. He lost hair every time he wrapped the tape. It was getting harder to hide.

Well, now it was easy.

He wasn’t going to be able to leave or sneak out.

Aizawa had already begun explaining a few things to him, even though Izuku was still in a hospital refusing to dry or say anything to the doctors or nurses beyond a greeting or whisper of gratitude.

Or that one time when he asked for lime jello instead of cherry, which the nurse—big bug-eyes, blue as the sea, perpetually crying giant slime tears—had readily agreed to. Of course, sugar! she had said, quickly, and grabbed the cherry away and beelined to the door. Three minutes later, she was back with two servings of lime green jello. It bobbed at the motions. She had looked like she was pitying him—and trust him, trust him, he could sense pity from thousands of feet away. She had told him to feel better. He had politely reserved from telling her to shut up, because that was rude, and this was her profession, and surely she knew how messy his current situation was. She was doing her job. She looked sad doing it.

Thank fuck Izuku wasn’t like that—sad and mopey.

(He stopped after the first day of being here, conscious of his battered body and his parents’ bodies. Ashes, or something. Not really bodies anymore.)

He was tired and angry and numb.

That should be his email password: TIR3D@ND4NGRY_4ndNUHM8. It would be such a bitch to remember.

But it would be accurate enough, given the situation. No one would even bother guessing, seeing as he was sickly and weird and never quite where he was supposed to be. Izuku was pretty sure it would drive Shouta Aizawa insane. He was almost hoping for it, if that made sense? God, how weird, people would call him a freak if they knew how his brain worked.

—

it’s not me (2:19pm): and how does it work, btw?

—

Certainly not like yours, you thought but didn’t say.

(Who the fuck was texting?)

Izuku lifted the spoonful of lime jello to his mouth and pushed it onto his tongue. Faced with the awful task of eating, he forced himself to suffer through the most insufferable flavor of sweet gelatin any hospital had on hand. Lime had been Hisashi’s favorite flavor. Izuku didn’t know why. Not like he could ask.

—

Being discharged from the hospital was rather mundane. Everything felt mundane.

Aizawa handed him a stick of spearmint gum when Izuku slowly entered the passenger side of the car, struggling to sit. He strained his wings—flightless—and arranged them so he could jostle his way into the seat, plucking the belt and making sure his body of disease was secure.

“Thanks,” Izuku took the gum with his free hand.

“Sure,” Aizawa agreed. “Are you all ready?”

“Yeah,” Izuku nodded. His neck hurt. He wanted to bash his head on cement. He wanted to soar the night sky and then drop down as if someone shot fiery arrows through his wings, tender and skin-made.

Ugh. Ew.

Stop thinking of that. Like this: stop-stop-stop-stop.

He was healed up okay. He just, well, didn’t feel like it. And his wings were fucked. And he was kind of fucked, too, and he kept thinking about finding a sticker scraper or a vegetable peeler and rolling it over his skin until all the layers of his life and mind and bloody tenderness was exposed to the air, free to be judged, never to be reattached again. He swallowed the bile. Vomiting was a bad move, so he shouldn’t do it. He cleared his throat, bobbed his head. He was wearing a loose sweatshirt, loose pants, temporary slippers, and stupid hospital socks because the socks Aizawa had brought him looked too much like his Dad’s funny socks.

(My individuality cannot be replaced entirely, Hisashi had laughed, and then shown off his knee-high socks that were UFO and cow themed. Do you think my boss will restrict socks next if he sees these? Izuku had howled with laughter, an entire bottle of Tylenol deep into the night. Inko couldn’t stop water-chuckling and asking to see more, because, quote: you buy them in packs, you obviously have more, so steal the spotlight!)

Izuku shuddered. He unwrapped the gum. Popped it into his mouth. “Yeah,” he repeated, and he locked his ankles together. The motion stung. He did this despite his knees being heavily bruised. They were golden, though, not blue anymore. The doctors and their magical healing quirks were who he had to thank for that. And the skin of his back. And a lot of other things. Yeah. Sure.

Uhuh, uhuh, uhuh.

They drove to the apartment. By they Izuku meant Shouta Aizawa did.

“Do you like cats?” The man asked, as they drove. Buildings flew past them and so did cars. Aizawa was going a few kilometers under the speed limit. Slower. He could speed. Izuku didn’t actually fear his driving. It was fine. It was whatever, actually—

“They’re okay,” Izuku nodded. “I’m not allergic.”

A small pause. Aizawa turned the car blinker on. Going left. “I have two cats,” he said. “If they cause any problems for you, let me know. We’ll figure something out.”

Rehouse me, not the fur-babies, Izuku pleaded, though neither god or the universe could hear him. He resisted the urge to sigh. Izuku felt stupid for being here. He wished he could go home. (Home didn’t exist. Neither did Mommy or Daddy. What now, baby?) He wished he could paint the walls of his next room red, or an ugly green, or anything. Wished he could make a hero mural even though Izuku grew out of his All Might phase years ago. His chest didn’t spark with hope as often as it used to, even though he still had—used to have—a mighty collection of high-priced All Might merchandise. Shit. What a shame. It stung again.

“Okay,” Izuku said in agreement, even though he didn’t really agree at all.

He sucked up his fears and shame and buried it somewhere in his chest where Deku couldn't reach, where the paper plate vigilante couldn't shake. He looked out the car window. Aizawa kept driving under the speed limit.

—

The apartment was actually rather nice. Izuku didn’t know what he was expecting. But this surpassed his expectations, surely.

“Here,” Aizawa said, and he shuffled closer to give a—

Yellow backpack?

Izuku blinked twice, vision fuzzy. He squinted at the bag being offered to him. “Oh,” he breathed, and when Aizawa didn’t drop the bag into Izuku’s general vicinity, the kid cautiously reached out with his good arm to take the bag from the man’s possession. It was unzipped. He blinked faster, suddenly frazzled. “Is this—“

He cut himself off.

(Haha. Cut.)

Stared at the items within the bag—notebooks, that one poetry book he refused to read but refused to donate, trinkets he thought were burned in the fire—he couldn’t look away. He had to, but something said no, and he said yes in return and it stung, a little, all over again.

He let it sting. He needed it to sting, just a little. What else was he good for, anyway?

(Stupid, just stupid. Go and leave and get up and go, quick, don’t settle. Don’t you know that they’ll kill you if you settle? It wasn’t safe. It was never safe.)

The hero was watching him, frowning a little. It felt odd to analyze Aizawa the way Aizawa was clearly analyzing him, so Izuku stalled his brain for a moment while looking at the items in his bag. He was hoping—well, he wasn’t sure what for—but not this, exactly, because it made him sour. Preemptive sourness, bitterness, because Mommy and Daddy were dead, and Izuku couldn’t fly, and why was he even involved in this? God. Izuku swallowed thickly, tried to come up with something. He was going to say don’t look at me, but what came out was something else entirely.

“You’re bad at this,” Izuku told Aizawa, flatly. The hero stared some more. The kid fumbled with his bag, and blinked at the contents inside. His brow furrowed. “How did you get my bag?”

“It was inside your apartment’s lobby, not apartment,” Aizawa said, tersely. “Someone must have spared it before the fire started, or during the beginnings of the flames.” He paused, looked at Izuku closely. The kid went deer-still, bad headlights. The hero sighed, talked softer. “It’s a little charred,” he murmured, “Otherwise, it’s still usable. I figured you would want it.”

Izuku held onto the bag, awkwardly.

His hands felt all wrong, even though they were healed by now. Hospitals, wow, really wonderful. Far better than general store first-aid kits, his Mom’s anxious dabs of advice.

Crazy how that worked, huh?

“Yeah,” Izuku muttered. “I do.” He zipped it shut again. Held it narrowly, wings still bandaged. If it weren’t for the extensive damage, he would have been able to hide himself in the plating—feathers—ridge-work—the wings. He cleared his throat, “You’re still bad at this.”

“Christ, kid,” Aizawa closed his eyes, rubbing his temples.

“Sorry,” Izuku said. He didn’t feel sorry at all. He felt numb, mostly. Odd. Stilted. Another word for awful? Feeling awful without feeling at all. The anger wasn’t back yet, and the uselessness wasn’t haunting him, either, so he was just kind of, here, he supposed. He was here. Wrong. So, so, so very wrong. He blinked. “How long am I staying?”

Aizawa opened his eyes again. He looked infinitely tired. No sleep could cure his exhaustion. Well, none that would come inside a rich man’s house.

A hero’s house. Fancy apartment?

“Or,” Izuku looked back down at the ground. “Don’t answer.” He didn’t want to see the man’s expression. Too soon, you know? It wasn’t something he wanted to deal with. “If it’s not a good answer, you can just,” and he tucked the bag closer to his stomach, held onto its fake leather. “Not say anything.”

“I don’t know how long you’ll be staying,” Aizawa informed him, point-blank. He seemed to rub his temples again, most likely trying to soothe a headache. “But, I’m not rushing to hand you off to anyone else.” He looked up, and Izuku glanced upwards just to check—fearful, a little—and saw how strange Aizawa’s face was. “Okay?” He confirmed.

“Okay,” Izuku agreed, even though it sounded terrible.

Not rushing to get rid of Izuku? No, no way.

Izuku would rush to get rid of Izuku. That was why tapping out existed, running away, flying, not eating, gagging, poisoning himself with cleaning tablets meant to go inside the dishwasher. Or, well, not really, he didn’t, like, actually want to, but—

“Don’t overthink it,” Aizawa said, slowly, and he sounded exhausted again. “You’ll be staying with me for a two weeks at the minimum. We can revisit the topic of housing and placement after that time, alright?” He breathed out. Izuku wished he would throw something, yell—be irrational, just for a little. He didn’t. “I won’t make you stay,” the hero reiterated, “If you want to be in a different house, I won’t fight you. I won’t force you to stay in my care.” He looked back up, something heavy in his face. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Izuku agreed. He nodded once, head twisting up with his thoughts. He held his wings closer to his spine, tried to fold them up like papers. “It’s just,” and then he trailed off.

“Yes?” Aizawa pried, carefully neutral.

Positively delightful. Still too soft. He felt like Goldilocks complaining about beds and porridges. What bear was Aizawa? What the fuck was all this good for? He wanted to scream.

Izuku looked at his spare slippers.

They weren’t his. They were probably bought when Aizawa made the decision to take a stray—recently orphaned—teenager into his home. Unused home. Boring, bland, not right. What was the word? Underground heroes certainly had their own kind of flair. Izuku felt outdated and stupid in this place. Small. These slippers weren’t the reason for his grief but he felt them bubble up like bad thoughts anyway.

The slippers were dark grey. They were soft. He figured it was the least Aizawa could do, maybe. Guilt. Ugh. Guilt your foster parents, then, the stupid version of Deku had muttered into his hospital jello.

But Izuku didn’t want to!

He felt bad and numb enough! Fuck!

“It’s just that,” He shuffled awkwardly. “There’s, like, a lot going on?” And it was so fucking stupid to say out loud. God. Fuck. He sounded like a stupid fucking child and not a teenager who analyzed quirks and PR failures like a statistical nerd or informant or whatever. Fuck.

And it was summer, and he had school exams soon, you know? He didn’t really—well, he had never thought much about school exams. Just the studying. Gen-Ed. General Education was his calling. He could get by with a normal diploma, right? He wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t as if he was lackluster in his studies, he just—didn’t really—well—remember any of it. He graduated middle school. He was moving on. You know. Final stretch! Hurrah! High school! And then he could die in some boring nine-to-five job! Hurrah!

He failed to communicate this for a solid seven seconds.

Aizawa waited.

Izuku cleared his throat. “I just,” the words wouldn’t leave his throat. “I graduated middle school a few weeks ago, so.” And he winced when he said it. “But my parents and I hadn’t talked about high school.” It sounded like a bad thing, a crappy and stupid thing to tell a stranger. “I know entrance exams are pretty soon.”

(What stranger? He knew this man. This man knew him. Vigilantism and masks and all. Don’t you know, sir? Don’t you know already? But, ah, well—fuck. Who the fuck was a stranger?)

Aizawa looked at him again, and sighed heavily. “You didn’t think about the future?”

Izuku shrunk down. “No,” he muttered, quietly. No, I don’t think about the future. I think about blowing my brains out with a nambu pistol. I think about burning alive like a candlestick. I think about gasoline fires and menthol cigarettes and what job will pay me enough to get by without needing to break my neck. I think about the past. No, sir, not the future. He hated the future. What good was it? Bad bones, bad names, shitty cars and apartment rates. He wanted to move out. He didn’t know where, though. Not enough cash. Izuku swallowed thickly. “Mom was a nurse,” he said. “Dad was a businessman, traveled abroad. I was just—I don’t know. A generic high school. I haven’t applied anywhere.” He shrugged. “I just—if I move, I need to apply to a school in the new area.” Izuku stared at the speck on the wall next to Shouta Aizawa’s head. He swallowed the spit again, tasting vaguely of the spearmint gum Aizawa had given him in the car. His shoulders hurt. “So.”

“I wasn’t judging you,” The hero explained, smoothly. He winced after, though, in an uncharacteristic moment. “Not everyone plans their every step into the real world. I get it—” and then he exhaled, sharp, and Izuku was blinking hopefully at the shift in tone, because softness wasn’t enough, “—just start looking into it when you have the chance, okay? The sooner the better. Take your time, find places near here. I’ll sort out the messy bits. It’s not just you, it’s going to be—” and he looked exhausted again, determinedly exhausted, “—a lot of work, but not impossible. I’ll see if I can pull any strings.”

Izuku stared at him.

The hallway was gloomy and unfamiliar. A normal hallway. An unwanted hallway.

Izuku wanted to peel away the paint and drywalls and support beams to find the pink insulation, poisonous cotton, and pick it apart like he was at a province fair. Pluck from his teeth. Sweet, not sweet.

(Something to eat away at, the same way guilt was eating him. Something coiling around his ribs, his stomach, his intestines. He couldn’t get away from it. He wasn’t sure if that was the thing that had haunted him during the hospital trip, or if guilt from lying about being a vigilante’s boyfriend—himself, by the way, he was the fucking vigilante—like some fucked up fanfic was the thing haunting him.)

His eyes stung.

“Yeah,” He looked away from Aizawa. It was weird, really, to look at the underground hero who had pried him out of multiple sunken alleys before. Wings bloody, face messy—but Aizawa had always looked more or less put together. “Okay. I can do that.” He swallowed the rise of bile, stinging, and huffed. “I’ll work on it—later tonight.” Held onto his bag, tightly. ”Do you, uhm, have any more gum?”

The hero looked exhausted further. “Sure,” he said, tonelessly. “I’ll get you some.” He pointed down the hall, sleeves rippling and folding at the motion. “Guest room is down the hall, to the left. First door. Settle in.”

Izuku took the sign to leave, and scattered down the hall as fast as his weak legs would let him.

—

Kacchan (10:12pm): My Mom heard. Cops showed up asking. Why haven’t you called? Fucking call her back. They said you were critical. Discharged. Who took you? You should have told me. I would have
Kacchan (10:12pm): What
Kacchan (10:12pm): What happened?

Izuku (10:14pm): we burned alive

Kacchan (10:14pm): Are you serious?

Izuku (10:16pm): Yeah
Izuku (10:16pm): tell your Mom that I’m sorry I can’t call her back. I don’t know what I’m doing right now
Izuku (10:16pm): I want my Mom
Izuku (10:16pm): you’re so lucky to have a Mom

Kacchan (10:17pm): Call me

Izuku (10:17pm): I can’t, my phone’s gonna die. please don’t text me again
Izuku (10:17pm): I’ll text the funeral info
Izuku (10:17pm): sorry [Read 10:19pm]

—

Izuku turned his phone off after the first two hours of having it back in his possession.

He refused to cry.

Aizawa made an assortment of items for dinner—burned some of it, ordered takeout—the television had been on mute, but the screen had flown by in colors. Izuku dragged himself out of the guest room and sat at the table. He felt like a doll. He wanted to ask where the scissors were. He wanted to ask where the razors were kept. He wanted to ask if he could wear someone else’s clothes, not these, because they weren’t his, and all of his were gone. He wanted to show Aizawa his middle school graduation certificate and say see, I’m not a total fuckup, I graduated.

“My friend texted,” He said, over the styrofoam box of hot noodles. “Said he.”

Izuku would eat it all in a few minutes, unhinge his jaw like his Dad, take the corner of the box and dump it down his throat. Not yet, though, because he was picking around at the contents with disposable chopsticks.

Aizawa looked at him, quiet, contemplative. “Said?”

“Said he wanted to talk with me,” Izuku mumbled, at last, because he was a chronic mumbler. He didn’t want to make it a thing.

“Kid,” Aizawa paused, then nodded. “I’ll drive you to him, or his house, or whatever you need.” He set his chopsticks down. Izuku didn’t know what he was eating. He didn’t know why the hero had ordered Izuku anything, anyway, the kid wished he had been forced to starve. “Do you have an address in mind?” Aizawa asked. “A name would be helpful. Or his parents’ number. Does he know about the event?” And the man was looking at Izuku’s soul, his burnt and barely held-together body, his trembling and damaged wings. His voice was quiet, “Did you tell him?”

“Why are you grilling me?” Izuku choked, and he poked at the food again. He winced. “No, sorry—I’m—I’m already grilled, aren’t I?” The kid looked up, shaky, “His name is—Katsuki Bakugou, I call him Kacchan, we used to be close. We don’t talk much.” He swallowed saliva. “My Mom and his Mom were really close, though. Talked all the time, and—” he set his chopsticks down, unable to handle the shakiness of his own hands. “—they want to check in on me. Make sure I’m okay.”

The hero took all this information in. Slowly, he nodded. “Of course.”

Izuku refused to cry. He refused to cry.

“I don’t know when they want to meet,” Izuku explained, quietly, and his hands shook. He wanted his Mom to set up the meeting. He wanted his Dad to call him and wish him luck at the meeting. “But, ah, I said I’d call them.”

“Sure,” Aizawa agreed, slowly. “Take your time.”

Oh, he certainly would.

—

Horror novel, or something like that. He wasn’t really sure how it ended up being like this, but it came to be anyways, so he was stuck with it.

And being stuck with it wasn’t entirely bad, it was just—really fucking messy. Imagine trying to do anything, and then you were face-to-face, with a cop, or a hero, or a bad person, or someone with a gun, or someone with their hands outstretched waiting for you to reach out to them. Like, what the fuck? What the fuck are you supposed to do with that?

Izuku didn’t know.

Who the fuck would know? He didn’t.

It was impossible to know. Everything he did was to just figure out life. What good was everything else he was doing if he couldn’t figure out life with those items of fact? It was a fucking horror novel. Everything about his miserable existence, in these specific moments, after these very specific events, in this very specific manner, was a fucking horror novel. A shitty, poorly written horror novel.

And it was getting on his nerves.

That was the worst part. The nerves. The fact that he could basically feel himself splitting apart with every day that passed.

Oh, want your Mom? Nope, can’t have her.

Oh, want your Dad? Nope, can’t have him.

Oh, want any resemblance to your normal and perfectly-not-traumatic childhood? Nope, can’t have it.

Izuku was going to skin himself alive if he had to keep dealing with this shit. It felt like a cruel joke compared to everything else that he had already, previously, spontaneously dealt with. All the vigilantism? Yeah, dealt with. Who the fuck did they think he was? He wasn’t what they thought, obviously—look at what he was doing! God damn it! Fuck!

The voice in his head kept saying go away, and he kept saying, fuck you, and of course the world kept spinning. Whoever was writing the story clearly had it out for him.

(DON’T LOOK, the voice yelled at him again.)

Izuku didn’t believe in god. He wasn’t religious. No one in his family was. On the other hand, what the fuck was this? This was only the creation of someone far more powerful than him, or far more knowing than him. What the fuck was on the other end of the rainbow? Who knew, not him. It was not a pot of gold. Izuku barely knew what was on the other side of the bedroom door. Crazy shit. Drywall. Something diabolical. A raging house fire that was considered a murder-suicide. Again, who the fuck knew?

Like he said, a horror novel.

Except, it was an amateur writer who didn’t really know how to write horror, so they just wrote about a teenager’s life going to shit over and over again—in dramatic, and absurd ways. Quirks were included.

(No government help checks, though.)

Izuku held his head in his hands for a long, long moment. Fuck you, said that one guy. Fuck you, too, the kid said back, bitterly.

He didn’t want to be a hero.

Izuku wasn’t a professional. He wasn’t. He barely did anything to warrant someone’s favor, let alone their recommendation into the country’s best track for aspiring heroes. He was fifteen. He would be sixteen this upcoming July. A few months away, and he would be two years away from legally driving. Eighteen. I want to drink now, he thought. I want to fly now. I want to leave now. He didn’t want to be a hero. Did anyone know how much it would take from him? Being nice and smart all the time? Keeping a good record? Not skipping class or sleeping in lessons or daydreaming and walking between each period? Not taking good enough notes because he was ill—but his Mom wasn’t here to defend him, rattle his bones, tell him to keep his head up. Izuku wasn’t a professional. He wasn’t even successful enough as a vigilante. He was flying around, covering the faces of people who were about to be mugged, keeping his eyes on suspicious activities. Calling helplines. He wasn’t—a hero. That wasn’t what he was. He didn’t want to be one.

“Deku, are you there?” Kacchan asked, muffled over the speaker.

“I’m here,” Izuku muttered, but then he choked, and sputtered, and laughed a little. His eyes burned. “God, I must sound insane.” He grabbed his phone, tugged it away from the guest bedroom’s sheets. “Do I?”

“You sound like shit,” Kacchan’s voice echoed.

“I am shit,” Izuku corrected, tears finally wetting his lashes. He blinked rapidly, stood up and began to pace. His wings throbbed. “My wings are fucked. Did you know?” And there was a long pause, and Izuku stared at Kacchan’s caller ID. “I can’t fly right,” he confessed. “And Mom is dead, and Dad is dead, and they didn’t even have bodies. Did you know that? What do I do?” He laughed, and he hurt, and he shuddered. “We aren’t even real friends. Why am I telling you? Why are you calling?”

“The hag,” Kacchan ventured, slowly, but he was staticky.

Izuku stared at the blue light illuminating from his phone. “Auntie?” he mumbled. “I haven’t called her back.”

“I know, dipshit,” Kacchan snapped again. “Just—”

Izuku debated on hanging up. He debated on hanging himself up, too. There was a rod in the closet for hangers. He had a belt. He could probably choke himself out. Probably. He stopped thinking about it, before the numbness came back to your hands, before it consumed all that you were. Izuku shuddered. He had no friends. It was just this one call and then silence. He was a rather antisocial kid, wasn’t he? Or shy? Something.

“Just what?” Izuku asked, quietly, and he started picking at his hangnails. “What, Kacchan? What should I possibly do that would be beneficial right now?”

“Deku,” Kacchan snapped, but he didn’t sound mad as much as he sounded lost. Maybe a bit of both. He was always an aggressive person, unable to stay in tune—aggressive didn’t mean evil, though and Izuku tried to remember it. “You make it really hard. I’m trying, okay?” He breathed out, sharp, cursing, “Fuck.”

Izuku’s phone only had twelve percent battery left. He resisted a sigh, fought the feeling. He didn’t have the time to be snarky, did he? This was all—temporary. He wouldn’t be here soon enough. He could just, leave, right? Somehow?

The silence dragged out.

“Okay,” Izuku agreed, like it could put out the fire of misery that must be brewing in Kacchan’s head.

He didn’t know what was running through; what images, names, faces, memories. They hadn’t talked like friends would in years—they weren’t close. He knew that. They both did. They weren’t friends. Izuku was so desolate, so finicky, and he didn’t hurry along. He stayed pretend-dead, quiet, silent, halfway there.

This was one of those fucked up situations, right? Hey, sorry, old pal. My parents are dead. Sorry. I’m staying at a stranger’s house. Go back to worrying about entrance exams. I’m going to make my way to my parents’ graves and lay down with them. Oh, wait, I can’t, they’re ash. No headstones! Silly me! Like you woudl have known, right? His hands were shaky, and his arm was fucked up, and he wanted to go back home and paint in his bedroom and feel better about the murals of pop cultures and heroes that were blurred out and undetailed. Lost to time. Like the cash under his bed. The self-portraits. The notebooks he filled with ideas and analyses he hated.

(Couldn’t think about it, couldn’t handle it. You wanted your head to go silent.)

“Kacchan,” Izuku said, exhaustedly, “I’ll call you back.”

A pause. “Deku?”

The teenager hung up. His phone was at seven percent, and the screen stared up at his face. The illumination made him want to tear his hair out.

—

He scratched a cat’s head, smothered them with affection instead of looking at his phone screen. There were roughly nineteen pages pulled up on his browser, and if he spent too long staring at any of it, he would genuinely die. He didn’t want to apply anywhere. It wasn’t fair. How was he supposed to apply anywhere if his Dad couldn’t help him? Who was going to give him advice? Izuku didn’t want just anyone’s advice. He wanted Hisashi’s advice.

“You’re cute,” Izuku told the orange and white cat, gently rubbing its ear. “I wish I asked for your name.”

The cat made a sound, low and rumbly, and Izuku kept petting it.

His temporary room was glum and useless. His bag was tucked next to the bedding, contents zipped away under the fake leather. His memories were the same, hidden, gingerly spoken of—like the poetry book he never read but refused to throw out.

“Cute,” Izuku repeated. “Too bad.”

—

“It’s not a murder,” Izuku mumbled, and Aizawa looked at him.

Izuku wished he wouldn’t.

“I know,” The hero said, finally, and Izuku felt his head explode and felt Deku strangle your neck and felt your eyes begin to bleed and your vision stutter and go dark and your life drain right out of you. Right out of you, all onto the floor, out of your mouth. You pressed your lips together. Your teeth throbbed, and guilt sucker punched you.

(He knew.)

You closed your eyes. You closed them. The world went silent. “It wasn’t murder,” you whispered.

“I know,” Aizawa replied, just as quietly, and you wished you had died in the fire.

—

EXPLANATION, WRITTEN BY IZUKU MIDORIYA: Everyone thinks it’s a murder-suicide because they don’t understand the way your parents worked. [IZUKU] could have explained it if anyone had bothered to ask. Now it was a suicide. Now it was a murder. Now it was domestic violence wrapped in a bow. [IZUKU] was going to wrap his neck in a bow and tie the ends to the balcony railing of [ERASERHEAD]’s apartment and throw himself off. [IZUKU] was going to snap his own neck. Take that as a suicide, instead.

—

Izuku had stayed at Aizawa’s house for less than seventy-two hours—day three, sort of—when the man pulled him aside before their impromptu dinner.

“Kid,” The man said, “Do you know where you’ll be applying?”

“No,” Izuku said, honestly, because he didn’t really want to apply anywhere. He wanted to die. He had seriously been entertaining the thought for a few days now—since his parents’ deaths—and it had become an onslaught. He wasn’t even sure if his feet were on the ground. He didn’t know what his future plans were. Business, nine-to-five, heroism, illicit activities at night, something-something or another. He didn’t know. Honestly.

“Okay,” Aizawa said, and he gestured to the table. “Do you like soba?”

“Sure,” Izuku said. He liked most foods. It was the bugs and rot and fear of bugs and rot that made him not like the other foods. That and expiration dates. “Is it fresh?” He asked. “Like, right now?”

“Yes,” Aizawa confirmed. And Izuku sat down in his chair, a temporary thing to call his own, and the man went into the kitchen and showed the many plates of culinary. Izuku dared. His mouth didn’t water, but he was paying as much attention as he could. “Kid,” the man said, over his shoulder, “Do you remember that I said I would pull strings?”

He did.

He remembered it vividly, actually, which was a testament to—strength, or something—because Izuku’s memories were normally blurry and wet. He remembered. Pull strings, the hero had muttered, solemnly, trying to come up with assurances about futures that Izuku didn’t know about. I’ll figure it out. Yeah, I bet you will. Izuku’s eyes watered. He refused to cry.

“Are you a full-time puppeteer now?” He mumbled.

“No, it was one show,” Aizawa retorted. “Listen.” He looked over at Izuku, now, and his eyes got stuck on Izuku’s wings for a moment too long. “This is not public information, so I don’t expect you to know this, but I’m a teacher. I work at UA.” When Izuku didn’t react, the hero continued, “Due to the severity of your situation—both of them—I spoke with the principal. He is allowing you to either join without the heroics exam, or take the recommendation exam. You will have to complete the written exams, but none of the physical.” He paused. “Did you ever decide on it you wanted to join the heroics track or not?”

“Both?” Izuku asked, before he could stop himself. Then he winced, and shook his head. “You never asked about heroics,” but what he meant was I’m useless, I’m useless, no, why would I think about being a hero, I can’t fly, I can’t run, I can’t. His shoulders shook. “Do we have to talk about this right now?”

“Yes, both,” Aizawa frowned, nearly groggy. “Would you like to talk about this after dinner?”

(What the hell counted as the second situation?)

I would like to talk about this never. Call me back, after I hold funeral rites for my Mommy and Daddy, because you’re not my parent, you’re the hero who hated my stunts. His eyes watered. He did not say any of this. He sighed, teeth-aching, “Isn’t it cheating? If I don’t take the exam?”

“If you aren’t suited for the heroics track, I’ll expel you,” Aizawa said without hesitation. “Don’t think it’s special treatment. You’re the same as any other student.”

“But I get to skip the physical entrance exams,” Izuku reminded him. “That’s special treatment.”

“I already said it wasn’t,” Aizawa corrected him, “I’m aware of the plan. The principal agreed to it, suggested it, given your current condition. He was made aware of your situation.” The man went back to preparing the soba—bowls clattering on the counter. “You could take them. See if it makes you feel better about the whole thing.”

“I don’t want to be a hero,” The kid said quietly, like it was a defense.

(What you meant was that you didn’t want to be alive.)

Aizawa returned to the table with two bowls, steaming hot soba in each, “Then take the written exams and enter general education. Or business.” He paused again. “Or any other track.”

“I’m rather stupid,” Izuku excused. Then he paused, smelling the food. His stomach rumbled. He wanted to throw up, suddenly, missing his Mom’s cooking. “No, sorry,” he muttered, “I’m nauseous, not stupid, just nauseous.” He took the chopsticks offered to him, carefully accepted the bowl of soba. He paused. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” The hero said, dry, but he sat down next to Izuku, not at the opposite end.

Izuku tensed, briefly, before relaxing and poking at the soba. “You want me to go to UA,” he confirmed. Aizawa nodded. Izuku picked a noodle, took it into his mouth. He wanted to unhinge his jaws like that first night. He wanted to pull his face off, see the red underneath. “Is it because—you’re there?”

(You want it to be some other reason.)

“Part of the reason,” Aizawa agreed. “And because you should get your license.”

“Oh?” Izuku said, dejectedly.

“If you want to do things correctly,” The hero continued, easily, “Then you’ll need a license. Three years, two if you’re lucky, grants you that license. A quirk permit.” He began to eat his dinner, as well. “It would be more beneficial than a paper plate.”

(Your hands were cold.)

Izuku pointedly didn’t answer. He swallowed the mouthful of food and then set his chopsticks down.

He imagined smashing the bowl over Aizawa’s head. It was a bad image. He imagined smashing the bowl over his own head, burning and boiling his face. He imagined dying. He imagined bleeding out and losing parts of his brain to the table. He imagined it, actually, vibrant and violent and vivid. He did not say any of this out loud. He did not pick up the bowl, and did not smash it over his or the hero’s head.

“I’m going to bed,” You told Aizawa, and then you left the room and the table and the hot soba behind. Aizawa looked up at him, couldn’t say anything before Izuku was gone. Tears rolled down his face, and he hated that he cried over something as simple as being known.

You hated being known. You absolutely hated it.

Chapter Text

Izuku agreed to go to UA.

Agree might be too strong of a word, seeing as he didn’t have much of a choice—this or literally nothing, and it was unlikely that Shouta Aizawa would agree to nothing—so Izuku Midoriya settled into the role of inconspicuous ward and took the written exam. He was relatively certain he did fine, on the lower end. He stopped paying attention once he was halfway through the questions, doodled on the last page, and filled a paper cup full of water without ever taking a single sip. He had been so, so certain that he failed.

Much to his surprise, he didn’t fail, and scored high enough to be congratulated by Aizawa personally—once the results were released, specifically.

Izuku spent roughly ten minutes the day of physical entrance exams determining if he actually wanted to test for the hero course or not. Did he? No? Yes? He sat down on a bench in the hallway with his unsipped cup of water and thought about it. He decided not to do the main exam.

“It’s already special,” Izuku muttered, and Aizawa sighed. He didn’t take the recommendation exam either. Predictably, the hero sighed about this, too.

This had to be some kind of a joke.

—

SPOILER ALERT: It wasn’t! Congratulations! You’re a fucking idiot!

—

Before classes officially started at UA—eight days from now, in the beautiful April weather—came the more pressing matter that Izuku had been vomiting over: planning his Mom and Dad’s funeral. Or funerals, plural? A shared funeral or two separate ones? Maybe? he didn’t know. It was hard to say.

See? It was already stressing him out and he had barely done anything yet.

Izuku rubbed at his eyes again.

Aizawa didn’t know his parents. Hell, the man barely knew Izuku. As a matter of fact, the kid barely knew the man, and therefore had no idea why they were still in this living arrangement. NOWINGSFORREALNOWINGSATALLEVER wasn’t even a real name. Who knew if Aizawa knew the messy history, the achy parts of Izuku. He hid most of those parts well, he thought, even though he wasn’t thinking most of the time. So, you know, there was that too. What good did Aizawa know? The man probably wouldn’t know anything if it weren’t for the legal files he had been given after taking custody. Hero strings or whatever.

“I hate suits,” Izuku confessed.

Aizawa glanced at him before softening. “You don’t have to wear one,” he murmured. “Would your parents be upset?”

“My parents are dead,” Izuku choked, and he put his face into his hands and held himself there for a long moment. “What does it matter if they’d be upset?” They wouldn’t, by the way. They loved him so much. They would have wanted him to be comfortable at a funeral, beacuse every other aspect was uncomfortable. “They wouldn’t, they wouldn’t, it’s just—”

He wanted to wear his Dad’s coat, but it was ash, like them, and he didn’t know what to do. He would wear his Mom’s black dress, too, if he could—be an oddity, be anything but what people wanted from him. He would wear a string of pearls and western styled clothes and laugh in everyone’s faces until his laughter became heaving sobs. It wasn’t like anyone else could really understand. Izuku was trying to come up with something. Make it believable. Make himself unlikable. He didn’t want others to pity him—oh, that poor child, his father murdered the boy’s mother, oh, what a shame, how sad—but it wasn’t like that. Izuku wanted to wear non-slip shoes and a yellow bag over his head and rubber gloves—meant for cleaning, you told yourself—because touching anything like this, at a supposed funeral, made you want to hurl.

“Kid,” Aizawa said, and his hand was on Izuku’s shoulder, and he was quiet. “You don’t have to wear a suit.”

“I need to,” Izuku insisted, though he didn’t look up and didn’t meet Aizawa’s gaze. “They want me to.” He wanted to claw his skin off. He wanted to glue a paper plate over the tenderness of his flesh, hide his appearance, cover himself up. He didn’t want to be known. He didn’t want anyone else to ever look at him and say I know you, because, no, they didn’t know him.

No one knew him. No one knew him. He stayed quiet, stayed alone, kept his wings and body and mind to himself. He didn’t want to be known. His parents only knew the info Izuku shared—no one got farther. Fuck. No one ever did.

(Why did they leave you? Why didn’t Dad go to the doctor earlier about his quirk’s flare ups?)

The hero was quiet for a moment. “Who?”

“They—” Izuku started, but faltered, and then went silent. He inhaled and exhaled. He counted to seven, then back down, then pried his hands away from his face. “Everyone,” he corrected, weakly, “I can’t show up to my parents’ funeral in an All Might shirt, sir. I can’t just—” he gestured, “—show up in inappropriate attire.”

Aizawa looked at him for a long moment. Always a moment with him. Always a moment, something to spare, the silence that ate more than Izuku did.

“Midoriya, did your parents specify if they wanted a funeral service?” The man asked. He sounded so formal about it, so normal, so—it was like he was reading the lines, trying to identify how much damage lay between a blade to Izuku’s arm and the paint on the road. It was rational. It was the process of elimination, of processing, of something. “Midoriya,” he repeated, and he was quiet. “What would make this easier for you?”

Izuku’s eyes watered. He wasn’t supposed to cry. He wasn’t supposed to falter. He wasn’t supposed to do anything like this. He shook his head, “I don’t know what they want. I can’t ask. I don’t know.”

Aizawa’s hand was heavy.

It almost kept Izuku grounded, almost kept him from wandering away.

(Almost.)

—

Izuku was peeling away the skin of his wrist.

It had bubbled up, having begun blistering under the thick bandages. He wanted to see if he was red or pink or yellow or something else. He wanted to pinch his muscles and veins between his fingers, wanted to tug his nails under each string of sinew, make it so he was an art piece, make it so he could be a dazzling show; something or someone show-stopping.

He wanted to see.

Izuku started picking. His nails scraped gently. He was skipping math to be here, in this bathroom stall, staring down at the tenderness of his wrist.

What was the point?

What was the point?

(WHY ARE YOU LOOKING? The voice was yelling. DON’T LOOK.)

There was something important about this. You cannot recall what. You didn’t want to recall what was so important. You didn’t. You pick at the blister and pop it—liquid spilled, barely enough to amount to anything—and then you were tugging the thin piece of skin away. The red circle underneath thundered against the cool air of the restroom, and it stung, and you barely even blinked. You opened your mouth and shut it.

There was no point to this. It was important. You wanted to see the indies, the blood, the gore that you neglected to account for months ago when you still had access to razors and scissors and the medicine cabinet that your parents had never monitored too closely.

But this was something else entirely.

(Izuku knew better. Deku, too, every version of himself knew better, but—)

He pinched the skin between his fingers, pulled it away. The blister was awful and ugly, a stinging burden, and he wondered how bad it would hurt if he took a pencil from his bag and scraped the graphite over the pinkish skin. A lot, he reasoned.

And he didn’t need to hurt a lot, just a little.

Anything was better than the numbness. Not being awake. (He was awake all the time. What the hell was this entire charade about?) Anything was better than the numbness. The static, the electric bite.

“Damn,” Izuku muttered, sadly, and the fuzziness in his brain started to fizzle out.

Skin and muscle and drama and panic and fear and exhaustion and this bone-deep anger that told him to go-go-go-go until the sun settled below the earth, until the skies turned dark, until no one was watching where he went or what he put into his backpack. What he bought with cash that wasn’t his, that wasn’t meant to be in his pocket.

His box of money was ash. His memories of it might as well be, too.

—

Izuku wanted to say he liked heroes the normal amount.

However much the general public considered normal. He had merchandise. He used to watch the news with his parents. He knew who the top heroes were—rescues, offenses, defenses, the best support, the best under covers—who was stationed at what studio, what agency, what program—the schools that produced the most successful hero alumni.

Okay.

Okay, so, maybe that wasn’t the most entirely normal amount.

But Izuku had his reasons. He wasn’t some obsessive fan who couldn’t read between the lines, unable to understand the severity of situations. He liked heroes. They weren’t problematic for him, didn’t truly hurt him—he wasn’t one of those groups, anyway, that could be so easily hurt by shitty propositions and laws. Heroes looked at him and didn’t really see him. Know him. Izuku could be a plain person with a good smile, and while his wings stood out, they weren’t that awe-inspiring.

Here was the thing: he wasn’t taking the physical exam, and yet, yet, he was going into the hero course? So? You know? Izuku had to meet the teachers? It was two days before UA’s school year officially started. Izuku, upon being woken up by Aizawa—shocking, right—was shuffled into a car and driven to UA.

(Aizawa knew what you were. He knew who you were.)

Something about preparing for orientation and stuff? Lesson plans? Assortments? Class rosters?

Hence, this.

“Look, we have a fan!” The woman cheered, and her hand was warm on his shoulder, even though it was very brief.

“I’m not a fan,” Izuku corrected, again, but it felt hopeless.

The lady patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about them,” she said, nice and easy. “They don’t mean any harm, of course, they’re just kinda rough around the edges. They love you, though, definitely.” Nemuri Kayama, also known as the R-Rated Hero: Midnight, laughed. “You’re like a miniature Shouta, excluding all the rage that’s visible in your eyes!”

She was wearing expensive perfume. Izuku wished he had the guts to ask the name, but he didn’t want to be in close proximity with anyone—let alone long enough for someone to realize he was wearing perfume or cologne or whatever. She smelled clean. Was that weird to say? Ugh. Probably. Maybe they could give him grace because he was a traumatized kid or whatever.

He winced, “Sorry, I’m better at hiding it.”

“Aw, what a sweetheart,” Kayama laughed, and she gave him a quick side-hug before pulling away. “I almost didn’t believe that Shouta had taken you in, you know? He doesn’t read as the type.”

“I thought he was going to pay for my parents’ funeral and then hand me off,” Izuku agreed, mulishly.

Kayama blinked at him. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Izuku agreed. He shrugged. “It made more sense in my head, but, ah. Here we are.” He shrugged again, looking around. The room felt too small. He wished he could be having this conversation on a roof, with his wings unfolded and uninjured. He winced, still as mulish as he was a few seconds ago, “He’s nice, though, so.”

“Well, I’d hope so,” The hero hummed, and despite her prior humor, she seemed far more solemn now. Her nails were painted crimson. “I’m sorry for speaking without a filter. I had no idea.”

Izuku’s brows furrow. “That he was nice?”

“No,” Kayama laughed, but she sounded abrupt about it. She gave him a small, apologetic smile, “That your parents had passed. I had no idea. Shouta hadn’t told us that you were that kid.”

The kid stared. “Oh.”

Well, that made sense. He nodded again.

—

He didn’t want to be a hero.

Why would anyone want to be a hero?

—

At Aldera, Izuku did not possess any friends. He knew the kids, and their quirks, and even some of their families and cliques, but he was not friends with any of them.

They did not share dreams or stories or homework answers. They called each other by names, smiled, acted as necessary for group projects, but did not venture further. After Tsubasa moved away when Izuku was young, and Kacchan began to grow into a migraine rather than a friend with sharp words, Izuku stopped playing go-lucky classmate. He had wings. He had dreams. He didn’t have much else, and didn’t want whatever else the universe was selling, so he settled in.

At UA, on the other hand, things were different. The class he was placed in was rambunctious.

Izuku felt like he was going to die half the time he stepped into the room, shoulder to shoulder with people who actually wanted to help people—or try, or something. He was not friends with them, because it had barely been a week of classes, but everyone seemed ecstatic when talking with him. Even the overly calm ones—even Kacchan, who kept glaring at him with true hate—because how did Izuku get in if he didn’t take the entrance exam, right, haha—but everything was buzzing. Aizawa was his teacher, for fuck’s sake. He learned English from Present Mic. All Might was one of their teachers! Wow! Izuku was supposed to care! Like all his peers cared! He barely understood why Ashido kept bumping her shoulder into his, why she was happy—why Shoji nodded at him all the time—shit, right, people with mutant quirks stick together, shit, right—wings and wings and wings. He wasn’t used to the friendly banter, he wasn’t used to exchanging his number so often. He felt like a celebrity, but, like, less rich.

Settling into UA was a nightmare. It wasn’t even anyone’s fault! Izuku was just halfway dead already and busy daydreaming about a grave! He was thinking about joining his Mom and Dad for dinner, just last the pearly gates, or whatever! He had their urns in his fucking bedroom!

(IT WOULD NOT BE AN IDEAL INTRODUCTION IF HE EVER BROUGHT SOMEONE HOME TO MEET HIS PARENTS. HAHA.)

He was going to go insane.

And worst of all? He wasn’t healed yet. He wasn’t. His skin peeled wrong, his vision blurred, he fought with his instincts all day long. He couldn’t fly. He couldn’t convince himself to run fast. Izuku almost wanted to flunk everything on purpose, no effort, so Aizawa would be forced to expel him.

Mister Half-Half wouldn’t like it, would he? He would call it hypocritical.

Fuck.

This was why Izuku didn’t involve himself with his peers! Talking with them and clocking them resulted in them clocking Izuku, too! Fuck! Yeah, sorry, my parents weren’t abusive or insane or anything, but yeah it’s kinda wild how I’m independent now and not giving my all, he could explain, all cheery and shit. What about you, Mister Endeavor’s Son? Anything you’d like to add? Welcome to high school, by the way! Do you even want to be a hero? Your daddy is a piece of shit! He couldn’t just say that, could he? Like, fuck.

Hey, go back just a second, yes, you—

—

—he looked at Shouto Todoroki and blinked twice. “Bad day?”

Todoroki stared at him, too, but looked away without finding anything. What a bastard. Then again, why would you be surprised? Endeavor was a piece of shit. It made sense that the trauma would make a child-heir into someone unapproachable by normal standards. Fine.

You slapped a hand over your eye to stop it from twitching. Lock in, Izuku told himself. God.

“Bad life?” He corrected lazily, whispering the words like a secret. He stood next to a Todoroki as the class filtered onto a bus. Going to the USJ—Unforeseen Simulation Joint, or something—not like Izuku planned to score high. Todoroki finally looked at him, icy, awful, and Izuku wondered what made him so bitter all the time of he was free from a single part of his shitty life, roughly six times a week. Izuku smiled. “Same,” and then he unceremoniously patted Todoroki with his still-healing wing and slipped by. “Try to take it easy while you’re at school. Not like he’s here to make it worse, right?”

He sat at the back of the bus and spent time smoothing out the tenderness of his wings. Shockingly, Todoroki sat down next to him for the bus ride. They didn’t talk.

Izuku still counted it as a win, but—

—

—for future reference, just assume Izuku only made friends through obnoxious means, such as impromptu bullying. Or bitterness. Or sour-sweet methods? He wasn’t sure what to call his strategy, only that it lured isolated kids in roughly eight time out of ten. Todoroki was one of the many teenagers who got lured based on one foul comment that had sympathetic undertones.

Izuku used this ploy all the time when confining teenagers to go home before curfew hit, etcetera, etcetera. Not like he paid much attention to the time when he was a vigilante, right?

Great.

Get caught up to speed!

Izuku spoke with Todoroki the most, now. No point in talking outlandishly, not now. Hook, line, and sinker, baby! Izuku had this covered. Not in the bag, but definitely hidden under a suspicious looking tarp of some kind. It gave him a headache the more he thought about it.

Todoroki asked abrupt questions all the time. Izuku had mostly gotten used to it by now. “Have you ever dated?” He asked, now, at lunch.

(Okay, maybe he wasn’t used to it. Maybe he wasn’t. Who would have guessed?)

“No, I’ve totally dated,” Izuku muttered.

Todoroki stared at him blankly. “Really?” And he even sounded doubtful—him, of all people! “I wouldn’t have thought so.”

“Why would you think about me at all?” Izuku snorted, and he shuffled his wings like he could lessen their weight by moving around. He couldn’t, by the way. The back pain would be insane once he was an adult. Miserable and awful. Yikes. He shrugged, weak. “Whatever helps you sleep,” he said. “If it’s gossip you want, you should talk to Ashido.”

“It’s not gossip, is it?” His peer asked, just as blank as before. “It’s coming directly from you.” A small pause, and his lips did that thing that made Izuku wonder what life was like for normal teens with lovey-dovey hearts. “It’s just information.”

(Well, you could find out, said your brain. You pointedly ignored it. Because no, such a thing wasn’t on your bucket list. You didn’t want to do such things. You didn’t want to bother with it. Blah, blah, blah. You could find out. The fuck you could.)

“Yeah, sure,” Izuku sighed. “I’ve totally dated.”

“Really?” Todoroki repeated.

“Yep,” Izuku insisted, even though he most certainly had not.

No point in dating, no time or reason. Surrounding himself in the company of people who wanted to know him intimately sounded wrong—and, you know, the fact that he didn’t have anyone like that, anyways? Well, it sounded like a done deal. Why date? Why be a lover?

He was fine. He faded in and out, anyways, so being present for anyone was too much work.

It was bad enough he was here attending classes at all.

As a rule of thumb, he wouldn’t be here in a few months. Maybe even a few weeks from now. He had been dodging Aizawa’s suggestions to talk to Hound Dog for six consecutive days, and he was aiming for longer—as long as humanly possible—because he was not about to be stuck in a school counselor’s office talking about things he didn’t want to talk about. Hound Dog was probably great. Izuku was just—not great—really—and he didn’t want to talk about it. Explain it. You know?

And the whole lie he spun—

Like, no, he never dated anyone. And he certainly never dated a nameless vigilante that used a paper plate as a mask. That wasn’t a thing.

It didn’t matter what the records said, because Izuku was a crybaby, and Deku was fake, and he wasn’t anything else and he couldn't hide the way he used to, so he tapped out instead, and someone would tell him that tapping out was actually called [REDACTED], and he wasn’t sure if he could handle that.

Yikes. [REDACTED] looked gross, sounded gross.

He shuddered.

But, no, well. Todoroki was still looking at him. Lunch was almost ver, and then they had to go and pack themselves into the next class. Izuku tapped his chopsticks, not supposed to, and ignored the pile of rice he had yet to eat. Todoroki was mostly done with his food. That was good—hero training would be extensive, and Todoroki needed energy to use his quirk. All people did, really. Especially Yaoyorozu, though.

Huh.

Stay on topic, Izuku, stay on topic.

“I see,” His classmate said, dryly, and it was almost hilarious.

Almost. He laughed it off, and set his chopsticks down. “Fine,” Izuku said, and he scratched at his hairline and tugged at his uneven bangs. “Did you want to know the story?” And he was looking, really looking, and Todoroki didn’t seem worried or curious. He waited, just for an extra second, and then he gestured with his still-broken arm, wobbly. “Come closer,” he beckoned, softly, and he made his eyes dart around the cafeteria.

Todoroki hummed, low, and leaned in. “What?”

“So,” Izuku popped his lips, winced, held his head down. He leaned close, covering his mouth with his hand as he funneled the story into Todoroki’s ear, “I actually dated a vigilante for a little bit, but, ah, we sorta had to break up.” He paused for dramatic effect, closing his eyes and trying to imagine an identity that wasn’t just a reflection of his own goddamn face. “Or, well, they died, so. It wasn’t really a breakup.” He finally leaned away, giving a big smile, easy, always so easy.

Todoroki was looking at him.

(That was one of the perks of being a weird kid. People just stared at you. As long as you were mostly normal, they wouldn’t totally bother you. Hence, this. Everything. God, he was so fucking good at this. Fuck.)

The vigilante stared back, and didn’t blink, and didn’t waver. He shrugged again, “Or, you know, maybe I haven’t dated.” He paused. “Like you thought.”

“You look like the type to date a vigilante,” Todoroki said at last, and then promptly stopped talking for the rest of lunch, even though Izuku tried badgering him three separate times after the statement.

—

Aizawa (8:08am): You better not be skipping.

Izuku (8:10am): can I not exist in peace

Aizawa (8:10am): What peace are you trying to exist in? Get to class.

Izuku (8:11am): I am totally in class
Izuku (8:11am): stop stalking me on Life360 I swear to god I’ll turn off my location

Aizawa (8:13am): Good luck. It’s parental locked. Highly doubt you can turn it off

Izuku (8:14am): are you serious??

—

Izuku didn’t care for heroes the way all his peers did.

It wasn’t even a personal thing. Heroes did the job. They were more or less professional. They were more or less successful. He more or less liked their costumes and personas and dumb one-liners.

His peers wanted to be heroes. They had hopes and dreams and ideas—and Izuku heard of them, listened when Uraraka or Iida plainest why they wanted to be something—the proud claim follow in my family’s footsteps and the shy whisper to support my parents so they don’t have to work so hard anymore—and then there was Izuku. Hollow shell, if you will, because he snuck out at night to partake in totally normal people-watching activities, ensure kids got home before curfew, and analyze quirks from afar. He wrote with a half-dead pen, splattered the ink on his arms or wings. Words, times, dates, names. Ideas and phrases and information he compiled with his eyes. Then there was Izuku. He wasn’t at UA to be a hero. He wasn’t here because he was strong, or smart, or the best pick for the track—he was here because he got a free pass to life when his parents didn’t, and Aizawa pitied him just enough to set him up for some kind of high school experience. Why not just shove him into Gen Ed? Who knew. Izuku didn’t. He didn't ask much about it, either.

Izuku wasn’t going to be a hero.

That wasn’t what he wanted. Not in a bad way. He saw heroes, knew them, spoke with them—used to dream of them, like most kids. All Might merchandise, heroism being romanticized like nothing else. Oh, look, the glamour! Interviews and autobiographies and documentaries and paper signatures and meet-your-fans and meet-and-greets and hero conventions and wow, wow, wow! Izuku’s eyes burned, his parents’ bodies burned.

He wasn’t a hero.

He didn’t even play the role. He didn’t attempt to be good, or kind—he was a nobody. You know? Did you understand? NOBODY. You should say it a few times so you remember in the future. The text on the screen needed emphasis, and italics didn’t do your story justice, and Izuku wasn’t here to be injustice, exactly—so the choice was obvious.

Don’t be a hero.

Don’t be a loser, either, and bolden what you were talking about.

He didn’t care for heroes the way his peers did. He didn’t care for it at all. Todoroki was here because he wanted to prove to his father—biggest piece of shit on the planet—that he didn’t need his fire to be a hero, just his mother’s ice. That much, exactly, Izuku could understand within a few days of knowing the youngest child of the Todoroki family.

Money, fame, success, being kind, being fated—things being said with big smiles, like, it’s what I was born to do, you know?

But he didn’t know.

He didn’t know, and didn’t want to know.

His wings were dead weight, and he couldn’t fly correctly now, and the tendons were sore, and the risks of damaging his muscles only grew the more he refused to do things correctly. He stayed away from group projects, stayed closer to his new bedroom. He didn’t talk much. He tried not to. He tried, swallowed, sunk down.

There was a need to be small. Not in the—well, the eating way—he didn’t know—he should Google it or something—but in the don’t exist way. To not be perceived. To not have a name or a face or a personality that others could recognize.

He wanted paper plates, thick business jackets, his Mom’s perfume, his Dad’s suits and ties that Izuku couldn’t fit into.

Couldn’t grow into it, either.

Swallow. Sunken in. Sunk down, shot down, thrown to the bottomless sea. Everyone wanted to be a hero, or loved heroes, or loved society, and Izuku was just—he was here. That was all. People spoke so brightly about heroics and needless violence and legislation and shit of that nature, and Izuku’s hands throbbed and his body ache and he pictured films and documentaries and statistics, quirks and bigotry, the issues of life that others overlooked because, quote, it’s a new era, boy, we don’t deal with those problems anymore! But the problems still existed. There was no place on earth that was void of these issues, unpossessive of the traits and decisions that damaged entire groups, right? And Izuku didn’t know what to do, because he wasn’t supposed to think about these things.

He wasn’t supposed to think about them.

Thinking about them meant he had to suffer the aftermath, think about it, understand who was dying and being sold and being skinned and being held down.

Izuku had wings. He had it easy, compared to others, right? He wasn’t unsightly. He wasn’t. It wasn’t like that for him, but it was for some of his other peers, and they didn’t even look at him with angry faces. Izuku didn’t know what he was thinking of—why he wanted their anger—why it was important to understand them. His skin peeled back, he peeled his teeth, he used whitening strips three times in a row until his enamel was stripped down, bleached out and sensitive. Didn’t say a word, didn’t eat or drink, didn’t want to. Shiny and so, so, so clean, he had thought. It came and went, it twisted, it was uncomfortable.

Always so uncomfortable.

Lips pressed together, car wheel in his head—pinwheels and cartwheels and a man behind the car, foot on the pedal, left side—and he dreamed of his father, dreamed of smoke, dreamed of dragons and grit-teeth, dreamed of his Mom and lavender scents. He dreamed of the signs, the roadwork, the night sky. He stretched his wings out, daintily, like letting paper mâché dry in the middle of the night.

Delicate. So delicate.

Did heroes do that? Did they?

Because Izuku didn’t know and he didn’t have the heart to ask anyone. So he stayed quiet. He sat at the edge of his bed and closed his eyes and dug his nails into his wrists—either or, opposing—and stretched his wings and thought about how his arm was broken and how his head was broken, too.

—

“What the hell are we doing?” Izuku asked Todoroki.

His classmate shrugged inconsolably. “No idea.” This much, Izuku should have expected, but somehow failed to account for in the possible reactions page that was scanned within his head, forefront—fuck.

Izuku coasted on less information before, hadn’t he?

—

He wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Or maybe that was the thing: he was, and he was crazy, and he wasn’t able to think it through. Maybe this was what he was supposed to do, supposed to be like, and he forgot somewhere along the way because his head hurt too much and he hated breathing and he hated thinking and the world hated him, too, maybe, just a little. Like a little bit, not a lot, because they seemed to hate a bunch of other people more than they hated him, but, well, you know. It was hard to place a finger on it. Even harder, he would say, to give it a name or a reason. Because names and reasons meant more than one act, didn’t it?

(A moment of kindness would disagree with you. A whispered compliment by a stranger would disagree with you. But, you would disagree with all of it, so what did it matter?)

You curled closer to the edge of the couch, pressing your ribs into the arm. The cushion didn’t billow, didn’t collapse under your meager weight. Useless pressure. Izuku wasn’t sure why he was out here instead of tucked away in his supposed bedroom, but his wings were halfway unfurled, just one third each, and Aizawa was doing something in the kitchen. There were papers scattered on the kitchen table, and a calculator, and two filing folders, and several pens that looked like they had been through war.

Izuku was watching the TV with a newly ignited passion. He didn’t even know why, seeing as he had never been invested in the internet or the streaming services available.

But he was watching, and the silence wasn’t so bad, and the little cat that Aizawa owned had decided that it’s new favorite place to hide was under Izuku’s wing, like a blanket, like a personal cove. He stayed perfectly still for the little thing, tried not to be elated or disgusted or anything—too much meant too much, and he could barely stand himself, some days, so standing a cat seemed near impossible when its whiskers tickled his skin, made him feel mean for trying to pull away.

“Is Tama bothering you?” Aizawa asked, because he was a secret telepath.

“No,” Izuku said, because he was a not-so-secret liar, and would not be the evil one for evicting a cat from its chosen loafing spot. The cat in question was purring, small, and warm, and Izuku wasn’t terribly bothered. He could handle this. He was forcing himself to handle this.

“Move her if she is,” Aizawa told him, because he was aware of these things. “She won’t bite.” He seemed to go back to grading papers—goodbye to your solid passing score, hello one-on-one tutoring—and silence fell over the room again.

The television blared on.

The show was boring and mundane and Izuku would prefer to watch something real, something new—he fumbled with the remote, couldn’t get the dials or buttons to work correctly. His skin was clammy. His arm was in a cast, numbed and numbed, and his other arm was useless. Might as well have a mind of its own. Useless. He exited the platform, staring at the title. He couldn’t read it. He couldn't understand what it was, the words he was seeing—they were thousands of kilometers away, and he was a floating leaf in an ocean, or something, and he wasn’t real the way everything else was real. His wings shuddered, and Tama curled up further on the couch, pressed her little spine to Izuku’s leg, hid under the warmth of his deadweight. Izuku forced himself to handle it. Because handling it was necessary, and he wasn’t a total idiot, he could handle one small creature giving him unspoken affection.

He fumbled with the remote, somehow found his way onto another streaming platform—pressed play on the first documentary he saw in the History of Quirks category.

The introduction started playing, music thumping like drums, and Izuku quickly lowered the volume before his head decided to roll off his neck in a fit of protest. LOUDER, PLEASE! But he was in public, near Aizawa, this was a communal space, this was history, this wasn’t music that could drown him.

He swallowed thickly.

The remote was so heavy in his hand. He was so heavy in his own hands, not soft putty, not slime or goo or a pile of human flesh—he was the embodiment of dread, a bad thing, a flightless bird—he wasn’t even a bird—and he was settled in on a couch that wasn’t his, with a cat that wasn’t his, in a house that wasn’t his, with a man who wasn’t his father.

“History of Quirks?” Aizawa asked, and his voice was only barely louder than the TV.

“Yeah,” Izuku agreed, loosely, because he didn’t know how else to say he wasn’t here and it didn’t matter and he didn’t know and he couldn’t force himself to know, only handle, and that meant he was just floating on by. He survived on less information, didn’t he? He survived.

He didn’t know how to say it.

He couldn’t say it.

“I like quirks,” Izuku admitted, when he thought a reasonable amount of time had passed.

His wings were limp. His arm was broken. His parents were dead. The TV played at a volume of seven. Tama was under his wing, curled up and sleeping like a sweetheart. These were facts. These were real. Warmth bled into his side, through the fabric of his pajama pants, and Tama purred and breathed, and Izuku ignored how it made his skin crawl. He stared at the screen. He pressed himself further into the couch, trying to let the cushions swallow him whole.

(The couch could not swallow him whole. His dreams, maybe, but they were far away and out of reach. What dreams could he conjure at night? Were they any different than the reality he lived? Moving through each motion, locking every door, scratching every scab? Prying open very cute every gash, whining about stitches and fevers and bad grades and bad movies and medical inaccuracies? Wasn’t it bad enough? Wasn’t it bad enough that he could not be swallowed whole, sucked into a void, placed into a shell of darkness in which no one would ever find? Maybe if he wrapped his wings around himself, tighter and tighter, hid under limbs that did not unfold correctly. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.)

“Quirks are interesting,” The man said, magnanimously. Izuku didn’t know what he sounded like, what his tone was—happy or agreeable, neutral or bored.

Izuku swallowed thickly. “Yeah.”

—

You were throwing up in the bathroom.

A hero was next to him, and you didn’t know when Eraserhead got there. You didn’t know when he arrived, when he found you here, hunched over a toilet and heaving up your dinner and meager lunch and non-existent breakfast. Eat something, had turned into please eat and it washed over you, mostly, but this night was differently, and your skin was all wrong and Eraserhead’s hand was warm on your back, and you couldn’t recall the last time anyone rubbed your back when you vomited.

Maybe your mother, when she was okay, when she didn’t think you needed your space. No, Mom, I don’t need space. I need love. I need care. I need safety. I need you. But Mom was dead, and you were throwing up in a hero’s hallway bathroom.

Dead.

Well. You didn’t take drugs. You didn’t take anything. You were throwing up because the guilt made you, because illness was powerful and you weren’t able to cure it.

(You don’t normally do this.)

“I’m not,” You choked, but you didn’t know what you were saying. “I’m not.”

Eraserhead didn’t know, either, but he rubbed your back and didn’t say anything mean. You heaved and heaved and heaved. “You aren’t,” he agreed, quietly, and he tugged your hair out of the path of vomit, held it so it would not be tainted with sickness. “Take a breath,” he told you. “You might’ve eaten too fast. You’re not in trouble.”

Trouble was the last thing on your mind.

Eraserhead wouldn’t know that, would he? The man knew of crimes and acts and vigilantes and vigilantism. Heroes and heroics, taught a bunch of kids, taught you, but that was a one-off dream. That was a different storyline, written by a different author, posted on a different site. You were tired. You were sick. You were throwing up, but there was nothing left, and both your throat and eyes burned.

“I’m not,” You choked, again.

“You’re not,” Eraserhead told you, and he made it sound simple. This was the truth, he seemed to say, don’t worry about anything else because it’s all bullshit.

But you were flesh and bone and ache and sold; the kind of thing that trembled when scared, even if you tried so hard to not do so. But you were human, and you weren’t four or six or seven or nine or fourteen, you weren’t a little kid, you weren’t a child who could excuse their behaviors on things beyond their control. You were in control. You were the one steering the car, metaphorically, and you kneeled on tiles and vomited into bowls and ate fresh fruit and made lime jello and the hero who had custody of you let you, let you, let you.

Negligent? No?

(Why would he be?)

Well, you could wish. You could wish and hope and cross your fingers as much as you would like.

(It wouldn’t be easier.)

You could dream.

(But why bother dreaming when it was right in front of you?)

You smelled the fire and choked on the ash and the small of anything burning made you think of your home and your childhood and what happened to your parents and why everyone was stupid—murder-suicide, what, no, I’ll show you a fucking suicide, goddamn it, who are you to tell me any of this?

“I want my Mom,” You sobbed, finally, and Eraserhead breathed out slowly. One, two, three, four. You sobbed again, and your eyes were burning, and your face was wet, and bile clung to your chin and drained you and tainted you and you hated it. “I want my Mom,” you sobbed, and sobbed, and Eraserhead placed his hand on your back, a silent comfort, and he was good with actions not words, and you were a mess and you were a mess and you were messy and you made it worse.

“Midoriya,” The hero said, solemn and slow and right next to you, and you weren’t just a shell but a person. “Breathe in and hold for four.”

(Breathe in and hold for four.)

You blinked fast and choked and sputtered and Izuku looked up, coughing, crying, and Aizawa smoothed a hand down the kid’s back—like he could scrub the ache away, give a chance for the kid to notice the absence of hate—and did not offer condolences or useless apologies. No I’m sorry for your loss. Nothing like it. Because it was minuscule, and useless, and who could explain it better than the child who lost his parents?

(One, two, three, four.)

Izuku breathed out, shaky, and his hands spasmed, and he screwed his eyes shut, and he hated being seen and hated being known. Strangers didn’t need that, didn’t deserve that right. Aizawa seemed to see right through him, anyway. A few minutes passed. Izuku was still kneeling on the floor like a useless doll, and the hero was still rubbing his back. He wasn’t a little kid.

Why was he being so—

“Do you feel any better?” Aizawa asked, quietly.

“Yeah,” Izuku mumbled.

There was barely a pause, barely anything, and then the hero hummed. “Do you think you could drink some water after this?”

Izuku didn’t know. Probably. He swallowed the tang, choked a little, and nodded. “I’ll be right out,” he agreed. “I just need to brush my teeth first.” He faked a gag, not a real one, because he gagged plenty already, “Tastes gross.”

—

Izuku was looking at Izuku, but Izuku was Deku, and he had a plastic smile and a bad face.

He wasn’t sure where he was, how he came to be—a woman and a man, fifteen years ago, but now they were dead and the boy was alone—why he was here, how, why, when, where.

Todoroki was looking at him too.

Izuku wanted to scream.

DON’T LOOK AT ME, and he was a small child, crying, hiding under wings that were far too big for him. DON’T LOOK, DON’T LOOK, DON’T LOOK. He was a baby, he was a boy, he was a body below a roof. Scrape him off the concrete. CALL ME OR DON’T! BUT DON’T LOOK! DON’T LOOK! Izuku’s hands were slack. You weren’t paying attention. You weren’t real. No one understood. You weren’t real the way they were real. You were a disingenuous little fuck, and you had skin between your teeth and a death wish in your eyes and a bad mind and a bad heart and a bad, bad, and time. Izuku was here. You weren’t. That was the difference. Deku versus you, but you were one and the same, and no one knew any different. Any better. No, no one. Not even you.

(READ BETWEEN THE LINES. DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?)

“Midoriya,” Todoroki said, and suddenly Izuku was a paper doll standing dead-faced in a hero school hall, he was a teenager in a teenager’s body.

Izuku blinked fast, rapid. His hands were clammy. He was numb-shock, wings too heavy, and he didn’t want to be a hero but he was in the hero class because he had enough points from the exam, and the recommendation from Eraserhead, and the whole special-treatment-because-he-was-an-orphan thing.

But they all said it wasn’t special treatment.

(It was. They were liars. You were being treated unfairly compared to your other, also, familiarly traumatized peers.)

“Sorry,” Izuku rasped, and Todoroki just kept looking at him. Something in your head yelled please stop, I’m not here, don’t make me. You blinked back to life. “I’m okay, sorry.” Todoroki wasn’t done looking though. One eye sharp, the other just slightly sharper. God. He should be in a magazine. He should be somewhere else, not near a dirty thing like Izuku. “I just spaced out,” the child lied, and he hoped it went unchecked.

Todoroki nodded unashamedly, not bothered by the wait. He reached out, ice-side, and his cold hand pressed solidly into Izuku’s shoulder blade. It was freezing. Izuku’s brain came online, full force. “You should pay more attention,” he said, lightly, and then he let go.

“Yeah,” Izuku sputtered, shoulders hiking up to his ears. “I should, huh?”

“Yes,” His classmate agreed. But then he frowned, and his eyes pierced, and Izuku wanted to gouge them out—oh god, wait, no, sorry, wait, no, oh god—but he refrained, he didn’t. “Midoriya,” Todoroki murmured. “Are you alright?”

It was a punted check to the fact that the green haired teen was clenching his fists quite strongly.

(Why would Todoroki of all people be aware of an outsider’s finicky emotions? Honestly, a crazy development. No offense.)

“Oh, uhm, yeah. I’m good,” The vigilante laughed, nodding. He swallowed all his spit and bile and grossness. “All good,” he reassured. “Sorry.” His nails curled into his palms, and he finally let go after wincing. Right. No one wanted to deal with all that illness.

Neither did Izuku, so!

They all had something in common!

—

EXPLANATION, WRITTEN BY IZUKU MIDORIYA: You fucking hate everyone here. Except maybe Todoroki. And maybe Kacchan, but he hates you, so you think your very limited and misplaced hatred is valid. It’s hard to hate someone who used to be good to you. (ONLY when you were really little.) Something like that.

—

Izuku used to fly.

He would even say he was good at it. Wings stretched wide, eyes set on whatever was ahead of him.

He used to fly with the pigeons, which always made his mother laugh, saying why would you fly with such dirty birds while Izuku at his dinner, hiding shame. The answer was simple. It was because the birds weren’t dirty. Because he preferred to fly with weak creatures rather than hawks or vultures or impressive seabirds—scouring for food, squawking loudly, taking up Izuku’s space in terrible ways—seagulls were truly monstrous compared to pigeons and doves—and so, it stretched, it piled on. Because. No other reason.

Izuku was less inclined to fly, now, because it was too close to who he was at night.

And he didn’t like being awake in both senses—quirk or no quirk, extra limbs or useless wings, fake feathers, blackened palms from when he burned too hard. Icarus, or however—he wasn’t sure, actually—the name went. Something about flying too close to the sun. Something about scouring the wrong places, sparing too much.

Well, Izuku could put on a show, couldn’t he?

That was the point of flying. That was the point of smiling at his teachers, nodding along to what the counselor and school nurse said, talking to people or dodging their hands. Sorry, a mouth opened, spoke. It never sounded like him. Sorry, can you not touch me, I just don’t like it very much. And there would be apologies, straight-faced, and he would be queasy or angry and he would want to—

Leave, or something.

Like this: go-go-go-go. No commas, no pauses, just the sudden urge to make a run for it. That was the answer. Exactly like this: go-go-go-go.

Always.

And he knew it was bad. The urge to leave. Most people would say it was bad, unwanted, unneeded. Very dramatic for a middle-class kid with a quirk to be doing. Acting. Talking about. (Make a show. Be a playwright. Weren’t you good at it? You were supposed to be good at it. Be good at it. Write it out, you have the journals, so write, c’mon, write. Make it a big thing! Make it a thing! C’mon.) Pull at your skin. Oh, sorry, wait, don’t. He knew better. He did. His parents didn’t understand, really, but they were sweet. When Dad was home, he was sweet, too. Mom was always sweet. Happy about her little boy flying. Doing things. Being independent.

He used to enjoy flying. Fuck.

He was going over all the motions. He was thinking about prying open the window of the guest room and slipping out from between the glass. He was thinking about it. He wanted to.

Izuku wanted to.

And he had never really, well, fought himself so hard? About something so useless? So pointless? If he wanted to leave, he would just leave. That was how he used to act, how he used to position himself. When his skin blistered and when his Dad called him and when his Mom texted him and when his teachers looked at him with pity and he looked at them with concealed anger.

The kind that burst open eventually. The kind that snarled and snapped and tangled. He wanted to put his hands into his chest and pry the pieces out—bloody fingers, wretched nails, chipped—he wanted to chew, bite, snarl, snap, snarl, snap, let things snag on his tongue. He wasn’t barbed like his father. He almost wished he was, wished that he received the fire breathing. His was dormant. He had a minor tolerance for fires, his insides weren’t burned as easily as his outsides. Hisashi’s didn’t have wings, because, well, the wing trait from his mother—Izuku’s grandmother—hadn’t appeared. Grandmother had wings and fire. Grandfather only had fire. Dragon quirk, if you will, but you were still very human. You didn’t transform like the Dragoon Hero: Ryukyu could.

Like this: Izuku had wings.

His father didn’t have wings—neither did Inko, which was obvious, because she had a minor telekinetic quirk—but you know. Izuku was his father’s son, a lot of the time.

So. Hence the whole, like, genetic thing. Statistics talked about other things. Mixed and matched parental quirks. That mutations were very uncommon. Odd. Complete abnormalities. But the funny thing was that being quirkless was also, like, an abnormality? Izuku had even googled it. A better understanding was key, right? So, as normal—but not a mutation. Just uncommon, these days specifically, because quirklessness was dying out with the older generations.

Haha. Dying out. Dramatic, right?

(You were dramatic, too. You were playing the part your agent wanted. You were doing what you could. You were trying so fucking hard, but then you weren’t, and once you stopped, you were just tired and lost and mean.)

But anger burned, and it burned, and it pushed you closer towards the window and closer towards the balcony and closer towards the edge of a seventy-three story roof. Big, fancy, shiny office buildings. He could jump off a hero tower. He could be a suididee, a burden on the cleanup crew. Oh, sorries, you said, but never meant. I’m clumsy, you see? Sorry!

Izuku used to enjoy flying.

Because he had been good at it, and it had been quick, and as long as the skies were clear, he had been able to soar and enjoy time. Clouds wafting into his face, the air not reaching his lungs as easily as it did when he was on his feet.

Flying.

(Take me flying, goddamn it. Don’t leave me like this.)

Izuku looked at his teachers and had no idea what they were talking about. He felt like he was in a bad movie. Everything felt poorly directly, poorly maintained. He felt like he was stripping himself bare, showing off muscles he did not have, giving the world access to his delicate and human and vital organs. Access. Well, that was a bad thing. And his eyes were burning, and he was thinking about joining his parents, and Aizawa was starting to catch on and that was bad.

Like, really bad.

Like, run-away-before-he-could-call-you-out-on-it bad.

Fuck.

—

Skin.

Or, well, not skin.

Izuku was looking at his arms and they weren’t covered by skin anymore. He wasn’t quite—

No one was quite sure, maybe. Minor horror. A bad movie, tagged and complained about—labeled with trigger warnings, the online caution tape. Seven different ways to censor all the bad content that had occurred in his life. Was it existential? Was it too much? Here was a list: body horror, graphic violence, murder, death, suicide, self-harm, existential crises, manslaughter—the vehicular kind—guns, gun violence, a gun to your head, a pill in your mouth, drug abuse, illegal trades, gangs—what was something else—neglect, abuse—the child kind—someone with their hands on you, someone without hands, someone without you, child murder, child death, sanctions and mutilations in equal parts, medical malpractice—the straight evil kind—and human experimentation; noumus and otherwise, tanglement, bribery, blackmail, corruption of authority, abuse of authority, hey, woah, why does that kid have a gun, why does—

Skin to skin, right now, right here.

(SORRY, MY MISTAKE, IT WASN’T ACTUALLY LIKE THAT. READ IT AGAIN. THANK YOU!)

Izuku peeled away at his face, couldn’t do so to his arms. They were all blank, all muscle, the kind that was red and rubbery and tender and not for touching—the don’t fucking touch kind. Layers by layers. There weren’t many, not that he could pry apart, but he knew. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t Google these things. His phone had thirty-eight percent. He had time to Google what he was violating.

There was so much happening.

Not that he wanted any of it to happen, but it was. Slipping. Sliding. Existing near him when he would rather peel his skin off, one layer at a time. Epidermis, dermis, hypodermis. One layer at a time. He could hook his thumbnail, maybe, start tugging. That would be it. And then it would be over. There was a lot happening. So much, compared to the mundane and bruised life he had been living before.

(Was it so mundane? Mom and Dad? Was it mundane, being alone and being quiet and being vigilant and being inside dreams? Was it?)

He blinked.

The muscles were wiry. He wanted to peel them apart like Red Vines. He wanted to peel them away, see if they could come undone by his shaky nails. He was staring too much.

He blinked.

He blinked again.

(DON’T LOOK, the voice of his Mom screamed at him, desperate. DON’T LOOK, Deku howled. DON’T LOOK!)

He blinked.

The world was brightly colored. His parents were dead. His wings were dead weight, and he couldn’t run from it, and he wanted to run from it. (He couldn’t fly. It hurt to fly, to stretch.) He stared at his face in the mirror, biting at his lip. They were chewed-through.

It would be obvious when he left the bathroom, what happened.

It wasn’t like he could lie and say he and a girlfriend—or boyfriend—decided to maul each other’s faces in the bathroom stall.

Two reasons as to why: Reason One being that Izuku’s supposed partner was dead. (Sorry, past-you, it was the only lie Izuku could think of as the detective stared straight through his soul.) And, Reason Two being the fact that he was barely sixteen, and no two sixteen year olds would be this passionate in a school bathroom during lunch period. That was an American movie thing. That was a passionate, steamy, seven-thousand word fanfic thing. The rating being explicit, of course, capital E, red square with a white font.

Izuku blinked, fast, looked back at his arms and rolled-up sleeves.

The skin wasn’t as pink as he remembered. Only certain areas. The bandages for one broken arm were—loose, if you will? He wanted to gnaw the actual cast off. He couldn’t, at the moment, but his upper arm was exposed. The bicep was smothered in the uniform, but under was pink spots, surely, blistered that were popped.

(Blink, and you were no longer a hero course student. Blink, and you were anyone else. Blink, and suddenly you wouldn’t feel so useless. Blink, and suddenly skipping class was whatever. Blink, and who was to say what you did at night? Just blink.)

“Fuck,” Izuku muttered, solemn, and analyzed the damage that he could never fully pay attention to.

He looked back up at his face, at the spindly gash that had formed after he scraped at his nose too much. His left under-eye was pink, now, tender from his nail picking at the delicate skin. Ah, shit, this is why people used razors instead. Fuck. What excuse could he use for his face? His lips could be—

Well, no, but—

Izuku closed his eyes. Blinked a few times. “Fuck,” he repeated, as he looked at the mirror. At least it was just him in the bathroom. He could spend a little extra time mending some of his appearance.

—

EXPLANATION, WRITTEN BY IZUKU MIDORIYA: Making suicide jokes while your wings are broken and you’re on the edge of a roof is not an adequate comedy when your only audience member is [ERASERHEAD].

—

“What the hell are you doing?” Kacchan snapped at you.

And you didn’t know, why would you know? Your parents’ urns were in your room in a hero’s apartment, and all the heroes at his place of employment—the literal best school for heroics, like, ever—were all aware of your tragic backstory. You wanted to kill yourself half of the time, and the other half of your time was spent thinking of ways to kill the hero who housed. you, even though it wasn’t an actual train of thought you wanted to consider. You weren’t a murderer. (Neither was your father.) Your head just didn’t shut up. And it was worse, now, because Mom and Dad were dead, and you didn’t actually know how to cope with it.

So, you stared, instead. You barely blinked at Kacchan. You barely even listened to what he had to say, because you were exhausted and fuzzy and numb and what was the point, really?

“Nothing,” You muttered, tiredly, “Stop looking.”

(Don’t ask me, you wanted to say. Because you knew something was wrong. You knew. Don’t talk so loud.)

“Look at yourself,” Kacchan told you, sharp, and he billowed past like a storm. You didn’t know what his fucking problem was, but the two of you hadn’t gotten along in years. It was a shame that Inko and Mitsuki could no longer talk. Auntie was a sweetheart, even if she was rough around the edges.

You finally blinked.

You wanted to tear your wings off, cut them loose with the knife that Aizawa kept ion his belt when he was in patrol gear—hell, he might even have it when he wasn’t in full-gear. You shuddered, and then stopped yourself from imagining awful things, and stopped the way your eyes began to water and your wings began to shake. Fuck that. Hell no.

(Nothing, you said. I’m not doing anything.)

But anyone could see what a giant lie that was, right?

—

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Uraraka asked him, leaning close. Her hand was warm on his shoulder, a wonderful presence. It was only wonderful for a few seconds before he wanted to push her away.

He didn’t.

Izuku nodded, easy, and smiled. “Yeah,” he assured. “I’m okay, don’t worry, just insomnia.”

And planning, and thinking, and dreaming, and [REDACTED], and a million other things that kept him up late. Dreaming about faceless vigilantes, for example, that acted and sounded like him, but didn’t have skin, didn’t have eyes, didn’t have any identifiable features. Some of these figments didn’t have green hair or paper plates or red shoes or healed wings. Some were burning, some were dead, some never got up again.

Izuku didn’t know how to word that. He didn’t know.

His arm was still broken, he still showed his eyes to Aizawa, but he didn’t speak of anything important. He ate the dinner, did the homework, passed the most recent quizzes with the minimum scores needed. Izuku was trying. He was okay. What his peers saw—well, they were busier, nosier, almost more in-tune. It wasn’t like middle school. It was its own thing, terrifying, and the pressure to thrive climbed up and settled on his heavy shoulders, already weighed down by dead wings.

(They weren’t dead yet, they still bled, still twitched. You dreamed of cutting and burning them off. You dreamed of nooses and ropes.)

“If you say so,” Uraraka agreed. There was a thoughtful pause, and then, “Insomnia is a bitch.”

“Truth,” Izuku nodded.

“Yeah,” She echoed, reminiscent of her probably once-healthy sleep schedule. She patted his shoulder one more time—the one that was very clearly not damaged—she was observant like that—and then pulled away. The warmth vanished.

He let out a breath he had been holding, scraping his throat with. “It really is,” he smiled at her, again,because it was the nice thing to do and he didn’t want to bother her with bad things, “Thank you for checking in with me.” The words were stilted, awkward, not right. He felt like an idiot. He didn’t want to sound like one, really, but it always left his mouth wrong anyways. He shrugged. “I appreciate it.”

“No, of course!” Uraraka blinked rapidly, smiling kindly, “Always, Deku!” And her face was pink at the edges, and she wasn’t pink in the raw-injured sense, she was pink in the embarrassed sense. Ashido was simply just pink.

Izuku was only pink when he scrubbed his skin raw, over and over again, broke through the layers and saw thin lines of blood.

He hummed, almost laughing, “Thank you anyway?”

It was odd. It wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. He wished he didn’t come to class. He wished he allowed Recovery Girl to heal him to full capacity. He wished he wasn’t raw and injured, wished he wasn’t tired, wished he didn’t feel tired even though he slept fine, more or less. He wished. It was odd. He was odd, then, like he used to be.

But she laughed, so Izuku forced the sound to echo from his own throat, and so they moved on with their day.

—

And he was watching the reflection, and the reflection was watching him, and he could feel his wings frazzle and fizzle and he wanted to set them on fire. He wanted to glide and go down, fall to the earth, be an asteroid, be something worthy of astronomers’ praise. Dragons weren’t real. Not like—science? Scientifically? Maybe in folklore, in mythology, in stories—in quirks, now, because quirks expanded every horizon and complicated every issue that had previously existed. Every new facet.

Well, this was one of the many facets, wasn’t it? Cut gems.

His father was dead. His mother was dead. He was attending a prestigious high school and acting out of line in the most negligent and useless ways he could. He was at UA, the most quality school in Japan for heroics. And hero-related business, he guessed. Maybe even support? But Shiketsu was probably better, actually, one and two, interchangeable in the support category—maybe not as well known? But Izuku didn’t know. He didn’t ask. And he didn’t actually bother to Google it, because Google would scare him, and he didn’t have the energy to deal with so many frights all the time.

His reflection did a dance. He watched it spin, for fuck’s sake, and he was starting to think he was insane.

Was he?

That would be one way to end this story. He wasn’t even sure who was writing it. He wasn’t sure why anyone would write a story just to harm their characters and put them through a metaphorical wringer. Well, in Izuku’s case, it wasn’t very metaphorical. Whatever. It was a recurring theme in his life, in many others’. He was doing his best to ignore it.

Again, the Deku in the Mirror—that could be a book title—did a spin and a twirl.

Izuku stared at his reflection.

He unfolded his wings, finally, suspicious. The tenderness threw itself out, stretched and stretched, and he watched the tendons flex like arms, limbs, the muscles jumping like poorly handled cramps. He wondered if it was worth flying. He wondered if it was worth the struggle, one broken arm in a neon cast, two parents in two separate but equal urns. A bunch of missed calls and unanswered texts from his aunt and uncle. (Aunt and Uncle, but he didn’t always call them that, did he?) Izuku’s eyes watered again. What an odd way to exist—not a bird, not a dragon, not a bat, not a sugar glider. He wasn’t mechanical, not like Iida.

This was the way it went: sharp-no-sharp-no-bad-sharp-bad.

He needed it to go like this: go-go-go-go.

(Bite or don’t bite, fly or don’t fly, hate or don’t hate, love or don’t love,do your work or don’t, don’t, don’t, do or don’t, do or don’t, do or don’t.)

“This is crazy shit,” Izuku muttered, finally, because he was dreaming of other countries and airports and docks and cruise ships and sailboats and private jets and taxis and buses and train systems. “Stupid,” he echoed, as his breath hitched, “I’ll feel better in the morning.” His wings shuddered. “I’ll feel better in the morning.”

(Will you?)

He said this all the time. Sleep it off, he would say, and then he would sleep and be fine again. Later. Fine again, later, after everything was said and done.

The Deku laughed, maybe cried, and did another twirl. Spoke in a mingled tongue, hid itself in the cusps of its wings, lied right to the real Izuku’s face. Said, repeatedly, “[REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]!” Izuku was staring at a clown. He was staring at nobody. He was staring at himself.

It wasn’t normally so bad.

He wasn’t normally so lost.

In this goddamn place, he didn’t know what was happening. He couldn’t keep up with everyone else’s pace. It was like a bad movie. He said that all the time! Bad movie. Fucking bad movie, bad history, bad show. He didn’t want to write it out. He didn’t want to make it better. It should just already be better. He shouldn’t have to hope or pray or beg the universe to make it better.

He shouldn’t have to.

No one should have to, right?

“I need cash,” He told the ghost in the mirror, and it made an ugly face, and he winced and looked at his hand on the bathroom counter, white-knuckled. He was holding on way too hard. The counter wouldn’t crack, because Izuku was a weak kid, but he wished it would.

Maybe then some of his aches would go away. If something cracked. If something shuddered, a little, made a house in someone else’s chest.

Someone else’s. Not his.

—

“Do you know?” Izuku muttered, and the tea in front of him looked wrong. It looked utterly offensive. The idea that he had to share a table with a hero and a cup of tea was offensive.

Izuku tried to save his parents. He tried to dream of a world where he had died with them. He picked at his skin and stared at his reflection for too long and kept his wings folded and didn’t do any of the stretches that the physical therapist had recommended he do. Aizawa had only commented on it a few times, and Izuku had dodged most of the argumentative phrases by saying he was just—tired, scared, nervous, that’s all, I’m sorry, sir. The hero might know. Was that what this was about? That? The things Izuku failed to do and wanted to do and never would?

Aizawa looked at him, exhaling slowly. “About which part?”

“Which do you want me to confess to?” Izuku breathed, and he chewed on the inside of his lip until something began stinging again. He winced. “What do you know?” The kid asked again. “Should I be worried? Is this the end of the line for me, in, uhm, this house?”

“It’s not the end of the line for you,” The hero replied, straightforward. He held onto his own cup. Who knew what was inside. He was quiet. “I know what you tried to do.”

Izuku stared at the tea. “Really?” He croaked, half-joking.

“Really,” Aizawa agreed, quietly. “I do.”

“Oh,” Izuku huffed, and his nose was running, and he wished he could find the razors. He wished he could get a butcher knife. He wished for a lot of things. He could feel his hands go numb, his wings shrivel up. His vision was murky, and he couldn’t see ahead of him. If he closed his eyes, he would wake up somewhere else.

(It wasn’t waking up at all. You were never asleep.)

Chapter Text

“Bad history,” Izuku muttered.

“What?” Aizawa asked. His hands were white-knuckled on the wheel. Izuku wished he would turn sharp, send them flying off the road, into a streetlight or something.

(He didn’t.)

Izuku waved him off. He didn’t want to answer. Deku wouldn’t answer. No point in trying to lessen the burden of existing, of being some shitty take-in kid. A shitty take-out kid, not takeout kid. Whatever. Bad history. You know. Anyone could know.

It folded over itself.

—

Like this: go and keep going, always, forever, until you run out of time or space or roads or places to go. Teeth to tongue. Like this: open mouths, empty houses, empty hands, empty stomachs. Izuku knew this. He knew this. He used to be empty, too, cracked and broken under dead weight. People, passengers, passersby, the lot. He knew. He used to know better—twisting, entangling—but now he dreamed.

He dreamed. He saw the future—no, not like that, he wasn’t a Sir Nighteye duplicate, some poor quality knock-off—he just knew better, like this, always.

Dreaming.

So, it was more like this: go and go and go and go and go and go and go and go and go and go and go and go and GO AND GO AND GO AND GO AND GO.

It was screaming at the top of your lungs. Say it out loud, if you want, if anyone wanted. You wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. Spoken from a bad house, someone you couldn’t talk to ever again. Izuku knew this, too. Want a drink? Can’t have it? Fathom it? Do you want it more than you want air? You can have ice. Izuku, baby, don’t you want some ice? Take a drink. Have a cup. Want a drink? Written down in thick sharpie: FUCK OFF. He didn’t want a drink. Izuku also wrote other things, softer things, but they never made it out of his journal. They oftentimes didn’t make it out of his mouth, either. Not coherently. Not in words. Maybe sounds. Maybe like—AHHHHHHHHHH or MMMMMMHHHMMMMMM. Izuku didn’t know. He didn’t write it down. He didn’t speak of it, didn’t share—they would want him too—but he didn’t.

No point.

See? All better. He dreamed. Slept it off. Always. Tangled up in that web, a web, some kind of spider. Izuku didn’t mind them. He liked them, almost, if he could get past the eight legs, the dozens of eyes. He wished he had dozens of eyes, a million ways to see things. He settled for two eyes, simplistic, equivalent on either side.

Currently, he was looking at a sharp face. Red eyes, burning. Katsuki Bakugou. An old friend. Or a stranger, in these cases. A case like this would make them strangers before friends, Izuku knew. He dreamed of them being something else, something kinder, and each one turned out wrong.

(Was getting shot in the head a wrong thing? You and all the suicide hotlines said yes.)

“What’s wrong with you?” Kacchan asked him, and it was mean.

Izuku could be mean, too. His heart sputtered, thunked awakrdly. Nervously.

(Being nervous was so tiring. You hated being nervous.)

He reached out, hit Kacchan hard over the back of his head. Blank faced, so easy, always quick to rage. His hair was in a hundred directions. His eyes were as red as Izuku’s insides. (What was on the inside?) He didn’t blink. “Nothing,” he said, neat and printed, “What’s wrong with you?”

Kacchan stared at him.

His face was pallid, and he wasn’t normal when he looked at Izuku. (If he could stop looking at you like that, then you would feel so much better.) His eyes twitched, and he turned away. Izuku watched him go, steaming, absolutely pissed.

But he never hit back.

(Brushed shoulders, pinched skin, stared too hard, but never hit. Never hit.)

Not these days, at least. Not at UA. It was almost funny, almost humoring. A bad joke to pair with their already bad childhood history. Izuku didn’t tell anyone about it, and Katsuki Bakugou would rather be caught dead than caught talking about the past—here lies Deku and Kacchan, in a spring river, were you paying for this memory with cash or credit? Neither, sorry. He wasn’t the kind to waste his money on frivolous things. He was too keyed-up for that.

They wandered down the hall. Izuku ignored the short wave one of the support student’s sent his way—they always waved at him, now, seeing as he pulled and plucked feathers for them to use. Better material. Not bird-like at all. So cool, they said, really, thanks, Midoriya!

But Izuku was fading. Often, actually, fading.

Izuku followed closer.

He twisted his hands together, spun another world in his mind. Neon lights, colored mirages, shiny cars. He blinked and they blinked, too. Shudder, shake, don’t break. Or do. Or, please, do. Break, break, break. He followed closer, closer again, and felt something brush at his sleeve.

He curled away, instinctive. Habit as old as time.

Kacchan scowled at him when they brushed shoulders, like he wasn’t the one initiating it. He just—always scowled. Always. When they came in contact with each other. When Izuku wasn’t here, not really, and his wings were held tensely, and Kacchan ran out of patience for a ghost to answer the question on the board. Hence, the shoulders, the pencil jabbed at his hand, the lead nearly breaking but never quite. (Wake up, Deku. C’mon.) Izuku barely noticed when the blonde looked at him with such intensity, but the gaze burned, and he felt his skin crawl when Kacchan stared for too long, so he winced. Always winced and came back to reality, snap-back, clicking, twisting. The back of his neck clammed up, like his hands, like his face. Too stiff.

He always glanced in the other’s direction, tried not to think about slipping notes into the fucker’s locker. Perfect hiragana: LEAVE ME ALONE.

He wanted to.

He wanted to, really, really, really badly.

(Don’t even think about it, you rationalize, and your nails dug into your palms, and you want a shot of tequila even though you’ve never drank in your life. Fuck life, give me tequila anyway, you assume. Nails bite your palms. Stupid.)

But this wasn’t one of those moments.

This was a match of fuck you’s versus I hate you’s versus everything else the two of them didn’t say out loud, in public where others could hear. This was a hallway, after homeroom and before English. Izuku didn’t hear a word that Aizawa said. He wouldn’t hear a word Yamada said, either, but—

Bakugou knocked his shoulder into Izuku’s.

(You wake up. Weren’t you always awake?)

Izuku’s skin crawled at the contact. Kacchan was still looking at him. Izuku wasn’t paying that much attention, but he shuddered and smiled, frowned after, couldn’t get the expression right.

Sorry, he mouthed. He wasn’t very sorry at all. Not that Kacchan would know. Understand. Sorry, you make me ill turned into sorry, you make me so mad. Angry. So very angry. He didn’t have the energy to be mad all the time. It was exhausting. It was a conundrum he hated. Absolutely hated, all the time, always. Mean.

Well, be meaner, then. Be meaner than anyone else. Take what they had and make it into something you can use.

Use. Use.

Deku. Not him. Not Deku.

Obviously not him. He didn’t count in such a manner. He didn’t have use like everyone else did. It wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t.

(Deku. Where have you gone?)

Taiwan, Nepal, Georgia, Thailand, China—the northern half, not the southern—his own head, the back of his old middle school, the teachers lounge, the airport, the hospital, the guidance counselor’s office, the place between his ribs where he hit all his lies from the nosy adults who looked at him oddly when he said shit like bad history.

“Fuck you,” Kacchan told you, and you snap to attention, and he brushed oast and walked ahead. Izuku hated when he did that.

Fucking hated when he made you—

“Fuck you, too,” Izuku snapped at him, like a rubber band, tender on limp skin, useless compared to everything else going on with his fucked up life. Who had the right to do that shit? Pull around? Fuck him. Izuku couldn’t raise his voice, couldn’t and wouldn’t. Someone cast him a strange look in the hall. Izuku bared his teeth, and they fluttered away with wide eyes, unhappy, not good. Izuku frowned, harsh, and it stung, and his nails were biting his palms. Fuck him, he decided, and his anger was fresh in a way Kacchan’s anger could never be.

Kacchan wandered off, quick down the hall. Blending with the crowd of dillydallying students. Izuku wanted to strangle him, or himself, or maybe the swan that lived in his head.

Fuck.

“Are you alright?” Someone murmured next to him, rather blandly.

Izuku glanced over his shoulder, frowning at his classmate. White and red hair, smooth face, one giant scar to match. Hello. Todoroki got into business that wasn’t his own. He was intelligent, sure, but Izuku felt like he was talking to a ceiling fan sometimes. No, I’m shitty. No, I’m not with my Mom. No, my parents are (capital d) Dead. No, I’m not anyone’s secret child. No, I’ve never met Hawks before, and no, he’s too young to be my Dad. He’s not my brother either. No. I don’t know. I don’t care. What does it matter if I like fire? What does it matter if I follow Endeavor’s X page? I like reporting everything his PR team posts. Fuck off. No, I’m not doing good. His eyes burned, and he sucked in cold air before shaking off the feelings of illness and grief.

“I’m fine,” He muttered, and he tightened his bag. Scowled at the floor. “You know how he is.”

“Sure,” Todoroki agreed, and then followed Izuku a few steps behind when they both made it down the hall to try and at least act like they cared about going to their next class. Did they? Izuku didn’t know. Whatever.

They make it to English class because of course they were going to. Izuku and Todoroki weren’t considered late, so they filed in. Yamada smiled at them, waved like he normally did. Always so lively. Always so attentive, like this, not in any other form. Heroic, or something. Kacchan glared at Izuku as he sat down. Izuku, pointedly, didn’t look at him at all. Todoroki said something about meeting Izuku at the cafeteria for lunch. Sure, yeah. The class started, and the lesson blurred, and Izuku wanted to ask Uraraka to float him to Mars, let him die in outer space. Twenty minutes into class and he tapped out.

(Nails were biting your palms. Switch to holding a pencil, feel a little better. Better. You stared at your paper. Stupid fucking paper. What the fuck was the point of this, again?)

The bell rang.

Snap back to attention. You weren’t dreaming, so come on, get up. Izuku stared at his notes. No idea what he wrote, all gibberish. He threw the loose-leaf papers—his notes—into the trashcan by the door. He would Google it when he got home or something.

“All good?” Todoroki asked, eyeing him.

Izuku’s skin crawled again. He sighed, tugged his backpack on—always awkward, with his wings—and nodded. “I’m good,” he lied. “To math we go.”

—

Skip class. Or don’t. You know, maybe you shouldn’t skip class. Maybe you shouldn't do whatever you were about to do. Maybe you shouldn’t do something stupid, like this, so early on. Maybe you shouldn’t take your stuff and flee. Maybe you shouldn’t.

—

But you did anyway.

—

It was this thing, and it was everywhere, and he looked over his shoulder and saw it looking at him.

He didn’t think he was real.

He didn’t think any of it mattered.

Fifteen to sixteen, okay kid to bad kid, a bad actor, and he couldn’t lie well but he lied often enough. Liar, pants on fire.

(Mommy and Daddy are dead, you had said, and your aunt had wrapped her arms around you and whispered how sorry she was. You were more sorry than her. Inko had been planning a nice get-together, months in advance, and now Auntie and her would never get to go. It was at a good restaurant, too. You knew. You had been invited to help plan, and, hello, even attend. I miss my Mama, you had said, My Dad was going to take me to a special tailor for a suit. This one is weird. I cut holes in it for my wings. Does it look okay? And Aunt Mitsuki had cry-laughed, had held you closer, and you hadn’t heard what she said next. You look great, she might’ve said. You look real, she might’ve said. You look sick, she might’ve said. You look like you need love, she might’ve said. You look like you’re drowning and dying and already dead, she might’ve said. But, besides all of that, it was more likely she said something like, you look like someone your parents would be proud of, hon. Well, Mom and Dad were dead. You wanted to say it again. You hadn’t. You had held her tightly, tried not to be so clingy after the first six minutes of Auntie hugging you. It hadn’t worked.)

It was worse.

Izuku knew this was worse. All of it. He was trembling, and he wasn’t good with his classmates or his homework or any of his plans. He lost everything he owned. Aizawa took him shopping every weekend, tried to collect items that Izuku might like—hero merchandise, clean clothes, big or perfectly fitting. He tried. It might be the only way the man knew how to express care—his words weren’t very caring, exactly, but everything he did sang songs of tenderness.

Izuku wished his head was tender, not his heart.

This was worse.

You counted stars. Your hands were always cold. You zoned out and dreamed in class. You woke up with your bag, with a bruise, with Kacchan bumping into you—hard, with a pitying look from your peers or teachers, with a strange voice telling you to LOOK or NOT TO or some other variation that left you feverish and ill.

But there was cash.

There were moments, and you grieved the fact you didn’t have your birthday money or any of the trips your Mom and Dad promised you, but you woke up and did your best.

(Your best wasn’t good enough, but no one had to know but you.)

It was worse.

It was actively getting worst, too, and the music Izuku blasted from his phone wasn’t helping anymore. He didn’t speak any language fluently, except boredom, or sickness—and Japanese, yeah—but languages clawed their way out from his Spotify playlists. French, Russian, English, something and something and other something-stuff.

Drums and bass and techno and louder, please; louder, please; louder, please; louder, please; louder, please; LOUDER, PLEASE; LOUDER, PLEASE; LOUDER, PLEASE. Louder, the way he didn’t even use headphones, the way he would go back to Aizawa’s apartment and go to his room and turn his phone volume all the way up as he started picking at his hangnails or rocking himself back and forth on the floor, a Kinder Egg—crack him open for a surprise! A funky, human-sized, traumatized surprise!

Izuku wasn’t in his room though.

He wasn’t at UA.

He was in the middle of a bustling cafe, sitting at a table off to the side. It was in the afternoon, early, and the sky was a normal blue color. He was supposed to be in class. Aizawa must have tried looking for him, failed, and panicked—not that he would admit to panic—but Izuku definitely knew he must have felt it. After all, he had eight missed phone calls and a fuck ton of texts.

None of that was important. That was all hero related.

That was Izuku, not Deku—or maybe it was the other way around, or something—hence the utter unimportance.

The kid was at a cafe. His arm was broken. His wings weren’t really healed, mostly dead weight. He was at a table, and he was staring at the contents of his bag. Unzipped, sitting on the surface next to the free cup of tap water Izuku hadn’t asked for, but the waiter had given him anyway.

He was wondering how he missed this. This, specifically. His broken arm tingled.

—

Izuku (12:46pm): why is there so much cash in my bag??

Todoroki (12:47pm): You looked like you could use it.
Todoroki (12:47pm): Did you only just now find it?
Todoroki (12:47pm): Next time I’ll tell you directly. My sister said it would be weird to just give you cash. I decided to put it in your bag instead

Izuku (12:48pm): well
Izuku (12:48pm): seeing as it’s enough cash to buy several train tickets. I can, in fact, use it

Todoroki (12:48pm): That’s good then
Todoroki (12:48pm): I’m glad

Izuku (12:49pm): yeahhhhh! hakuna matata!

Todoroki (12:51pm): What?

Izuku (12:52pm): it’s English

Todoroki (12:52pm): I know it’s English
Todoroki (12:52pm): What does it mean?

Izuku (12:53pm): oh tbh I have no idea
Izuku (12:53pm): “no trouble” or something
Izuku (12:53pm): gotta go, ice boy. my train is here. do me a favor and don’t tell sensei! make something up if you have to. ttyl

Todoroki (12:53pm): You aren’t coming to class tomorrow, are you? [Read 12:59pm]

—

No, he wasn’t.

Izuku tucked his phone back into his pocket, eyes wide, face void of color.

—

He wasn’t going to be there on Tuesday, either.

—

You were sixteen years old. The July heat swamped you, making your hair stick to your face. You tried not to be bothered by it. When you were younger, you used to like the feeling. It had made you happy.

It didn’t make you so happy now, but things change, didn’t they?

You were sixteen. You weren’t younger, you were older. You could never be six again, clinging to your Mom’s skirt, holding your Dad’s hands and telling him you want to see the fire he stored in his throat. You couldn’t say show me, show me! There was no one to say that to. You were sixteen. You were tired. You were nine and twelve and fourteen and you lost your parents a few months ago, not even a full year ago, and you were trying to run from your problems. Fly, run, soar, take the train.

Like this: go-go-go-go.

Izuku Midoriya was getting worse.

He didn’t know how else to explain it. He faded, he cried, he hated crying. He didn’t talk right, didn’t give enough information. He was surrounded by people who didn’t understand, but he couldn’t make them understand, so he took his bag and his unread poetry book and the cash his classmate had sneakily gifted him, and left.

—

The sky was looming above him.

He wished it would go dark, wished it would just be night already. Barely one in the afternoon and it wasn’t dark at all. It wasn’t enough, and Izuku was dead on his feet, but he couldn’t sleep with such brightness in his corneas. Everything was loud, and his phone buzzed in his pocket again. He dutifully ignored it. It was either Todoroki the frustratingly normal man who had his number for vigilante purposes.

(No longer vigilante purposes, you reminded yourself. Your heart broke a little, and you shoved the feeling down, shoved it away.)

Never quite right. He was never quite right. It was never quite right, and that meant that things went wrong all the time. No time to mend. Just get up and go. Always go-go-go-go. No time to think, to breathe, to exist as anything other than something running. Always running. Never far enough. Never fast enough.

But always trying.

There came a point where trying to stop meaning anything. A line to be crossed, but not an important one. Never something important. Never anything like that. A line or a hundred lines, all to toe, all too long.

“What does it matter?” Izuku muttered, “What does any of it matter?”

What was good?

Importance couldn’t take you far. It wasn’t enough for something like that. Not to keep or make you. Not to be with you, make you flee, see how they see it. Nothing to see. Nothing different that you could see compared to them. That was it: never enough, never right. Trying went dark, got hard. Turned out wrong. (Never quite right.) You had to fight it. That was the rule of thumb—having to fight it.

What an exhausting process.

How do you fight it? How do you accomplish that? How could anyone accomplish that?

It was like suspending disbelief, except your disbelief goes further than everyone else’s. Izuku wasn’t sure how much longer he could suspend his disbelief.

Not long at all, apparently. Not long at all.

(Mom and Dad couldn’t tell him what to do. He felt like he was on a cloud. A storm cloud. He didn’t know.)

This was the answer: get up and go. Get up and go. Just go. Like this: go-go-go-go. No commas, no pauses, just the sudden urge to make a run for it. That was the answer. Exactly like this: go-go-go-go. Over and over again until everything blurred together, and one command stood out. Don’t stop there don’t sit, wait, think. Don’t. Like this: don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t.

There wasn’t any time to stop. There wasn’t any time to think it over.

Izuku had approximately thirty-eight more minutes before everything blew up in his face. That was thirty-eight more minutes too little. (Did that make sense?) He needed even more time.

He, of course, didn’t have any more time. He already used up every slot he had. Every spare second, every sleepless hour, everything. There was no time to think it over. For you, it had to be now. If not now, then never, and there had been so many nevers. Too many by this point.

Like this: no, no, no, no, no, no.

Travel faster. Take the cash and go. That was something Izuku learned pretty early on. His mother was his best example. Selfless woman, but even selfless people needed to leave eventually. If anything, they had to leave first. If they didn’t, they never would.

He knew that, too.

Izuku picked up his bag and bought a ticket. From here to there. Time to go.

Get to the station, get to the next best place to stay. Stay. Break off. Choke on it. Sick reminders, made just for you. Always just for you. That was something else Izuku knew. And he felt hate, a little hate, but then nothing again. It was always like that—always back to nothing. Nothing right, nothing good. He had been panicky and finicky for days, he had been sick and sad, he had been clingy—he hadn’t eaten enough—he had sipped jelly pouches with Aizawa for an entire weekend and hadn’t attempted anything else. Irrational. Aizawa had tried. Izuku had denied, denied, denied. Article Thirty-Eight, had had reminded the man, and laughed sadly, and lied about homework needing to be done.

(Mom and Dad were—)

Izuku picked a Shinkansen train. He had the cash so he purchased a green seat at the booth, keeping just enough money for dinner. It wasn’t like he would be eating lunch.

He never did.

It was something others got on him about. Eat this, eat that, eat more, don’t eat something from the trash. Whatever, whatever. He would eat what he wanted. He just so happened, you know, to not want to eat any of it.

The station was bustling when he got there. Despite this, buying the ticket wasn’t difficult. He exchange the cash for a place on a train and called it good.

Izuku wasn’t keeping tabs on the people around him. He didn’t need to, this time around. Normally, he would focus more on them. On how they walked, on how they spoke to each other, on how they breathed, on how their mouths moved when they opened their lips and dabbed their tongues to open city air. Normally, this would matter. Normally, this would be important.

Not this time around.

The only important thing this time around was getting away.

That was the only thing that mattered in this exact moment. Getting away. Everything else was secondhand. Getting away, climbing and swimming and going, those were the things that mattered. Nothing else.

Maybe a beach, after the next city. Farther away. As far as he can go.

Could, would, should.

His wings twitched, and it was uncomfortable. He hated it as much as he hated not being able to just put the backpack on his back, center of his spine. Instead, he held his bag with one arm. His left arm was in a sling, broken in twelve separate places. The cast was neon green. He almost called an eyesore, absolutely atrocious, but it wasn’t so bad. Maybe a little distracting.

Boggling, when others glanced his way, wondering what a kid like him would’ve done to get such a fucked up arm.

Could’ve, would’ve, something-something or another.

The station swarmed. Another train rushed in, a streak of speed rail metal. Sleek. Shinkansen was written on the side. The train was so clean that Izuku could see his own reflection. Messy green hair, placid skin littered with dots of pigment he didn’t look like his mother. He wasn’t sure if he looked like his father, either. There was heaviness under his eyes. Shaken up, real wide. Like a doe, or an owl, or some other strange, wide eyed woodland creature. But he was from Musutafu. He was from Hero Central: the city. He came from a selfless woman and a selfish father, living in a broken home with a broken fridge and a shitty ass window. Or something like that. Feel sorry, or don’t.

The speakers called his number. The ticket, train, destination, and time of leaving. He boarded. As he entered the train car, someone shot him a sympathetic look, at his arm.

Izuku wanted to run from it. Cry, maybe, for being seen like that. If he wasn’t here, he would be looked at elsewhere, though. It wasn’t worth it.

He boarded the train car alongside a bunch of other useless, unrelenting people.

And it wasn’t scanner blood deep. It wasn’t bone deep. It wasn’t personal the way. His unread texts were. Barely there, when he ran his hands through his hair. Take a train out of town, sit on the far left, stare out the window. When the world moved in blurry colors, he knew he was moving too. The train took off like that after several minutes of waiting for people to board and sit down.

He held his bag to his chest.

Take the bag. Go far, far, far away.

Izuku didn’t know how far he could go. Probably far. It wasn’t right of him, none of this was right, but he could only be so wrong compared to everyone else. This couldn’t be as bad as what others did. This, compared to everything, was not so bad. This didn’t require a search team. This didn’t require a missing person’s report. This didn’t require a mortician or a coroner or a body in the morgue. This didn’t require anyone to plan a funeral they didn’t know how to plan. How he moved, how he came to be: gnawing coughing, spitting and kicking.

Honestly, it must have been a shock to everyone who once knew him when he was little. It must have been a shock to his mom.

Surely, they all thought he would be hanging from a ceiling fan.

Izuku didn’t know that, either.

It wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t worth it, not in the same way everything else was. Every line they made for him—you over here, don’t come close, just stay in your place—he crossed, bounded over, utterly unafraid. If he didn’t, who would? No one ever expected him to. No one.

“Are you good, young man?” An old lady, murdered across the seating row. She had silvery hair, cloudy eyes, and comically sized red glasses. The frames were huge compared to her facial proportions.

“Yes,” Izuku said, and that was that.

Time to go.

Like this never quite right. A few steps behind. Too many behind. Things always went wrong when he was involved. Bare boned, shaved your thinly human skull, tired eyes with twisting insides. A poetry book in your backpack. Yellow leather, not namebrand. Everyone knew your mom couldn’t afford the namebrand. You, by extent, couldn’t afford the namebrand. But this was fine. You liked your bag. There was no reason, really, not to like the bag.

Big teeth, pale hands, bad luck. Karma. Something or another—your hand with her hand, his hand, a hand. Not right. Not okay.

So, he had to get up and go.

Go.

His phone kept buzzing. He pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. He read the messages slowly. He read the names of who had sent them. The screen lit up again after fading to black, another notification rolling in. Someone was calling.

Izuku watched it go to voicemail.

Voicemail.

His ringer was off, and it would stay off. He didn’t want to call anyone. He didn’t want to text about the newest criminal. He didn’t care about the newest hero news that all his classmates were talking about. He wanted to go. This, was him going.

He took his phone away again, back into the pocket of his jacket. The world raced by in the window. The train ride was smooth, seemingly endless.

He didn’t know how long he was going to be in here. He should have brought headphones.

A few hours.

But then it ended. And it was a new line across.

Izuku stood up as soon as he was permitted. He fluttered down the aisle between the green seating rows. His wings ached, tugged close, tried to make themselves press to his shirt like it could be helped. (It couldn’t.) An old man shot him a dirty look before his face slackened at the side of Izuku’s arm. He looked away.

In return, Izuku pressed his teeth together, smiling apologetically. He continued to shoulder his way through the aisle.

Like this: go-go-go-go.

Go.

Now, go quietly. This or that. He chose this. No yak shoes, no puppy dog obedience. New name, same old, freckled face. Down roughly two-thousand yen, fleeing from unspoken ghosts. Never telling anyone, never saying so.

They would have wanted him to say so. He knew that. But he didn’t. Trying to get away, to flee from the face in the mirror. Out of reach. What did it matter? Not so important—the lines he planned across constriction, heavy, not light on their feet. Bad ballerina. He wasn’t a dancer, he wasn’t an ice skater. He didn’t know jackshit about any of it.

But the people toeing the line were not gentle. They did not have ballet shoes, and they had no tact.

He had tact.

Not enough to keep him, make him. Izuku left the train. The sky shown pink, early evening. He shown red and white, feverish, and— sick, a sight, certainly not something you would want to breathe near. Casted arm. Limited cash. Traveling fast in order to go. Acting like this was all he could do, leave and go. Go like he had to get out of town. Go like he was told.

His phone kept buzzing in his pocket as he left the station. He ignored it.

—

EXPLANATION, WRITTEN BY IZUKU MIDORIYA: It’s your funeral, not [REDACTED]’s.

—

Izuku bought another ticket. He took the train, went even farther. Like this: go-go-go-go. He kept his ringer off, slipped the location off—one app to another. Yes, it was parental locked. No, he wasn’t going to keep sharing it with Aizawa. He didn’t want to be dragged back yet. He hoped he wouldn’t. He hoped he missed weeks of class. He hoped he died and they never found his body. He didn’t know. His arm throbbed, and he had an abrupt thought of cutting it off with a hacksaw.

He waved down a taxi, after, smiled at the driver and asked how far six thousand yen could take him. Something-something, I know it’s late,could you help me get home, anyway? I need to go East, if that helps! Any distance would be great, thank you. Like: something-something.

“Pretty far,” The driver guy laughed, and drove him just that.

(Just pretty far.)

Izuku handed the crisp bills, nodding before he popped open the car door, “Thank you.”

“Sure, son,” The guy said. Then he sped away.

Izuku filtered down the street. It was bustling, even now. Maybe curfew hadn’t struck yet. Maybe it wasn’t inherently odd, in this area of the city. Musutafu was many, many, many kilometers away from him, now—and he could travel far, and he wanted to. Todoroki had been generous in the cash. Who knew how the teen got that much—you would think he would just have a stacked debit card, not actual physical bills. Perks of being a hero’s son, maybe. Izuku wouldn’t know. He didn’t even want to be a hero—not to prove anyone wrong, not to do or be anything.

He traversed the sidewalk, humming a little, and blended into a crowd. They were chatty, and the sky was blistering into a deep pink-purple, and it was nearly dark blue.

He shuddered, his wings flicking uncertainty. “Excuse me,” he took a chance to bother an onlooker on a bench, keeping his voice soft. “Do you know where the nearest subway is? I’m a little lost.”

The lady paused, seemingly surprised. She had auburn hair and bright yellow-green eyes. She reminded him of an acid-packet. She had giant flower earrings, and Izuku didn’t know why he cared, but he thought they were pretty. She cleared her throat, turned off her phone. ”Oh,” she pointed left, past several bustling groups of people. “Past the corner, sugar. Better hurry home!”

“Thank you,” Izuku said, bowing, and then he took off, going left, passing the corner and the people.

Someone hollered, laughing, but he didn’t think about it too hard. Stressed and easily amused college kids, he assumed, and then made his way past the corner. Big bright signs were everywhere, and he had no clue what city this was—or prefecture—but he could figure it out, couldn’t he?

He found the stairway, and rushed down. His wings jittered nervously. He wanted to go, wanted to flee. It was driving him through the lines, driving him and pushing him further. The next station was smaller. It was less packed, too. He credited the later hour for this, even though it still felt mostly reasonable to be traversing about. There were people standing and sitting along the benches, and a few trains passed by. It was dimmer underground, but he would see the sky later, once they exited this area and went farther. He just needed a ticket. God. Why didn’t he invest in bus and subway passes when he had the chance?

Too late now.

Izuku approached the booth. He appeared before the ticketer’s window, smiling shyly. “Sorry,” he apologized. The ticketer didn’t even blink. “Could I purchase a ticket, last minute?”

Barely even a pause. “Fine,” the woman said, and so Izuku bought something without double-checking the price or location.

“Thank you,” Izuku assured, bowing, and taking the ticket without thinking too hard.

His hand throbbed.

She scoffed, halfway there to opening her mouth, before she clearly thought better of it and said nothing. Izuku had no idea why, but he didn’t really care, and it wasn’t important—why keep tabs on unimportant things, anyway—so he quickly took himself and the ticket and the two five-hundred yen coins away.

A ticket arrived. Izuku blinked rapidly, squinting at his ticket. Was this his? Like, right now? People were boarding, names and locations were being called, gosh—

And then—

“Huh,” Izuku said, blankly, nearly angrily. The ticket was smudged. What were the chances of cutting his hand open on something sharp and not noticing until he smudged his blood all over the barcode? He stared at it for several moments. Several minutes too long. His eyes started burning, and his shoulders tensed. “Shit,” he said, quite eloquently. He stared some more, read the names and timestamps. Ticket to Sendai, from Shizuoka Prefecture to Miyagi Prefecture, Sendai. Sendai, Miyagi Japan. No fucking way. No wonder the ticket was so goddamn expensive. How did he even afford to get change back? Motherfucker. “Fuck,” he corrected himself, at last, and a young man sent him an affronted look before skirting away from Izuku’s shoudler and walking towards the train.

He was still in Shizuoka Prefecture! He was at least three hours away from Musutafu, or UA, or something! But he wasn’t that close to Miyagi Prefecture, was he? Fuck. God! And there was blood on his ticket!

His blood! On the barcode of the ticket!

His stupid hand was still bleeding!

Fucker!

(You wanted to tear your hair out for having thought it would be easy. Goddamn it.)

—

“I am so sorry to bother you,” You walked back up to the ticketing booth, shy, hiding all your anger and grief and exhaustion behind a nervous mask—god how you want your paper plate, your Mom, your Dad.

The woman looked at you, then your bloody ticket, and shook her head. “I should have told you,” she muttered. Then she frowned. “Can’t sell another, all gone. Sorry, kid.”

Yeah, you should have, motherfucker, you think, bitterly.

“Can I trade it out?” You pleaded, instead.

The lady pointed to a disclaimer sign—a FUCKING DISCLAIMER SIGN, GOOD GOD—one acrylic nail tapping on the glass in front of her. “Sorry,” she apologized, only sounding a little sympathetic. “No exchanges. Really, kid, I should have said. I thought you’d notice earlier.”

FUCK YOU, you thought, but what came out of your mouth was: “Oh, okay,” you nodded fast, “Thank you, anyway! I’ll go see if I can still get on.”

“Go for it,” The ticketer said.

You bowed fast, and scampered off.

—

You walked up to the doors of your train, and you were nervous, and you stayed at the back of the line that was thumbing their way into the train car, and then you met the ticket-checker at the door and your mouth was completely dry.

“I’m so sorry to ask,” You started, and the guy looked puzzled but heard you out. “I got blood on my ticket—the barcode—and they said no exchanges, but I was just wondering if it would, uhm, still scan?”

And the guy had the ultimate look of pity. He nodded his head, “I’ll try.”

He tried.

“Sorry, kid,” The guy apologized, but he actually sounded mournful. “Did the ticketer not offer any replacements?”

“Nothing was left,” You explained, sad, but really, you were just numb now.

The guy shook his head. “That sucks,” he said, and then you left and he watched you go and your wings are burning and you want to saw them off, and cut off your cast, and take a boat and sail away, and fly, and soar, and go far, far, far, far, far away where no one could ever look at you.

You end up walking away in defeat.

—

No wonder people drank so much liquor after a long day. Maybe you should pick up drinking as a hobby?

—

EXPLANATION, WRITTEN BY IZUKU MIDORIYA: Don’t do that, by the way. Terrible idea. Don’t EVER do something stupid like that. It won’t even taste good! Just smoke marijuana like a normal person! Don’t get involved with sake or whiskey! It is not worth the hype!

—

You ended up in a bar.

Or maybe it was a club. You weren’t too sure. There was music and alcohol and colored lights and bartenders, and patrons, and maybe a few dancers? They were on the stages scattered in the room, getting involved in the scene. In comparison, Izuku felt out of place. He was not in any scene.

“‘Sup,” Someone nodded, and brushed past him, and music howled.

I am not doing this ever again, Izuku thought, blankly, as his head threatened to explode.

He would not be a dancer, and for future reference, he would not ever sneak into clubs to avoid getting caught by enforcers of a teenage curfew. At least the club—dancing bar—tavern???—was open late. He could hang out here at a back table and hold his bag and hopefully stay here for a few hours before going away. Fuck. Couldn’t get to Sendai, definitely didn’t want to go back to Aizawa’s apartment, like, fuck, where else could he go?

—

baby boy (11:17pm): I love you
baby boy (11:17pm): I love you so much it’s not fair
baby boy (11:17pm): you shouldn’t have left me. I didn’t want you to leave. You should have stayed. I really wanted you both to stay forever you know
baby boy (11:17pm): I miss you. please come home. take me with you why didn’t you take me with you why didn’t you let me die with you. I don’t want to be alone. I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you. please text me back like ghosts do in movies. don’t you know I’m doing my best? I love you. I want you guys to come home. Why didn’t you leave the apartment

baby boy (11:48pm): Dad you should have left the apartment
baby boy (11:48pm): Mom you too what the fuck

baby boy (12:34am): I’m literally crying in a club right now
baby boy (12:34am): are you proud of me??
baby boy (12:34am): you guys might find this funny
baby boy (12:34am): Dad it’s like that one song from America or Canada or whatever
baby boy (12:34am): You’d def know it

baby boy (12:59am): I should have brought your urns with me

baby boy (1:21am): I love you

baby boy (2:02am): I’m losing my mind. I wish I died with you
baby boy (2:02am): I’m sorry
baby boy (2:02am): I love you and miss you and miss you so much it’s not fair

—

You weren’t a bad kid.

At least, you know, you didn’t mean to be a bad kid. It wasn’t a purposeful decision where you watched everything around you go to shit and you just decided, totally random, to also go to shit. That wasn’t it.

Or, well, it wasn’t supposed to be like that.

You weren’t a bad kid.

Mom always lied about it. She had tried so hard to make you into something better, smooth out all your imperfections. She had lied about a lot of things, but her love was genuine. She had meant well. Dad, too, had done his best—both overseas and in-person, when he could pick you up and breathe red and orange swords, show you life and show you ash and show you fire; real fire—and it had always clung to you, and now you could not cling to it. (You could not cling to him.) He had never lied, exactly, but the exaggeration of your goodness left lasting impressions on your teachers. He’s a good kid, they had said, sharp-tongued because they loved him so much, who are you to call our baby boy anything but good? And you had gone along with it. You had been quiet and weird and good, in a way, as much as you could, because hiding in restrooms and skipping class was only a mild pass by, and had never entertained you for long. Hence the many instances of [REDACTED].

(No, don’t explain what it was.)

Nothing, you muttered, because you must mutter, and the words get balled up in your throat. A bad clog. So you mutter, and you speak, and you end up in places you weren’t meant to be.

The wind rustled your hair.

You breathed. Your bag was heavy next to you, and your bangs tickled your face, and the roof did not grant you any relief.

You weren’t a bad kid.

The roof couldn’t tell you this, and Deku should be dead, and Izuku should be dead, too, but there were too many things going on for anything to be simple. Izuku looked at his hands, nail-bitten, scraped, and the long gash had stopped bleeding after he gave up on trying to go to Sendai. A waste of a ticket, yes, but nothing important. It hadn’t been his money. It had been Todoroki’s, and Izuku was relatively certain that his classmate was rather rich. If not rich, then extremely well off, or whatever.

Izuku stared at the dark sky.

He had been missing for roughly forty hours, now. Less than two days, mostly spent traveling or sitting on a train or in the back of a car.

He was going to flunk his Nemuri Kayama’s art history class, and he didn’t even care. Aizawa would probably pull him aside, demand an explanation with that dry voice of his. Izuku would say he couldn’t remember the dates. Aizawa would frown. You know. It would be a whole thing, really, like normal.

(None of this was normal.)

Izuku’s phone was almost dead. He was hodling it with one hand, his broken arm hanging loosely agsinst his chest. The lock screen was a blurry picture of a bowl of blueberries, a photo sent from his father three years ago that Izuku had laughed at for no particular reason. He refused to change it. There were many, many, many missed messages and calls. He stared at all of them, started counting. He was tired. He wasn’t sure why he was running. He wasn’t sure why he was even trying.

(This could have been an email.)

Todoroki had texted a few times. Kacchan had, too, though the messages were brief. Izuku didn’t even want to read them, didn’t want to listen to the two voicemails, either. There were texts from Aizawa. Even more missed calls, voicemails that Izuku would not listen to.

He didn’t bring his headphones. He didn’t buy any cheap earphones, either, couldn’t bother himself with a wired or Bluetooth pair.

His thumb hovered over the singular text from Uraraka—something about saving notes on the history homework for when he got back—then the Instagram notification from Ashido—she had sent him another video of crows doing puzzles—and then decidedly tapped the notification about the video. Smartasses, he texted, and then left the app, and then looked at Uraraka’s message. He didn’t read it in the app. He didn’t give her hope. He checked the voicemail section, stared at the red circle with white font of an absurd number. Barely two days away—less than—and people seemed to lose their minds. What was he, sanity pills? What was he? He wasn’t glue or gold. Why would anyone lose their mind over one missing kid, anyway?

(This could have been a suicide.)

He tapped the most recent voicemail from Aizawa. It was thirteen seconds long. He pressed play. He closed his eyes. The hero’s voice cracked through his speaker, and Izuku let it replay and replay and reapply until his phone was dead.

—

A hero found him not long after, unfortunately.

Hawks was looking at him. The hero whistled. “Nice wings.”

“Okay,” Izuku said, quite flatly. He shoved his phone into his pocket. He glanced at the single red feather hovering next to his head—sharp, glistening—it could cut his neck so easily, scrape all his scruffy hair right off his skull. He swallowed the spit that had begun building in his mouth. He pointed to the offending feather, “Do you see with these? Or just feel the vibrations and visualize based on those?”

Hawks smiled, “Smart kid. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“No,” Izuku informed him, quietly. He shrugged, loose, and felt his wings unfurl slowly. They felt like broken rubber, old, no longer elastic. He wished he could breathe fire. He wished fire could consume him the way it consumed his Mom and Dad.

Tall glass. Not normal. Bad kid, a bad thing. No one would want to hear such a thing from Izuku—from any kid, probably.

(Maybe he was an exception? Fuck, he wished he was.)

Izuku looked at Hawks. He narrowed his eyes, slowly, and he wished he was eight feet tall and big. He wished he was as tall as his Dad. He wished he was strong, fast. Wished he was everything good and everything bad, everything that was needed in a fight. Unfair, unparalleled, not what he expected. Definitely not what he wanted. The way he could just—glance at the edge of the roof, the tumble to death, the whole suicide by jumping thing. He could, maybe, if Hawks wasn’t here. He could jump off the roof and die. He could supposedly forget how damaged his wings were, not use them. Stretch out? No, no. Why? He didn’t want to fly. Or he did, but, you know—

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Hawks reminded him, and he sounded kind but stupid about it.

Hero Commission.

Bad handling.

God, what Izuku would do to have a chance at free-falling. This hero was a—

“Sellout,” Izuku muttered, and he frowned at the feather that was still pointed at him. “Stop pointing this at me.” His eyes slid away from the dark edge that overlooked the city from seventy-three floors up—they were on the roof—and looked back at Hawks, the current number three hero. Hello, Number Three. Kill yourself. Or let me kill me. His eyes twitched, he missed his Dad. “I won’t jump, Christ, like I’d kill myself while a hero is around.”

“Should I call someone for you?” Hawks asked, and he did a so-so gesture with his gloved hand. His smile was radiant. Izuku wished he would just stop back and turn away, act like Izuku wasn’t teetering, being an ungrateful child. The hero laughed, next, loosening his neck. “Make sure they’re always around?”

The feather was still pointed at Izuku. What a save, a clutch, a total bitch move. A grand and great incentive to not kill yourself. Jump, be killed. Attempt, be killed. A total win-win, you see?

(Izuku wished he didn’t.)

“There aren’t enough of you for that,” Izuku said flatly.

“Maybe not,” Hawks admitted. He waved his hand, and then finally tucked both into his pockets. Casual. The feather finally lowered, loosened, stopped pointing its sharpened point at Izuku’s skull. “But, you know,” Hawks smiled. “It couldn’t help to try, right?”

“It could,” Izuku argued, but he didn’t feel like arguing.

His wings shuddered, separate from him. The night wasn’t cold. The skin on the back of his neck was exposed, rubbed raw by an old rope, and he wished a noose would work. I’m going to kill myself, he thought, and then frowned.

It wouldn’t. Fucker—no place to hang from, someone would see, or internet, or stop him before he slipped the knot. Stupid fucking passersby. Leave him alone. The bitterness had settled in, and just because Izuku was Deku and it was a mutual exchange of hatred and weakness and mental illness—personas and depersonalization and derealization and dissociation—yes, he could say it, yes, he got it from a psychology article on Google—didn’t mean anything. Bitterness had settled. He was settled. He saw Bakugou in the hallways and got mad, got angry, but went to Aizawa’s car and apartment at the end of every school day. Fuck you. Fuck all of you. What could he say? He was angry. He was avoiding Hound Dog’s office like it was an actual plague.

The hero was looking at him, though, and Izuku knew Hawks.

Knew about Hawks, in reality, because knowing the man was different than knowing or knowing of or knowing about the hero. The persona. Fierce Wings, you would say. Well, Izuku had seen fiercer. And fiercer creatures, fiercer people, fiercer wings. Fuck all this. All of it.

“So,” Izuku muttered, and he was staring at the feather that floated lopsidedly. It traveled back to Hawks’ stash of feathers, fit right in. He exhaled, heavy and nervous. “So, can I jump now?”

(Did you even want to?)

“Well, you could certainly try,” Hawks told him, laughing about it, but he was serious. It was in his voice.

“I could try,” Izuku agreed, loose-lipped, and he had a vague daydream—nightdream, supposedly—where he did exactly that and actually managed to go splat on the ground below. Kacchan, look, I did a full swan dive just like you said. Great, right? He felt like choking. He wished someone would be sharp and mean again. It wasn’t ever good enough. He always felt watched or dead or dying or hungry or wasted or ill or useless or—the kid breathed back out, started picking at his hangnail. “I won’t,” he corrected, listless and defeated, “It’s a lot of work.”

“Sure,” Hawks nodded along. “A lot of clean up, you know? And I would have to try and stop you, too. That would be a lot of work.”

“No,” Izuku muttered. “It’s a lot of work for me. You’d do it, easy. Stop it.” He snorted, laughed at the mere idea of it being hefty work. Labor. “No problem.”

Number Three smiled at him. “What makes you think so?”

The kid pulled harshly at the tiny sliver of bent-up skin.

The hangnail pulled, pulled, pulled. It started stinging. There was raw pinkish-red underneath the sliver. Izuku wanted to set his teeth to the line, dig in with a sharp canine, start gnawing his hand off like it was infected. A fox trap. Bite and bite and bite until your leg is free.

Like this: go-go-go-go.

Like this: bite-bite-bite-bite.

“You’re faster than me,” Izuku explained. He should write this down when he went home. Post it on a forum or a fanfiction website. A blog site. Was MySpace still a thing? He could write it as a first-person story with Hawks saving the reader or something. Fanfiction made by dreamers, the hopeful and hurting. Something like it. Izuku pulled the sliver of skin free. “Less reckless, less messy. Taught to be clean and quick.”

“I am faster, and less reckless,” Hawks nodded along again, indulging this conversation. Perhaps he knew that Izuku was using it to keep stable, stay grounded, like a mechanism to convince himself not to D-I-E. “And sure, I was taught to be clean. Being faster makes things quick. Isn’t that redundant to mention?”

“Fast and quick,” The kid muttered. “Fine. Fast and efficient?”

“That makes more sense,” Hawks smiled.

(Did it?)

Well, maybe. Fast didn’t always mean efficient. It could be sloppy, more problematic than taking your time. Efficiency meant the least wasteful route of time or effort, didn’t it? Izuku looked up, blood began streaming from the tiny gap of flesh. A lapse in judgment, defense, skin. A protective barrier destroyed by a teenager’s wandering eye, a bad habit.

He didn’t wear gloves. He didn’t like them. His prints weren’t in the system, so it wasn’t as if he cared particularly what was left at a crime scene. Oh, boohoo. Wah, wah, wah, wah.

(Kill me yourself, stupid fucking coward.)

He wanted to taste. He wanted to bleed. He wanted that stupid fucking feather to shoot right through his weak ass skull. Leave him here, bleeding out, all pieces of his brain scattered about. A simple removal. Messy, but cleaner than a gun. Definitely cleaner than a gun or a bomb or a noose. Well, no, not a noose. But all the other options were messy, so. Whatever. Clean hero. The number three hero, no less.

Izuku sighed. “Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s get off the roof. Being up here makes me sick.”

Chapter Text

Izuku sat in a dumb diner with the Number Three hero across from him.

Hawks’ wings were glorious, all things considered. Truly like a bird’s own. Red feathers. Striking structure. If Izuku were a jealous man, he would say he wished his wings looked like that—like a bird's, like he could fly with ease, like he could break apart and save individuals with just one feather.

But his wings weren’t like that.

In fact, even now—after the events, and not straining them, and trying so hard to not make them worse—his wings were still dead weight.

Pathetically useless. If he wanted to fly, he wouldn’t be able to. He would just go splat on the ground. Or crumple like a piece of wet paper. Izuku didn’t stand a chance. His was… skin. Leathery. Folded up tightly, pressed into his spine, wrapped with bandages most days—these days. He wasn’t supposed to care, or think twice, or…

His phone buzzed next to the conveniently placed outlet, and the borrowed charger from Hawks allowed the kid’s device to finally breathe again after being dead. The joys of the modern world, Izuku snorted. His bag was on the seat next to him.

“Hey,” Izuku blinked. “Are you paying for this?”

He pointed at the assortment of items on the table. The surface itself was glossy, freshly cleaned, and a bright ruby red. Most of the diner felt that way—retro. Red,white, and checkered. There were pictures of old cars and shit on the walls. Izuku didn’t even know what was on the menu. He hadn’t looked. He had just shrugged, asked for a coke—then for fries, soups, anything hot—smething salty and then Hawks had blathered away to a very startled and awed cashier.

Because who wouldn’t be startled and awed to see the Number Three hero at your rink-dinky establishment?

“Eh,” Hawks blinked back, mimicking Izuku’s nonchalance. “Yeah, of course.”

“Uhuh,” Izuku said, “Cool. Yeah. Is this mine?”

And then without waiting for a response, he took the basket of fries from the middle of the table and pulled it in front of him. He reached for a ketchup packet and tore it open, allowing the gooey tomato sauce to spill onto the white and red checkered paper in the basket.

“Well,” Hawks huffed. “It’s yours now.”

“Uhuh,” Izuku replied, and stuffed his mouth full of over-salted crinkle cut fries with too much ketchup to be pleasant.

“Why were you on the roof anyways?” Hawks asked, tilting his head. Oh, what a player. (Hate the game, not the players—blah, blah, blah.) Fucking asshole. He wasn’t wearing his gloves—he had taken them off and neatly laid them closer to the window. His eyes didn’t leave Izuku’s face. “It’s not wise to make decisions on an empty stomach, you know.”

(Something in the back of Izuku’s said, have a Snickers bar, you aren’t you when you’re hungry.)

What a fucking asshole, really.

“I ate,” Izuku said, sharply, “But why eat more if I’m gonna take a dive off the roof?”

“Hm,” Hawks said. “Comfort food?”

“Can’t have any,” Izuku said, and he took three more fries and scooped up the remains of the ketchup. He could be greedy if he wanted. He could vomit all over the table, too, if he wanted. Just to be a nuisance, to… “Sorry,” he chewed fast, then. “Can’t have any. ‘Cause the person who used to make it is dead.” He reached for another packet, tore it open. The ketchup got onto his finger this time, slipped into the spot where he tore off his hangnail. He didn’t even blink. It stung, but he could make it sting worse, and he didn’t care. He wasn’t even fucking hungry, oh my god. He didn’t care. “This is fine,” he added, before Hawks could be a smart mouth. “So, you know.”

He swallowed the fries.

And then sucked the ketchup off his finger, rapidly. There were salt crumbs on his fingertip.

Agh.

(This could have been an email. This could have been a suicide.)

What a joke. Such a joke.

“Huh,” said the third strongest and most popular ranked hero of Japan, his smile still plastered on his dumb, blonde face, “Aren’t you just an odd kid.”

“I get that a lot,” Izuku agreed.

—

Because he really did.

—

EXPLANATION, WRITTEN BY IZUKU MIDORIYA: Don’t be such a coward. Next time, if you’re trying to kill yourself, just jump off the roof before a hero shows up. Good grief.

—

THAT ONE GROUPCHAT IZUKU DOESN’T EVER USE (three members online, two offline)

Izuku (2:22am): which one of you snitched

Todoroki (2:22am): I wasn’t the one who said anything

Izuku (2:22am): good to know
Izuku (2:22am): why the hell are you up
Izuku (2:22am): go to bed
Izuku (2:22am): it’s too early/late for you to be listening to my demands
Izuku (2:22am): and hey who else is haunting the chat. Z answer me rn all of you are on my nervessss

Todoroki (2:22am): you were missing?

Izuku (2:22am): and i did that shit with a clear conscious
Izuku (2:22am): kacchan did YOU snitch?

Katsuki (2:23am): i didn’t even know you fucking left

Izuku (2:23am): oh wow real mature
Izuku (2:23am): asshole

Kacchan (2:23am): shut up
Kacchan (2:23am): are you back home or not?

Izuku (2:24am): kys

Ashido (2:24am): woah hey that’s not nice!

Izuku (2:24am): you too
Izuku (2:24am): actually no, not you. ugh wtf is wrong with you

Todoroki (2:24am): We were worried?

Izuku (2:24am): is that supposed to be a question????

Todoroki (2:25am): Well, did you know we were worried? Because I didn’t think you would
Todoroki (2:25am): I didn’t think you’d know anything of you were gone and not answering our texts
Todoroki (2:25am): You didn’t even turn in your history homework before leaving

Izuku (2:25am): not like i got far
Izuku (2:25am): also that homework was so mind numbing

Ashido (2:25am): I mean yeah, but that’s not?? The point??

Izuku (2:25am): no yeah

Kacchan (2:26am): Where the hell are you

Izuku (2:26am): hero’s arms

Kacchan (2:26am): what

Ashido (2:26am): Are you joking?
Ashido (2:26am): why are you on a sidequest right now hahahaha
Ashido (2:26am): also hey are you okay??? like actually

Izuku (2:26am): im like literally in his arms would you believe it!
Izuku (2:26am): and im fine
Izuku (2:26am): definitely fine. i just needed to be alone for a bit. don’t you know i used to do that all the time? like. i thought it was obvious but maybe i didn’t tell you guys?? sorry. i used to be on my own even before my parents dipped out of the picture. so im fine. really

Todoroki (2:26am): You have to be lying

Izuku (2:27am): do you even know how to tell the difference between lies and truths
Izuku (2:27am): not asking to be mean, just genuinely curious
Izuku (2:27am): because i never ONCE got that impression from you

Todoroki (2:27am): I can tell

Kacchan (2:27am): Can you actually
Kacchan (2:27am): Deku what the fuck is your location

Izuku (2:28am): im in a hero’s arms
Izuku (2:28am): also hey why are you up lmao
Izuku (2:28am): im so fucking baffled right now actually
Izuku (2:28am): im good like so good but im laughing way too hard at this situation like. go to bed all of you!!! I didn’t think anyone would actually answer on who snitch lmao
Izuku (2:28am): and yes Todoroki i believe you, it wasn’t you

Ashido (2:28am): you are like in the sky

Izuku (2:28am): yeahhh

Ashido (2:28am): oh my god
Ashido (2:28am): I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE PLAYING AT
Ashido (2:28am): also it wasn’t me, i didn’t snitch, i think they just found out

Izuku (2:29am): damn
Izuku (2:29am): tell sensei to stop breathing down my neck, actually
Izuku (2:29am): also hey i think im gonna lose my signal
Izuku (2:29am): sorry to interrupt but IM GOING TO THROTTLE WHOEVER SNITCHED
Izuku (2:29am): see you in class tomorrow

Kacchan (2:29am): I hope you get arrested

—

(Izuku hated texting. He felt like an imposter-driven introvert, an idiot given a keyboard. A chronic oversharer with battery acid in between his teeth.)

—

As they flew from the diner back to—well, UA or Aizawa’s place of residence Hawks casually asked, “Are you texting your teacher?”

What a relief. Izuku thought he was going to ask something stupid and intensely personal, like do you plan on attempying to kill yourself again in the near future? And then it would be an awkward flight back. Because shit like that always happened, didn’t it. Ha.

“No,” Izuku yelled, over the wind. “Classmates.”

“Ehhh,” Hawks laughed, then, and swooped a bit higher.

For a blissful, ignorant second, Izuku could almost imagine that he was the one flying after all.

—

But he wasn’t, and Izuku knew that.

So, when Hawks finally deposited him at the lobby—ground floor—of Aizawa’s apartment building, Izuku simply sucked in a deep breath and kept himself tethered to the real world. No [REDACTED]. Because he couldn’t live his whole life [REDACTED] every time he was floating, when life collapsed—because life was life and he was standing in front of his new home—technically—and he shouldn’t be [REDACTED].

(D-I-S-S-I-C-I-A-T-I-N-G.)

“Say, kid,” Hawks looked at him. “If you fix your wings up in the foreseeable future, do you think you’ll be joining the skies?”

Izuku frowned. “Probably.”

“No, I mean,” and Hawks pointed at the sky, and then himself. That stupid grin was back. “Will you be sticking around long enough to be a hero?”

Oh, wow

Ha.

SPOILER ALERT: How the hell would he know!

“Wow,” Izuku said, “You’re worse than my teacher.” And then he turned on his heel and pushed the doors open. Over his shoulder, he faked a gag, and then shuddered. Jabbed one finger in Hawks’ direction. “Don’t contact me ever again.”

And his heart was heavy, so heavy, and he wished he threw up all his early-morning dinner. He wished he could run inside and stay inside. He wished his childhood bedroom was still just for him. He wished his Mom and Dad hadn’t died. He wished he was a real dragon, a real fire-breather and not just some weird kid who lost his mind and awareness every few hours for unforeseen reasons. He wished he could fly and wear a paper plate as a mask again, like a vigilante, like how he used to. (NOWINGSATALLEVER!) He wished. But he couldn’t, and his tongue was heavy, and he was tired, and his eyes stung, and he let the door slam behind him. The lobby was empty. His phone was in his pocket. He didn’t know what to say, what to do.

I wish I died, had long since transformed into why didn’t anyone else take me with them.

Because he had felt like this for so long, and no one ever knew, and he had never been strong or brave or real enough to tell someone. Mom, Dad, I’m suicidal. Thinking about it and talking about it to his reflection—dreaming of the rope, the fire, the gun, the inevitable coffin—everything and anything associated with death. Thinking about it. Wanting it. But not ever getting close enough.

(Sounds like I’m trying to come out.)

So he said jackshit, and then his parents died, and then UA loomed in his future and an underground hero attempted to take care of him.

Izuku breathed.

He tapped the elevator button, settled in. He waited. The doors dinged. He stepped inside. He found the list of floors—chose the familiar one—and felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He swallowed the acid again. In his head, a mantra had begun to play. Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go. His hands were numb. He wished they weren’t.

The elevator lurched in a perfectly normal elevator fashion. Izuku breathed, in and then out, slowly. The doors opened again.

He blinked.

He exited the moving deathtarp—a box on wires—and walked slowly down the hall.

(Did you think it would be easy to feel better? Did you think anyone could fix you? Did you think they’d know how? Did you think you could tear yourself open and feel fine afterwards? Did you?)

But he didn’t know.

Izuku stopped in front of the door that haunted his waking hours, mostly. Inside was likely his temporary guardian, and his teacher—ha, two birds with one stone. Izuku raised his hand and knocked once. He didn’t have a key. He probably never would, but, you know. A simple observation. It was fine. He observed all kinds of things and—

(You wished you had died with your parents.)

The door opened.

Aizawa was there, looking at him. He looked surprisingly more tired than normal.

(You wished you had deleted his voice message, rather than listening to it for as long as you did.)

“Oh,” said Izuku.

Aizawa didn’t say anything. The two of them stood there. Izuku didn’t know what to say except oh. Because he wasn’t sorry for running away. He wasn’t sorry for being a problem child. He wasn’t sorry for being wrong, or mean, or for [REDACTED] all the time. He wasn’t sorry about thinking about death or suicide or murder or homicide or gore—he could do it, to himself, all on his own—he could—but he wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t. So he couldn’t say that. And he wasn’t grateful that anyone was looking for him. He wasn’t. Because it was a mes, and he never liked being known like that, anyways.

“Are you okay?” Aizawa asked, finally. He sounded very plain.

“Yeah,” Izuku lied.

Aizawa stepped to the side, making room for Izuku to come in. “Okay,” he said.

Izuku stepped inside.

The apartment was the exact same. He didn’t know why he observed this. He didn’t know why it mattered. Of course it was the same. Aizawa had no reason to change anything just for him—let alone outside of the spare bedroom that Izuku now called his own. (Temporary or not.) Because this was Aizawa’s home, not Izuku’s, and…

“Uhm,” said Izuku.

Aizawa closed the front door. The lock was seemingly automatic.

Izuku held his bag in one hand, not very heavy. Not really. He glanced to the left, then the right. Then he set the bag down next to the edge of the nightstand against the wall, and swallowed thickly, and looked at Aizawa with wide eyes. “Uhm,” the boy said again. Aizawa waited, stood there in the little awning—Izuku toed off his shoes, too, slipped his feet into the slippers that waited for him.

Then, when the silence was too long, Aizawa exhaled slowly.

Izuku shrunk into his shadow. His wings flicked, instinctive, but they couldn’t do anything more than twitch. He couldn’t hide himself in their embrace—too pained, too much.

Aizawa walked over, shuffling, and stood one foot away for a long second. And then, so carefully, he extended his arms. Izuku watched him. He opened his mouth and said nothing, jaw clicking shut just as quick. Aizawa didn’t even blink twice. Didn’t think twice, maybe. And he was so cautious, and it was dumb for anyone to be cautious around Izuku—he wasn’t a bomb, haha—but the hero wrapped him into a hug, and it was very steady. Very solid. Oh.

They stood there for a while.

(You wanted to fly away.)

Izuku didn’t really wrap his arms back, he just stayed there—stiff as a board—and tried to make words make sense in a place like his mouth.

(You wanted to die, but dying wasn’t yours to have, and that meant you had to fucking settle.)

So, here was Izuku’s confession, which was his simultaneous show:

“Sensei,” He mumbled. “I was never dating a vigilante.”

Aizawa wrapped his arms closer, careful about Izuku’s wings. He knew how they burned, phantom strains, knew how much Izuku hid. “I know,” he said, quietly.

“Sensei,” Izuku mumbled again. “I’m the vigilante.”

“I know,” Aizawa told him, and held him close, and did not let go or threaten to arrest him or take him to the nearest Emergency Center. “I know.”

(Simultaneously bad, too.)

There were options. The sun would rise in a few hours. Izuku could bask in this warmth, however limited it was, until Shouta Aizawa gave up and had to pull away. Because it was bound to happen. Izuku was a runner. He wasn’t logical. He was ill and distant and angry and scared and sad all the time. His Mom said it wasn’t his fault. Izuku knew she had lied for his sake, tried to make his problems go away by saying he didn’t have any. But she was dead, much like Izuku’s Dad, and Izuku was a vigilante who used to wear a paper plate as a mask. The hero hugging him was his current guardian, and the only person Izuku had left, in a way.

“Sensei,” Izuku whispered, finally, “I need help.”