a gun to his head (and he bares his teeth) - illu_gremlins - 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia (2024)

Chapter 1: in a world of drowning, i am afloat.

Chapter Text

┏━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┓

‘Misery. Pain. Anguish.

Forget the man who hurt your mother with a fiendish smile. Don’t fault him for the distant look in her eyes whenever she stares at you too long. Place no blame on the bastards who treated your skin like scrapped rubber, always scorching it and burning it and maiming it.

Think of yourself as a stain, ugly and bleeding and red on pristine white fabric silk.

Hold no grudges, but hold your breath.

ᴎwoɿb bᴎɒ'

┗━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┛

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku Midoriya hears words whispered to him by presences that don't exist.

Some days, he wishes he could see demons, bogeys that damn him and no one else. Entities of pure, potent evil that are always by his side, sitting on his shoulders, whispering those words. If it were so, he would be absolved of all blame. All of his thoughts, his hatred, his pain; none of it would be his fault. No, it would be those demons, those bogeys, those monsters that whispered those words.

Maybe, in a more forgiving timeline, his wishes would be granted. Maybe, in some less f*cked up universe, Izuku could see demons; could pull them by their tails and brandish weapons out of their hellfire. Ignoring the scathing remarks spoken by those evil entities would be child's play because then, at the very least, he was worth something, worth their weight and the weight of those words on his back. Maybe he could hold them, pretend they were friends and family and people he loved who loved him. And in that universe, they’d never abandon him. Entities of pure, potent evil.

This is no more than yearning thoughts, something Izuku does not indulge in. Should he, he will only ever feel the sharp blade of disappointment drag along the scars marring his skin.

Why so pessimistic, one may wonder?

It is because people are bigoted pieces of dog sh*t, and Izuku is a labelled outcast.

20XX, the world is loud and raging and new. People are flourishing, backbones of evolution, of strength, weeding out those who trail behind.

And Izuku, in all his sh*t-stain luck, trails behind.

═════════ ☻ ═════════

Izuku isn’t smart at three. He’s something small, fragile, innocent and pure. He still struggles to write his name in kanji, falling behind his peers. (They say he's slow, but Izuku thinks he's fast. Too fast. So fast he's crossed the finish line twice, now miles away from it as he reaches for it for the third time while the people around him are already at the track's end.) It’s fine, though. Izuku is a nice boy with these brilliant green eyes and a wide, pretty smile. He's so cute, so precious, you can't help but want to protect him. (No one tells him it's because he has too many bruises on his legs and back and arms. No one tells him that it's because they don't want to heal those bruises because it would mean getting involved, and ignorance was bliss. No one tells him it's a way to require their guilt because at least they're helping. At least they're doing something.) So, the teachers pull him aside and help him when his tongue starts feeling heavy and the words won’t come out.

He isn’t brave at three. He trails behind Kacchan—Katsuki has too many syllables and Izuku's cheeks turn red with struggle any time he pronounces it—always a few paces too slow, skin a little too soft. He trails behind Kacchan. Kacchan, with these small little explosions that make the prettiest sounds of pop pop pop. Kacchan, with this feverish glint in ruby eyes because he knows, the way everyone knows, how the path to heroism is carved for him.

Izuku trails behind, kissing the ground with his palms and knees as he crawls, struggling to stay at Kacchan's side.

It’s fine, though. Izuku isn't smart, he isn’t brave; he’s cute and determined and young; hopeful, like every other kid, for a future where his bleeding heart saves. Life after life, person after person, wearing a smile so wide his cheeks ache.

A smile like All Might’s. A symbol. A hero.

┏━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┓

“I’m afraid there’s no hope for him.”

┗━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┛

Izuku’s home has never been quiet. Daddy is a strict man with smart glasses who brandishes fangs for a smile. Izuku knows that he is supposed to love his parents, his Mama and Daddy. He says he does and he knows he should, but Daddy is mean and yells too much and he’s scary.Izuku thinks that Daddy is too scary to love.

How do you love someone who's shown you nothing but hurt?

Still, he tries. He comes home, greets Daddy with a smile, and waddles to his room.

Daddy doesn’t smile back. He yells at him; calls him ‘stupid’ for scraping his knees, ‘weak’ for the little bruises littering his torso.

Izuku cries to him, 'The kids at school are mean, Daddy! They keep calling me a deku. They keep telling me I'm useless. They hurt me, Daddy! They shove me and kick me and that's why I'm bruising!'

Daddy doesn’t care, he never does.

Daddy says, 'It's your fault, you damn mistake!'

Stupid, useless Deku; all his fault.

Always his fault.

Izuku flinches when he hears something shatter. Dinner is in an hour but he doesn’t think he’ll eat tonight. Daddy must be breaking the dishes again and Mama rarely cooks when the dishes are broken. Izuku can her Mama crying too, loud sobs as she wails at Daddy to calm down. Izuku slumps against his bedroom door, face buried into his knees, and stares at the little All Might figurine held in his chubby hand. He makes a wish: If he tries hard enough, he’ll manifest a quirk that brings inanimate objects to life. Then maybe Daddy will stop yelling because Izuku will stop being a mistake and Mama will stop being weak because she didn’t birth a quirkless reject. All Might will be there, and he’ll hug Izuku and Mama and maybe Daddy because he'll stop being mean and they’ll be a happy family.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and wishes and wishes and wishes. (He does this every night. His wish is never answered.)

Tonight, as he's wishing, the house falls quiet.

Izuku notices the sudden quiet. He doesn't know why it’s quiet, he doesn’t know anything, but he knows that it is, that he can't hear any screaming or crying, can’t hear the sound of fists hitting skin or screeching or glass as it crashes to the floor and breaks like a motif to his parents fracturing marriage.

He never wished for the quiet. He hates the quiet. He hates it because he doesn’t understand it. Izuku's never been left to the quiet. It's new, foreign; scary.

He opens his door, clenches his little fists and quietly steps towards the kitchen. He’s almost there, just down the hallway and he’ll see why it’s quiet, understand why it’s quiet, understand why he shouldn’t fear it.

A door slams and someone screams. Izuku’s little legs are running; pushing; moving before he can think.

His Daddy is gone; Mama is screaming; wailing; crying. There is broken glass on the floor and blood running down Mama’s nose.

Daddy is gone, and it's louder than the quiet.

“Mama?”

She doesn’t move. She’s still bleeding. Daddy is gone.

Little Izuku moves to her tentatively. He wraps his arms around her back.

“Mama?” He buries his nose into her shoulder.

She doesn’t move. She’s still wailing. Daddy is gone.

“Mama,” he sniffles.

She doesn’t move. She’s still breaking.

.ɘᴎoǫ ꙅi ʏbbɒᗡ

.ɘᴎoǫ ꙅi ʏbbɒᗡ

Da̯̳̖ͪ͞ḑ̶̶̷̥̪̝̦̫͙̗̥̙̞͎̯̝̽̔͆ͭ̈̈̎ͫ̊̊̂̌͒ͭ̋ͯ͒̍̔̇ͬ͑̈́͢͟͞d̸̴̡̨̛̦͔̰̱̩̳͇̳̖̺̝͎̩͍̝̯̜̃ͭͪ̀͗͋ͪ̓ͮ́̀ͧͩͪ͞y̷̛̠̣̖ͦ̿̍͆́́̌̇͋ͯ̆͘͟͜ ḭ͔͔̯̺̣̳̲͍̈̓ͩ̋ͤ̽͋̉͋̍ͪ͠s̻̣̭̣͖̭͍̼͚̲͚͈ͦ͆ͤ̓̍̉͆̅̔̉̇͟͜_̅ g̷̨̠̮̤͖̗̉ͯͪ̐ͨͪ͛͂ͩ͠ơ̸̸̿ͨ_ͬͪ̑̾ͪ_̷͔͓͔͕̪͚̻̎̆̎͊͟_̵̙͚̠̜̅̆͂ͤ̄́͌̇͟͟͡n̸̵̨̜͙̬̹̟̣̞̬͔͙͔̉͋̏̄̃ͧ͌̋̍͆̎͊ͯͧͮ̄ͭͨ̈́͗ͫ͞e̸̢̛͙̼̟̱̝̺̳͉̺̬̘͖ͩ̂́̃͒͌̇ͫ͗͂͌͢

“Mama!” he starts crying too, less shaky, more silent.

Mama notices him then. She cries louder, wraps her arms around his waist, pulls him in and squeezes.

“He’s gone, he left, he left me.”

He remembers these words so vividly for years to come.

Mama said ‘me’. She said ‘me’. Not us, never us, right Mama? It’s only you that he left. He was never here for me.

Daddy is finally gone.

Izuku doesn’t know it yet, nose buried in her shoulder, tears wetting his little t-shirt. He doesn’t know it yet, but Mama is gone too, his Mama is gone forever. Daddy left her bleeding out on the floor, a bullet wound where her heart should be. Izuku doesn’t know it yet, but Mama will never hug him like that ever again. She will look at him and see the man she loved with every part of her, the man she loved so much it tore her inside out. The man who beat her again and again. The man who left.

Izuku doesn’t know it yet, but the day he lost his father, he lost his mother too.

Oh woe, his broken heart.

┏━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┓

“You look just like him. I can’t stand it.”

┗━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┛

Izuku is keen, too keen. Once upon a time, he was young, naïve and hopeful. Now, he is six, and he knows the world isn’t so kind. It’s been months, Daddy hasn’t come back. Izuku works harder than ever, makes himself smart, and teaches himself to be observant and quick on his feet. After his diagnosis, the teachers stopped pulling him aside, and so left for the dogs he tries his best day and night.

Vermin. Diseased. Worthless.

No one offers to help, not anymore. They do not slow down for him, do not wait, and the path he crawled so desperately to keep up with them is now covered with brick and cement stacked too high for his stubby little legs to jump or climb

“Worthless Deku,” a nameless face snarls, a kid with scales on their head and yellow scleras, "watch where you’re going.”

Izuku bows his head, mumbles a too-quiet apology, and steps to the side, biting his tongue to keep from yelping when a sharp shoulder bumps his. He stumbles; holds the strap of his backpack tight enough for his fingers to turn white. Somewhere behind him, someone snickers.

“And you said you wanted to be a hero?” Oh...Katsuki. “Pathetic.”

'Maybe.'

Izuku sidesteps where the air suddenly feels too warm, the heat of an explosion too close. There’s a sound, his eardrums pop, and without looking back, he runs.

Izuku isn’t athletic at six, but he’s trained to move fast, faster than angry boys with strong quirks and stronger fists. He runs and runs until his legs burn and his heart is beating too fast and everything hurts. Runs until he finds a small alleyway, wrinkling his nose when he ducks behind a full-to-the-brim dumpster. He stays crouched and silent until the little kids are too far away and he can walk home.

Not for the first time, he waits for a hero to save him.

┏━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┓

“Pathetic little sh*t. What’s the point of showing up anywhere if you’re so goddamn useless, huh?”

┗━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┛

Izuku is young, far too young for someone with such hopeful eyes and big bright smiles to cave and burn under the weight of...of everything and everyone. He is home, and his mother does not look at him. He is home, and there are fresh burns, bruises and cuts riddled across his skin like they made up his design. He is home, and sluggishly setting up dinner, his mother in her room, waiting to be called, only to then eat in silence, awkward, bruising and damning.

Six years of the same noxious, dull routine. Ma hasn’t cooked dinner since Hisashi left.

(Izuku doesn't remember when Daddy became Hisashi, but he does know that not once had that man been a father to him.)

She works often and longer hours; says it’s to keep a roof over their head. Izuku doesn’t complain. She isn’t there for breakfast; isn’t there after school. But she’s there for dinner, and Izuku tells himself it’s enough, lies to himself and says he doesn’t miss her hugs and smiles and kind words. That he doesn't miss her. She’s nothing more than the shell of who she once was, an empty vessel making its way through the day unsure if it's still alive. Izuku hates it, but even if she's sitting on the line between life and death, at least, she's with him. He can handle the burden of pulling her to his side forever if he has to.

“Ma,” he calls out, voice echoing in the silence of the apartment, "dinner is ready.”

No answer, not that he expected one. His mother will take five minutes to walk down the hall. Five minutes of Izuku sitting silently, patiently. If nothing, he eats dinner with his mum. He'll watch her as she methodically slurps her soup and takes small bites out of her rice, movements robotic. But, at the very least, she’s there. Sometimes...sometimes she’ll even meet his eyes and won’t look away.

He remembers once when her lips curled into this soft, pretty smile he hadn't seen in years. He cried. It’d been so long.

Five minutes pass. Nothing. Not the sound of the door swinging, of feet padding across the floors.

“Ma?” he calls again. Nothing.

Izuku thrums his fingers against his thigh, worried. Another five minutes pass. Nothing.

Nothing.

“Ma I’m coming to check on you.” His tone is steady despite the rapid thump thump thumping of his heart. He knows he’s hurrying but everything feels so slow. The door to her room is closed, but it isn’t locked. Hisashi had broken the lock when Izuku was three, and though he doesn’t remember, Inko does. She never fixed it, telling Izuku that it reminded her about the way he loved her, about the life he lived with them. (Izuku scoffed. He did not love them but he didn't voice those thoughts to his mother. Had Hisashi not broken the lock, Izuku would've, at that point.)

“Ma?”

He knocks softly and lets himself in. The room is bathed in shadows, and when Izuku flicks the lights on his mother isn’t in bed. The covers are distressed like she’d thrashed in them. When his fingers skim the pillow, it’s cold.

“Ma where are…” he trails off, catching the light seeping past the crack of the bathroom door. The water is running, he can hear it as he creeps closer. It's a good thing. His mother is just in the shower, nothing more, nothing less. Seldom does she shower without his prompting. Perhaps she's had a good day.

“Ma when you’re done come for dinner,” he says quietly, “alright?”

Again, he doesn’t expect an answer, but his shoulders drop and he sighs both languidly and in relief.

He turns on his heel, ready to cover the food and keep it from going stale when something cold touches his foot. He yelps, falling on his ass.

'What the f*ck?'

Water, he sees now, soaking through the wooden floors of her room.

Overflowing.

“Ma what’s—”

Tinged. It’s clearer now. The water istinged.

Izuku doesn’t hesitate, isn’t polite when he yanks the door open, the lock broken too.

'sh*t.

'f*ck.

'Fuck.

'sh*t.'

His mother is there, sleeping, still in her clothes. Sleeping, he says to himself, again and again, and again. She’s soaked, her head limp and her skin the palest it’s ever been. Her hair isn’t up either, another anomaly. It’s cascading down her back, wet and stringy. The tap water runs and runs, and she’s sleeping; doesn’t make a move to stop it.

The water is tinged, soft pink. It's a very pretty, very sheen shade that ombres darker the closer the water is to the bath.

Izuku crawls to her, pants soaked as he sloshes through the water, the pink, pink water.

He’s four again.

He's four again. They hadn’t visited the doctor. Daddy is waiting, and it’s rare but he isn’t yelling. Mama’s there too, holding his hand.

“Mama,” he whimpers, twisting the tap. He ignores the water in the tub, red. Not pink, but red.

“Mama.” He raises her head, but she doesn’t move.

“Mama look at w-what you did," he hiccups, crying silently, “you l...l...l-left the water running. You hurt y-yourself again t...t-too, it’s really bad this time, Mama.” Izuku stands up, rubs his eyes and sniffles.

“Co...c-come on, you do-don’t want Daddy to see you li...li-like this.” He lifts her, unmoving and too light despite the weight of the water soaking her clothes. He sees her arms; he stares at the pink, puffy lines, the brown, pink and white scars. Stares at the red bleeding lines, the deep vertical wounds. Vertical.

Izuku stumbles as he takes her to bed. He’s still small and scrawny; his mother may be nothing more than ribs and bones but so is he. His knees give out when they’re out of the bathroom; his mother lands on the floors with a dull thud.

She f*cking thuds. People don’t thud, they shouldn’t f*cking thud.

“I...I-I’m so...s...so...s-sorry!” he cries, crawling to pick her up again, ignoring how his arms hurt from strain. “I didn’t m-mean to drop you.”

His movements are slow and he’s shaking but he doesn’t fall again. As gently as he can, Izuku places his mother on the bed, ignoring how blood immediately begins to pool under them, soaking through the crumpled sheets and blankets.

“I’m j-just going to g...g-get some bandages to c-clean the wou...wo...wou...w...wounds, o...ok-kay?”

He’s shaking when he fumbles through the bathroom cabinets, towel in hand, bandages in the other. Her wounds need stitches, but Izuku isn’t a doctor and he doesn’t want to hurt her. His vision is blurry and he won't stop crying even though his mother is right there on her bed sleeping. She’s sleeping. She's still his pretty, poised, porcelain mother. She’s just hurt, and she hurts like this all the time. Izuku will simply fix her bandages and she’ll gently caress his hand and it’ll be okay.

It’s routine. (Routine if not for the way her lines are f*cking vertical.)

She’s sleeping.

She’s sleeping.

She's sleeping.

.ǫᴎiqɘɘ|ꙅ ƚoᴎ ꙅ'ɘʜꙄ

ƚoᴎ

.ǫᴎiqɘɘ|ꙅ

Izuku tells himself, just for tonight, that she is sleeping.

Just for tonight, he'll clean her wounds again.

He'll hug her and pretend she's hugging him too.

He'll sing her a song because she once told him he had a pretty voice.

He'll tell her to sleep well and sleep by her side, pretending she isn't going cold under his touch.

Just for tonight, she is sleeping.

┏━━━━━━━━ ☹━━━━━━━━┓

Dear Izuku,

I’m sorry. I love you.

— Your Mama ♥

┗━━━━━━━━ ☹ ━━━━━━━━┛

Hisashi still pays the apartment bills. Izuku only finds this out two weeks after his mother dies and there is no eviction notice on the door.

'Deadbeat is useful for something,’ he thought at the time.

His mother was cremated at his request, paid at the expense of her life; a deity's f*cking irony. The police had left him to his bearings after the initial interrogation, believing him when teary-eyed and sad, he blubbered about wanting to grieve with his loving father at home. They did not investigate further to determine if Izuku's father was around, and since his parents never married on paper, didn't care to know if he was telling the truth.

It's not like the quirkless were worth the effort.

Not for the first time, their negligence is welcomed. Izuku doesn’t think he’d fare well in foster homes and orphanages.

He’d spent what little pocket money he had to buy a cremation necklace, a plain black rope laced through a bullet-shaped pendant with the word ‘loved’ in kanji carved into the silver. Simple. The man gave Izuku a pitiful smile when he asked for the ashes to be transferred, but asked no questions. Izuku tossed the remaining ashes into the sea and whispered goodbye to his mother in another song he keeps private to their memory.

The situation: Inko is dead.

Izuku keeps it a secret he hides in that pendant and a single certificate he refuses to burn. The government tells him that she bore no will or assets, and Izuku doesn't bother calling them out on their lies because he is only 12 and doesn't think it's worth the trouble to recount the memory of his mother writing her will and asking Izuku to write his when he'd turned 10.

Instead, he takes what little she's saved in an old safe and a letter addressed to him that he leaves unopened.

He has, if he's stingy, three months of groceries worth of money, perhaps more with how his appetite has dwindled. He cleans her room, changes the sheets and dries the floor but refuses to step into the bathroom, leaving the window unlatched and the door shut. His stomach churns at the thought of cleaning it, at the moment. The last place his mother had been alive.

The water will evaporate. The tiles will stain. So be it.

He has school tomorrow. The new term is soon.

He'll make it through.

Somehow.

Maybe.

┏━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┓

“Are we gonna see you in middle school too, ya useless freak? How about a memorable goodbye?”

┗━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┛

He introduces himself with a bow.

“Hello, I’m Izuku Midoriya.”

This school is far from his home, around an hour away, but it was the closest public one, aside from Aldera—where he knew Katsuki was attending—that permitted quirkless students entry. It also allowed for registration online, so Izuku didn’t have to worry about a guardian attending a face-to-face meeting with the board.

The lax registration speaks aeons about the school. It's run-down, built on a broken system with broken kids from sketchy areas with worse parents and pasts. The chipped paint, vandalised desks, and run-down interior only further cement Izuku's initial impression. The students he faces are different shades of rough, all jagged edges and skin made of leather. They look mean and Izuku already knows they'll be all kinds of cruel to him too.

In his opinion, the phrase 'don't judge a book by its cover' is something some pretentious hobo came up with to play saint.

The kids stare at him like he’s foreign, new and unknown, a germ under a microscope.; something they want to prod and play with.

The teacher claps and Izuku flinches, startled.

“Any questions for him?”

Izuku lifts his head. A few students gasp; some snicker. Izuku knows it's his new scars. They're ugly and healing, stark and fresh and large. One drags from his right temple, a large gash, slimming to a slit right across his eyebrow. Another, more brutal, darker and thicker, snakes up the side of his neck, over his jaw, and across his cheek. He brings a hand to his hair and shakes his bangs over his face, feeble in his attempt to hide them.

“What happened to your face?”

“How old are you?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve never seen you around this area, you rich or something?”

“What would a rich kid be doing here?”

“Why’re you so short?”

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

“Where are you from?”

Izuku slouches. Too many people are talking. He doesn’t know who to answer or what to say.

“One by one,” the teacher’s voice cuts through the cacophony. It’s dull; a little tired. Izuku sneaks a glance at them. A woman, he thinks, with short red hair and white eyes. She’s sitting in her chair wearing an expression of apathy. His stomach curls. She wouldn't step up for him, seldom people did.

She glances at Izuku pointedly, eyes boring into him like he was no more than dirt on her shoes.

“Pick ‘em."

The students have quieted and are now raising their hands.

Izuku locks eyes with a tall brunette with a disturbingly wide build. He points a finger at him, and the kid smiles like he’s won the lottery.

“What’s your quirk?”

The inevitable.

Izuku's tempted to lie, to say it’s a mental quirk, an intelligence enhancer. They’re easy to fake, and they’d peel away the blaring neon target on his back. But the teacher answers for him, her voice thick with amusem*nt.

“He’s quirkless.”

Oh. An instigator. He’d mistakenly assumed she was the type to turn a blind eye.

'Lovely.'

The switch in everyone's demeanour is nearly laughable. The curiosity, the prying, the eagerness, it all dissipates. It makes room for the disgustingly familiar smell of malice and hate. The hands fall, and Izuku doesn’t need to look up to see the expressions his new classmates wear. It’s always one of three.

Hate. Disgust. Pity.

“No more questions?”

'No, you absolute c*nt. Do you think they have any more questions?'

“Okay then, take your seat Midoriya. Right at the back, next to Kubo,” she orders, pointing at a scrawny girl with dark black hair. She’s glaring at the empty seat next to her, brown eyes narrowed, scowling like it took away her most prized possession. Students scoot, chairs and desks screeching as they leave the little corner isolated.

'It's better than when they purposefully crowded me in Tobiagaru, I guess.'

Izuku’s steps are light; skipping over stuck-out feet attempting to trip him. When he takes his seat, he keeps his movements minimal and deliberate. He takes out his notebook—thick; flame and water-resistant; difficult to cut and rip; sewn with metal threads and well-worn leather.

“So class…”

┏━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┓

“After school. Meet us or else. Got it, f*ckhead?”

┗━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┛

Life is meaningless. Ambitions. Aspirations. Goals. Success. Worthless in the grand scheme of things. People try so hard, so goddamn hard, to live. To see another day, to listen to the birds sing another noteless tune, to watch the clouds part and float, away and back, to fight with the same person they claim to love, to stain pavements with stranger’s blood and shake hands with faceless strangers.

Why?

Izuku once lived for the future, damning the past and present to hell and back because he was going to be a hero. He was going to save people, with a dazzling, too-big smile and bright, hopeful eyes.

He refused to accept that the future was already paved for him, a path bloodied and tarnished. Roads of rubble and broken glass, desolate trees and rotting branches, sunless skies and warm, humid air. He refused and ran the opposite way, mangled his hands as he fruitlessly climbed over walls and barriers, only to be greeted by that same, fated, bloodied path.

He no longer feels disappointed or bothered or anything really as he sits in the dirt, caked in filth and sweat. His peers sneer at him, kick his side and laugh as he tastes bitter bile, throat burning while he's heaving on the sidewalk. He doesn’t know these peers. He guesses they're third-years,three boys who've taken interest in the new anomaly that was Genjistu Junior High’s first quirkless.

“You really are pathetic,” Blue-Eyes croons, punctuating the insult with another hard kick to Izuku’s side. He gasps, breathless. They’re meaner in Junior High, crueller, stronger and smarter. Elementary school kids pull your hair and step on your toes, stop when an adult swings by. They call you silly things like 'useless' or 'ugly' that hurt when you're ten, but Izuku's smart at ten and he thinks they sound silly the way school children insults do. (He excludes the 'parting gift' they gave him on his last day.) In Junior High, they break your ribs and say it's your fault instead. (Izuku's still smart at twelve, though. They still sound silly.)

“Maybe we should add another scar to that face of yours, huh?” Muscle-Head lifts his chin with his foot and stares into Izuku’s eyes. The hatred, pain and loathing burns, brighter than fireworks on New Year's Eve. Izuku hopes, for a moment, to set Muscle-Head on fire with his eyes and it's reflected in Izuku's gaze. Muscle-Head falters, his foot twitching and snarl waning. He does not light on fire.

'Boo. 0/10. That would've been fun to see.'

Turnip-Hair kneels and sends a straight punch to Izuku’s face, laughing as warm blood oozes from his nose, dripping and staining the grey of his uniform. He falls back, slumping against the rough brick of his school building. He’s breathing too heavily, vision fading into shades of black, spots clouding the sky.

“How about next week, yeah?” Turnip-Hair looks up to Muscle-Head. “Maybe we can sneak in your dad’s blade.”

Blue-Eyes chuckles, it’s dry and sad*stic. “Might carve up something pretty into the sh*t stains on your skin.”

'They’re freckles, dipsh*t.'

Muscle-Head nods, snapped out of his stupor.

“Yeah.” He looks at Izuku—eyelids half shut, bruised, bleeding and tired—and smiles again. “Next week, after school. Don’t be late.”

Life is meaningless.

┏━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┓

I can’t pay your sh*t anymore. Found a better family to look after.

Don’t contact me again slu*t.

— Hisashi

┗━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┛

Izuku doesn’t think he’s suicidal. He doesn’t crave death, not as his mother did. To Izuku, Death is another bystander, another faceless, nameless, pointless stranger he will one day meet. When didn't matter; how didn’t matter. Death would come for everybody, Izuku knew this undoubtedly.

Izuku, rather, is at a half-point. Standing still, unmoving, unblinking. He's watching the world as it caves and twists under the soles of his feet in nothing but bone-numbing apathy. He lives a life of pain and boredom, hate and anger, fatigue and melancholy.

This doesn't change as he’s kicked out of his apartment complex one month after Hisashi refuses to continue paying the rent. Izuku sells whatever he can, hoards the little money he has, and looks around for abandoned buildings to take to shelter.

And though this doesn't change, he thinks if death came to him now, as he lugs what scarce luggage he has down the weedier streets of Musutafu, he wouldn’t blink. No, he'd welcome Death with an empty smile and dull eyes. (Maybe it does change and he doesn't care. Or maybe he's always been like this, welcoming death, waiting to be embraced.)

Life is difficult and the effort of keeping one foot after the other is exhausting.

These days, he can’t help but wonder if his mother was like him. Breathing, but not living. Surviving. Camouflaged among the thriving, the healthy, and the trying. He wonders if he will crave Death, the touch of its cold fingers, the smile of its fanged teeth. He thinks it’s inevitable, as he walks and breathes and survives, treading the line between life and death, just like his mother.

(There's a difference Izuku ignores. He had been his mother's anchor until he could no longer bear her weight. He has no anchor.)

The place Izuku settled on during his month-long search was only a forty-minute walk from the school, closer than his old home, but in a far more dangerous area.

In Tokyo, it’s said the night never sleeps. That cars are always running and people never stop dancing and no one is tired despite the moon and stars. Izuku thinks this neighbourhood, dishevelled and dangerous as it is, is similar. As he snakes down alleyways and through small passageways, people are awake, animated and prospering.

He catches a woman in lingerie and a faux fur coat dragging the edge of her long, painted nail down the arm of a burly man with pale pink cheeks and a thin, sparse beard. He hears the sound of angry drunks as bouncers toss them out of bars, the way they clatter against metal dumpsters, slurring insult after insult. Hears the music of the many nightclubs built in the area, the steady beat and rhythm, gently bopping his head to 'one-one, two, three'.

No one spares him a second glance, a kid with scarred skin and dirty clothes, tired and brooding. He fits perfectly.

He reaches a tall wired fence and grins. It’s twice his height, ten feet of crossed, poorly twisted copper. Behind it, hidden to the left of the alleyway, sits a small house. One Izuku spent weeks looking for. It was far from an ideal place, with moss-infected damp wood and scorch marks all over the walls. The lock on the door was broken, and the weeds in the little garden on its porch were overgrown, too long and coiled. But the water system, miraculously, was working—though he'd need to clean the small water tank—and the electric box only needed a bit of rewiring and a source. It was hidden and comfy. Considering he was squatting, Izuku had no complaints.

He tightens the straps of his backpack and climbs. It’s a strain on his tired, injured muscle, and the metal bites into the skin of his hands, loose copper stabbing the material of his well-worn shoes and drawing blood. He hisses when a loose nail snags his palm, swallows a yelp when the skin of his arm catches on metal rust.

He'll eventually get used to it. This attempt was better than his first.

When he hops over the top, he braces his feet and crouches to land steadily on a dumpster perched near the left of the fence, rolling off. Perhaps it's a little sad that someone as young as him is so used to jumping off fences and sprinting down alleyways. Izuku doesn't dwell on it. It's how he survives.

He continues further down and makes a right into a very cramped space. The dingy house sits in between a bunch of other dingy houses and old stores still being run by owners with canes in their hands and shotguns underneath their booths. Izuku nods at the ones who greet him.

Someone of All Might's size would struggle walking down here.

A gunshot rings out, snapping Izuku out of his musings. He flinches hard enough to lose his footing, tripping over empty bottles and discarded litter. He picks up his pace, fumbling at the front entrance, stepping over weeds and dirt and clutter.

The inside is as decrepit as he found it a week ago.

“f*ck my life.”

┏━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┓

“What a pretty spider lily. Is it mine?”

┗━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┛

Izuku is small, cornered and caged. He doesn’t talk if he can help it; doesn’t look up or raise his hand. He’s meek, quirkless, useless.

He isn’t a threat, never has been.

┏━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┓

“He’s a monster.”

┗━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┛

Chapter 2: a city of false heroes has crumbled before me.

Chapter Text

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku creeps along the streets in contemplative silence, slippery fingers sorting through a stranger's wallet. It belongs to a recent debut, a new pro-hero under the alias ‘Scarlet Rain’. Izuku can't help but question the criteria it takes to be given such a title. The woman had poor spatial awareness and the observation skills of a newborn baby. Slipping past her was practically child’s play. Though, Izuku did find that heroes who specialised in brutality were often lacking in surveillance. He knows better than to target quick-thinking, scrutinising or observant people.

Pickpocketing should warrant guilt. Society sucks and people are tired. Scarlet Rain is probably tired too. But Izuku is and has been, exhausted. He is and has been nothing but a dam of boredom, anger and hate. So he doesn’t feel bad or guilty or empathetic. Life is unfair, people will take advantage of you. It's how the world works.

“Emu Hirao," he whispers the name on the ID. She’s pretty without the obstructing mask, dark-skinned with a toothy smile and black eyes. Even better, though, she's well off. Or stupid. Either way, Izuku's win. Years of this charade taught Izuku the true idiocy of short-sighted thinking. Often those with bejewelled watches, branded clothing and the naïvety of kids with new money would carry more cash on them than they knew what to do with in wallets that would make a poor man salivate.

Exploiting them is human nature, honestly. Mean, tricky people like Izuku will use their skills—nimble fingers and silent footsteps—and take advantage of that idiocy.

"Unless an idiot dies, he won't be cured," Izuku mutters with a smirk. It's one of his favourite sayings.

Shuffling into an empty alleyway, Izuku quickly takes out the abundance of yen and pockets what he can of it. The wallet is nice too, white leather with an expensive brand name engraved into it in gold.

"Can I pawn it?"

He turns it over, clicking his tongue when he sees the hero's initials also engraved into the material. It's customised.

'Damn.'

To think he could've sold it for a price only a few yen less than what it's worth to some desperate kid looking to fit in where they never will. Those pitiful kids are always far too grateful during those transactions, buying stolen goods using their hard-earned pocket money because they’re so desperate to feel 'loved'.

What a wasted opportunity.

“My wallet!” he hears someone cry. He peaks over the alleyway, watching as an outburst unfolds. Scarlet Rain is a few paces ahead. Her arms are spread wide, eyebrows raised in disbelief. She cries, again, “My wallet! Someone stole my wallet!"

The crowd erupts in whispered disbelief and proclamations of innocence. Izuku leans back and watches in amusem*nt as the crowd grows antsy. He waits for the first accusation to be tossed; waits for the first punch to be thrown; to hear someone's fist break someone else's skin; for things to ignite.

He waits to see if Emu Hirao, if Scarlet Rain, will remain a bystander to the chaos and violence she welcomed or demand order the way a 'hero' should.

“You must’ve done it, you were nearest to her!”

'There it is. The straw that broke the camel’s back.'

Izuku uses the disruption to weave through the crowd, close enough to slip the wallet back into the distressed heroine’s pocket. He gently nudges the person to his side so they crash into her, knowing she'll feel its weight. His slim, unassuming frame makes it easy for him to slip by without notice. The loudness will eventually die down, no harm no foul. Scarlet Rain will pretend all is normal too. She'll turn her nose to the speckled blood on the sidewalk, close her eyes to the bruises her new followers sport, and reshake their hands while skillfully avoiding their injured knuckles. As if, not a breath ago, it wasn't all ugly and sad.

Izuku walks aimlessly, letting his feet carry him to and fro. Strangers stare at him with squinted, judgemental gazes. It's hard to forget that he's a kid from the tracks. That, outside of the alleyway and nightlife, he's different. People here don't know his long frizzy hair and dirt-stained clothes; scars, piercings and tan skin. Their gazes start to feel heavy, and so Izuku lets his thoughts wander, a means of distraction.

High school is in less than a year and he’s yet to determine where he’d like to attend. 10-year-old Izuku would’ve jumped at the chance for Yuuei, the top school that birthed Japan’s finest heroes. 10-year-old Izuku wanted so badly to be a hero, a symbol, to save others the way he wasn’t.

But dreams are for 10-year-old children who can stare at the stars and imagine a future far brighter than their present. They aren't for those grazed fourteen years too young with enough bullsh*t in their hands to fertilise a garden the size of a football field. (It does not matter that fourteen is still so young too. It does not matter that fourteen-year-olds can dream, should dream, make a wish and pray it to be granted. It can't.)

Though, he supposes he is smart in a way that his classmates aren’t. He studies, day and night, huddles in small public libraries to learn and grow. It makes him feel a little less worthless whenever he learns something new.

Yuuei's General Education course wouldn't be too bad of an option, then. Yuuei is one of the few prestigious schools that have free enrollment and offer lunch plans for the less fortunate students. They also do not discriminate, at least within their public rules, against quirkless students' applications like many other high schools.

Izuku's also curious about the rich and privileged kids with pretty quirks that'll surely attend. It'll be fun to break them down, pull them apart and rewire them until they are no more than ants seconds from being squashed by the soles of his boots. A morbid train of thought, sure, but it’s how he survives. (Just barely, breathing and floating but not quite there.)

Izuku, raw and skinned and bare, is personified deception. Manipulation isn’t a mere skill he’s honed, it’s a weapon he’s brandished.It’s come to be exhilarating, truly. He's learnt to fight and cut and hurt others the way they did him.

Then they call him a monster like it's an insult.

⚬⚬⚬

"This is my seat," some kid snarls down at Izuku, who's patiently reading a novel he'd 'borrowed' from the library. It isn't the kid's seat. Izuku knows this, the kid knows this, and the apprehensive glances his classmates send the kid know this.

Izuku doesn't move and doesn't spare the kid a glance.

"Oi!" the kid barks, slamming his fist onto the table. His fingers are claws, morphed, mutated bone. No nails, just skin pulled taught into little points. It's gross. Izuku looks up dismissively. He doesn't recognise him. He's sure he'd remember someone with such f*cked-up ears.

'I'm designating you the title of 'f*cked Ears''

"Move your hand," Izuku tells him.

f*cked Ears scoffs in disbelief.

"You think you can order me around, Quirkless?"

"This isn't your seat," Izuku rebukes, voice dead as ever; plain, tired, bored, "so move your hand."

"I f*cking think—"

'For f*cks' sake.'

In a second, Izuku's grabbed f*cked Ears by the wrist, twisting it until he was whimpering pathetically. He grabs one of f*cked Ears' disgusting fingers and forcefully presses it into the wood like a knife. The boy's protests fall on deaf ears as Izuku continues to carve, pressing down harder the louder the boy cries.

"There." He turns to the kid, hand still on his wrist, relishing in the little tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. "Now it has my f*cking name on it."

He shoves f*cked Ears back roughly, smiling down at the wide-eyed, fearful expression he's given. He's cradling his reddened wrist, blood drying at the tip of his mangled finger.

In the wood, scraped in shaky handwriting, is the name Izuku. He wipes off the sawdust, satisfied.

'Pathetic.'

Izuku turns back to his novel.

⚬⚬⚬

“Mommy,” a little girl wails, catching Izuku’s attention. Her voice is far, a few blocks ahead, hidden behind the mass of people walking by. “Mommy?!”

Izuku isn’t a hero, let it be said. He doesn’t care to be one. He’s spilt his blood onto clean concrete, scarred his knuckles and broken his thumbs. He'd rather be a monster. Still, if you strip him down to nothing, he is human. Disgusting, loathsome and vile, he is human, with a beating heart that’s drowned in cement, fighting to stay alive under the debris and dried concrete. A heart that bleeds and beats, blood black as tar, for the children who cry and the houses built of ash and the people who hurt.

So he hurries, weeds through people like a slippery snake; ignoring the affronted looks and glares he receives as the wails grow louder, loud enough to pinpoint where the little girl is. She’s small, up to his hip, with big bouncy curls and even bigger blue eyes. She looks like a doll with flushed cheeks and pale skin. Even her tears—big, fat, and iridescent—look painted.

“Hello.” He keeps his voice soft, his hands lowered and his stance approachable and unthreatening. The little girl looks up and wails all the more.

She can't be older than five.

“Please don’t hurt me, I lost my-my...I lost Mommy!” she screams, loud and scared. It garners the attention of passerbyers who stare only to walk away. It's abhorrent to think about how many of them heard her cry and did no more than watch, waiting for the person ahead of them to help. What if no one did? Could they handle staining their hands with the blood of an innocent little girl, all for the sake of their convenience?

Izuku isn’t good with comfort, reassurance or consolation. He doesn’t remember what it feels like to have a hand run through the locks of his hair and promise him it’ll be okay. But this little girl is still crying, she’s afraid and young, and humans are sick, twisted, vile things.

“I’ll help you find your mommy. Do you want me to do that?”

She looks at him hesitantly, but Izuku can’t smile, can’t remember the muscle movements or the way his lips should curl; he can only remember how to bare his teeth. He settles on what he prays is a look of neutral reassurance. Eventually, she nods and waddles over on her little legs. She wears tiny heels, less than a centimetre off the ground, and it clicks quietly against the pavement. She doesn’t grab Izuku’s outstretched hand, instead latching onto his too-long jumper and fisting the material.

“What does Mommy look like?” he asks, slowly navigating his way through the bustle and crowd.

“She looks like me, but her skin is like chocolate, darker than yours, and her hair is black,” the girl whispers. Izuku has to tune out the sound of cars and chatter to pick up on what she says. “She’s really pretty. Mommy is like, the prettiest person ever.”

'Cute.'

He stands on his toes, only 5’2, and squints at the faces, looking for anyone distressed and frantic, asking for a little girl.

“Where did you lose her?”

“There was this hero who came, she was also really pretty, but she was red, not chocolate, and I wanted to see her. But then this mean man pushed me and I lost my Mommy and everyone started pushing me and th-then— th-th-then—” Her breath stutters, like she’s about to wail again, so Izuku bends down and awkwardly pats her shoulder. She latches onto his arm with a free hand. “Please take me to her, Oniisama.”

Her mother might be dead, knocked out or kidnapped. But Izuku isn’t an honest person, not by a long shot, and this girl is so small and so so fragile and doesn’t need to find out the world can be so unfair, not yet.

“Of course,” he says instead, “how about you hold my hand so I don’t lose you in the crowd?”

The girl looks stricken for a second, like letting go of Izuku’s jacket would hurt her, before carefully, gently, slipping her hand into his. Her fingers are soft, unlike his calloused ones, and he’s sure the way his old bandages rub her skin isn’t comfortable. He starts at a somewhat brisk pace to the commotion where he'd stolen the wallet.

With his sensitive hearing, he focuses on isolating the bustle of the crowd for more distinct cries, picking up on the faint noise of one disgruntled woman and another higher-pitched panicking one.

'Bingo.’

He picks up his stride, mindful of the little girl as he shoves at bystanders, not caring for their indignation. When he sees them, their backs are turned, but Scarlet Rain is still the colour of red, and the woman at her side is as poised and pretty as the little girl squeezing Izuku’s fingers.

“Is that your mommy?” He points at them with his free hand. The little girl nods, her face breaking into a big smile.

“Thank you, Oniisama, you’re my hero!” she shouts, letting go of Izuku to barrel headfirst into her mother. The woman barely catches herself before she peers down at her daughter. Her panic edges away, relief bleeding out of her as she bends down to carefully wrap her daughter in a hug.

Emu Hirao slumps like the weight of the world has been lifted off her shoulders. The little girl is pointing a chubby finger in Izuku’s direction, her mother and the hero following her line of vision. They see Izuku; the scars on his face, bandages on his arms and the stains on his clothes; and grimace.

Privately, Izuku wonders how they’d react to him being quirkless.

He walks away before they can scrutinise him any further, into the crowd and out of sight.

A hero?

He remembers a time when the word would make him jump and blush and probably sparkle like a 90s anime character being asked out by the love of their life. Today his lips quirk into an amused, caustic smile as he makes his way over to the shabbier part of town. To the nearest tattoo parlour where he'll shake hands with the ex-convict who overlooked his age. To the alleyway where he'll greet the fruit vendor who taught him about money laundering and the fish market that druggies would frequent as they asked for 'raw tuna, no bone but save the eye please'. To the convenience store where he wiped off expiration dates of canned items for a free jug of orange juice and a pack of cigarettes.

It was a pipe dream.

Izuku's no f*cking hero.

═════════ ☻ ═════════

“You the quirkless freak?” a no-face third-year with reedy hair asks with a snarl. Izuku doesn’t flinch, spine ramrod straight and expression passive.

'What do you think, sh*thead?'

He’s at his desk, bag at his side, apathetic if not for how his nails curl into his palms. His classmates have long since taken to leaving him alone. Monster, they called him. He likes it.

Izuku stays quiet.

“Answer him!” The other one with red eyescrimson with ash-blonde hair, reeking of burnt sugar and gasoline and black hair slams his fist against Izuku’s desk, denting the damaged, inked, scorched wood. Izuku bites back a sigh.

The desk won’t hold up much longer, and Izuku is tired of having to re-screw the legs or re-glue and replace the wood. It's not like the school would provide him with a new desk. Even if he wasn't quirkless, they barely have the budget to hire enough teaching staff. Izuku's Phys Ed. teacher is his English and Art teacher as well.

“You know I heard the rumours,” says the last of three, a girl with protruding rabbit teeth.

'Why is it always three? Is it because triple six is Satan's number?'

“Kids called you terrifying and...what was it? Monstrous? Said just yesterday you carved your name into a desk, all scary-like,” Rabbit-Teeth snickers, the noise as ugly as her. “All I see is a pathetic little twerp.”

Izuku doesn't dignify them a response.

“You’re gonna ignore us, huh?!” Red-Eyes shows his teeth. “Think you’re better or something?”

'Did I f*cking say that?'

Izuku tilts his head, long hair shielding his eyes, movements obvious but quick. Red-Eyes jerks like he's been hit, and Izuku suppresses a smirk. Here, he is hideous. Here, he will chase after adrenaline highs with little remorse and restless fingers. Here, he will remember what it feels like to use broken bones to fight and snarl like the menace he is. (Here, and everywhere. Here, and always.)

“What is it, got something to say?!” Reedy taunts, “Then say it.”

Izuku doesn't.

They don’t like that. They don’t like it when he talks either. They hurt him. They bring needles to his lips and try to sew them shut only to rip the stitches away with their claws. They don’t want Izuku to listen, they want him to mess up. They want him to hurt. It's funny, morbidly funny, how Izuku always messes up. Even when he listens, he messes up.

When Izuku smells ozone he, without thinking, pushes backwards, kicking off the floor and smacking his head against the tile, the chair clattering in tune with the ringing in his head. Above him, he hears the sound of something sparking, singeing the wood of his desk. Izuku rolls to the side as the same hand shoots for his head, quickly pulling himself up.

Reedy scowls.

“Quit moving around, f*cker.”

Izuku turns on his heel, walking out of the classroom without so much as glancing at the students. The audacity leaves them stunned for a few seconds, before Red-Eyes curses, barking at the other two to follow as Izuku turns the corner. He picks up his pace, still relatively mellow, too lazy to exert much energy. Just get off school grounds to deal with it. Off school grounds because teachers will not get involved and Izuku won’t get into trouble for being a quirkless, worthless, nuisance.

When the sound of shoes hitting hard against the school floors nears, Izuku takes an abrupt turn to the nearest window and makes quick of undoing the latch. He keeps his eyes forward, stepping over the railing and landing in a crouch. It’s a short, easy, two-story drop. He doesn’t stumble when he lands, movements graceful and elegant; practised.

“Oi, he’s insane, jumped out of the f*cking window!” Rabbit-Teeth yelps in that deafening nasally voice. Izuku spares them a look, three heads stuck out of the window, equal parts enraged and flabbergasted. He stands and waits to see if they follow him out. Shame he left his backpack. Not that it mattered. Not only was it empty save for a few bandages and some gauze, but it was also last week's dumpster dive after a student set another one on fire. He's spent one too many lunches in detention for stolen, ruined homework, and has spent too many yen on new books and stationery.

'Ugh, I’m going to have to look for a new replacement.'

“He’s sizing us up!” Red-Eyes yells, shoving his friends off and sprinting down the stairs. The other two are at his tail in a matter of seconds. Izuku’s shoulders drop and he begins a leisurely pace to the school gates, intending to keep himself in their line of vision for as long as possible.

They follow him, follow and follow, predators searching for prey.

“Hurry the f*ck up!”

Izuku waits, waits, waits; rolls his heels, pulls his hands out of his pockets, secures his phone where he’d sewn a makeshift button in his front pocket and prays it doesn’t slip and shatter.

Izuku decides Red Eyes and his goons are close enough when Red Eyes yells, "You’re dead, bastard!”

Izuku steps back, bends his knees and runs. The wind whips around him; it pushes his hair out of his eyes. He breathes slowly, his heart rate picking up at a steady, even pace. He zeroes in on it, deafening himself to everything else. Muffled and almost static-like, he can hear the voice of the three assholes yelling at each other to speed up.

He runs, shoving past blameless bystanders without so much as glancing in their direction. He makes a point to step over children but haul their parents, looking for an alleyway, a cave, or a bridge. Somewhere far away from his house, too far for the three musketeers to connect him to his alleyway.

He feels it in his muscles—his bones—the strain and effort. He isn’t built and strong, but lean and nimble with a whipcord body. He hears his heart in his ears, his breath laboured and hard as he pushes to run, run, run.

The bullies follow him, chasing him for the better part of twenty minutes. Izuku sees it, a tunnel, caved in grey and secluded, lined with bright yellow dumpsters, graffiti-clad. He slumps against the wall, catches his breath and waits for them. He tucks in his hair and schools his expression, doing his best to look passive. He spots a piece of discarded metal—akin to a broken rod, small but thick—and lifts it, weighs it in his palms, tossing it from left to right.

When the bullies turn the corner, Izuku’s brandishing nothing but the dented metal and a cool look. They’re ragged and worn down from running, faces red and sweat catching the sun’s reflection. Izuku internally doesn't fare much better, but he refuses to let it show. They take a minute, clutching the fabrics of their shirts as if to calm their hearts.

Izuku doesn’t understand why. He only feels free when his heart hurts and his muscles ache. Only feels free when Death brushes the hair on his neck and whispers sweet nothings.

“Finally stopped running, freak?”

Izuku breaks his silence.

“Why don’t you kill me?” he provokes, sporting a frightening grin. He tilts his head and the sun catches his gaze, reflecting a gleam in his eyes that's practically criminal.

Rabbit-Teeth recoils, hunching her shoulders, sneer faltering.

“What the f*ck?”

“Come on now.” He blinks, slowly, loosening his shoulders and tapping the metal rod against the road.

“I dare you.”

═════════ ☻ ═════════

Here, Izuku is supposed to tell you that he played the part of a hero. Here, Izuku is supposed to lie and say he let the three kids who chased him beat him bruised and bloody because Izuku wants to be a hero and heroes know better than to fight fire with blood. Here, Izuku plays the victim; is the victim. Here, Izuku cowers and waits for someone to save him, some colourful person in a cape or a suit, latex or spandex, or even a shirt and jeans. And here he will proudly say ‘I was a hero’ because he did not touch them, did not speak to them, did not hurt them, the same way they did him.

Here, Izuku tells you he is no hero, he is no villain. Here, he tells you he’s a f*cked up kid with an addiction to adrenaline and pain. Here, he tells you he isn’t a survivor, that he doesn't remember what it means to live. Here, he tells you that he is a monster.

He does not do what he is supposed to.

Because here, now, he chooses not to be a liar.

Tada

￭ ￭ ￭

When he leaves the alleyway, Tada Satoru feels like death embodied. His bones don’t ache, they’re hollow. Like he’s floating, mindless and unconscious, feet moving one after the other. He isn't aware, nor is he inattentive. His jaw throbs, and when he skims his fingers over it, he flinches feeling an ever-growing lump, swelling and hurting and probably purpling.

To his right Mika is crying, fat tears streaming down her dirtied cheeks, bottom lips quivering, braces prodding the skin. Her hair, always neat, tidy and slicked back, dances with the wind, a nest on her head. Her eye is deep and bruised, swollen.

Ahead of him, Uchida scowls at the ground. His knuckles are scraped and grisly, and for a moment, Tada is washed over with satisfaction. Uchida then tilts his head to the side, glaring at the pavement, and on his cheek, there's a gash the size of Tada's palm. Blood is still spilling down his jaw and leaking into his hair.

“We never approach him ever again,” Uchida says, “got it?”

“Got it,” they reply in sync.

Midoriya. Izuku Midoriya.

'Just a quirkless runt, huh?'

Monsters don’t wear masks. They don’t hide in plain sight. They don’t seek people out. They walk with their backs hunched and eyes cast down. They walk like they're nothing. Until stupid boys and girls claw at them, try to strike, to make them bleed; stupid boys and girls who smile in triumph as the monster lets them tear at their clothes and skin.

And then they smile, tenacious, ferocious...hungry.

Izuku Midoriya undoubtedly is a monster.

May God bless those who cross him with mercy.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

When the three idiots leave, Izuku looks worse for wear. His hair is a mess, cuts litter his arms and bruises are already blossoming across his skin. He spits out phlegm and blood from when he bit his tongue and grimaces in disgust. He glares at the electrocution marks cuffing his wrist and slumps forward as exhaustion starts to set. Still, he sports a wicked, but small, smile.

Undefeated and unkillable, yet again. It's practically a curse. The thought is a little bitter despite his victory.

Leaning against the dumpster, he mistakenly drops his guard as he gathers his bearings. He's too worn out to hear it, to notice it as it slithers over to him. He only realises something's amiss when it's climbing his skin. It's cold and wet, like jello and slime, crawling under his clothes. Izuku's coated to his neck within seconds. He struggles, body writhing in an attempt to free himself. In his peripherals, he catches the sight of tawny teeth and puss-yellow eyes, making up an expression of pure glee. There is no face, just a heap of slime. The...the thing says something, voice like sandpaper rubbing smooth plaster. It makes Izuku cringe.

"I'm saved. You're my hero."

The sludge climbs into his nose and forces itself down his throat. Izuku's drowning; knows the burn in his lungs and the way his body fights, desperately, to breathe. His muscles go lax, the pressure and pain in his head unbearable. He screams and it goes unheard. It takes a few minutes for him to stop struggling, repressing every instinct roaring at him to fight as he welcomes death, shutting down. Through the fog in his brain, he thinks he hears the villain cackle.

The pain seeps away, more of an annoying prick than a constant throb. His body is defeated, he stops resisting, and momentarily it is peaceful. Spots cloud his vision and everything is too heavy but Izuku is okay. He will die, and no one will miss him. Life will move on, his desolate home will be abandoned once more, mould will re-grow on the brandished wood and the water will turn yellow with age. The old vendor will forget his face and the butcher a few blocks from him will forget his name.

He writhes for a final time, a final act of desperation.He doesn’t like this death. It's too easy; too quick. His heart is quiet and instead of the familiar rush of blood, all he sees and hears is sludge and the voice of a miserable blob of sh*t consuming him because they want to survive.

The sky turns black.

═════════ ☻ ═════════

Sometimes, Izuku wonders what would've happened had he never shown up; if the people who chased him had given up mid-way and Izuku walked home; if he never found the under-path or chose a different one instead.

Izuku wonders if that would’ve been better.

For everyone.

Toshinori

☮︎ ☮︎ ☮︎

Toshinori Yagi is in pain. It’s chronic, sharper than mere phantom pains or reminiscent of old wounds. The villain he’d apprehended was slippery, literally, and flitted through an unseen crack in his bottle, swimming away before Toshinori could hand them over to the police. They're quick, a continuous wave of muck always a few seconds ahead.

But Toshinori is All Might. A symbol of hope; peace; of justice. He grits his teeth and feels the pulse of One For All stretch across his limbs, creaking his bones. It feels like air, fast and strong, whipping around him like a barrier. It keeps his body looking healthful and large; circles his lungs and bloats his muscles. When he moves, it’s quick, a blur of blue and white and yellow and red. The pavement under him cracks as he’s sent careening in the villain’s direction.

They're an ugly thing, putrid shades of green and yellow, like the waste at the bottom of the ocean. They look like something that would end lives. It's an unfair observation, predestining worth from an ugly reflection as opposed to an ugly heart. But, today, his judgement is right, and so today, Toshinori is fair. (Liar.)

They reach a space like a tunnel, where the villain is thrashing around wildly instead of scurrying off. Toshinori doesn’t hesitate, lifts a too-big arm, feels the air expand and condense, pressure building, and with a yell of 'Texas Smash!' sludge is sent flying everywhere, hitting the tunnel walls. Blind to him before, a person falls limp, thudding against the pavement.

Tik.

Tik.

Tik.

Toshinori makes quick work of apprehending the villain, ensuring there are no cracks in the bottle this time around. He shoves the bottle into his pants pocket, ignoring how it shakes in his grip, and moves to assess the person. A young boy, he presumes, with a round face and freckled cheeks. He’s marred and dishevelled; injuries are scattered under his tattered clothes, an unrecognisable uniform of white and grey.

Toshinori isn’t gentle, he shakes the boy awake with his hands, fearful of a running clock that continues to tik only in his head. His time is up; in moments his body will decay, and he will be nothing but a shadow, forgotten again.

“Wake up,” he urges, moving to slap the boy's cheeks. “Wake up.”

The young boy peels his eyes open, groans and splutters, a mix of blood and sludge and spit staining his uniform. Toshinori pats his back, suppressing a grimace when he hacks out a clot of something crimson. It takes the boy a few seconds to regain his composure and make sense of his surroundings.

“Thank goodness you’re okay!” Toshinori feigns bravado. “I must apologise I got wrapped up in—”

“It’s fine,” the boy answers. His voice is rasped and tattered, like the voice of a chain smoker; made up of broken syllables and rough pronunciations. He tucks his hair behind his ears, and Toshinori’s smile falters at the scars drawn across the right of his face. They’re stark, scars that belong to a man who’s back from war, not of a kid who looks like he's just turned thirteen.

Tik.

Tik.

Tik.

“Well then—”

“All Might!”

Ah, yes. What Toshinori—as conceited as it sounds—was expecting. The voice of a starstruck fan. The boy was probably too distressed to take notice of his saviour. (Of course, Toshinori never learns, never will learn, how he isn’t everyone’s saviour. He will swim in denial, will lie to his reflections and say he can save every life. And then, he will break.) Except, this voice isn’t worn out and dry. It’s youthful and full of life, accented with a lisp.

The young boy nods to someone behind him. Toshinori whirls around to catch another face. A child, surely no older than eight, with thick black hair and ruby-red eyes. This, this is starstruck.

This is what Toshinori anticipated from the kid he saved.

“Oh my god, it’s you!” the kid beams. “I’m Mikumo Akatani.”

He bows, so low his forehead skims the pavement. It's endearing.

“I can’t believe I ran into you.”

Toshinori spares a glance behind him and sees the kid he’s saved now standing, arms folded across his chest. There’s something scrutinising about him, like he’s waiting for Toshinori to slip up, to make a mistake.

Tik.

Tik.

Tik.

“Well, it’s always great to meet a fan!” He bellows a hearty laugh. "But I do need to be on my way. It’s time to deliver the perpetrator to the authorities.” The kid startles and says something Toshinori can’t hear over the circulating wind. He feels a little bad, but he cannot wait to listen, so he takes off.

Something grips his leg at the last second and is taken with him, the whirring wind drowning out their terrified screams. Toshinori looks down to see Mikumo Akatani and the boy he saved latched onto him, the green-haired boy holding Akatani to his chest protectively, fingers curled in a death grip on Toshinori’s pant leg. The boy looks calm, if a little elated, while Akatani looks petrified, the wind pulling the skin of his eyes and mouth.

Tik.

Tik.

Tik.

“Eh? What the—” he splutters indignantly, “let go! There is such a thing as too enthusiastic.”

“Are you a f*cking idiot?!” the green-haired one yells maliciously. “If we drop we f*cking die. You want the death of a goddamn kid on your hands?!”

That’s...aggressive.

“Please then, close your eyes and your mouth.”

He feels something hot climb up his throat.

Blood flecks from the corner of his lips.

.ʞiT

“sh*t.”

Izuku

☻☻☻

When Izuku is saved by All Might, he’s overcome with indifference. The hero is righteous, a good man with a flashy smile and a powerful quirk. He’s kind and giving, truly 'everyone’s hero'. At the very least, that is who he represents, and he does it well. Izuku too sees him as a hero. But before that, Izuku recognises he is human, and Izuku's long since learnt not to keep humans on pedestals. All they do is topple and fall, no more than red splatter on broken concrete staining his shoes.

This ideal doesn’t change when he wakes up, throat clogged and tasting bile and blood. This doesn’t change when All Might offers his reassurances.

Instead, it's the little boy who shows up with a starstruck smile that takes Izuku's attention by the horns. There's something hopeful about the way his eyes brighten that reminds Izuku of things he's forgotten.

Wishes? Dreams? Aspirations for a happy future?

He’s so cheerful. It reminds Izuku of him when he was young and daft and hopelessly hopeful. He shakes with excitement, and All Might, unobservant and clearly preoccupied, doesn’t seem to notice the bandages wrapped around his arms and the bangs skillfully covering his eye. His hair is overgrown and unkempt like Izuku's, curling past his shoulders where Izuku's hair falls mid-back. They both wear their hair like a shield though, and the commonality is sad.

All Might is also nervous and has been since Izuku woke up. His feet shift, left and right and left and right, eager for escape. In his haste, he says something concise and generic, but no less hero-like, to the kid who's bracing himself to ask the hero a question and takes off.

The little boy, seeing this as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, grabs All Might's pant leg with his bandaged arms in a panic.

Izuku doesn’t hesitate, struck by impulsivity. He reaches for the kid, reaches for All Might, latches onto his leg with one hand and grabs onto the kid with the other.

He does nothing to hinder his annoyance when All Might orders them to let go. Mid-air. At a speed way too fast with the wind circling way too strong.

In the back of his mind, he thinks if it were just him, he would’ve. Let go, that is. Fall and fall and die. He'd be aware of the rushing wind and the adrenaline coursing in his blood, the excitement of a free fall, of flying but not quite. Even now, though his grip is still iron-clad, he can’t help the way his bones squirm with excitement. The wind is fast, the noise is loud; it’s all too dangerous.

He really loves it.

They land on the roof of a tall, abandoned building. Akatani shakes when he’s dropped, and Izuku crouches and keeps him to the side, surveying for any injuries aside from his underlying ones. He seems fine, a little shocked, but fine. Still, as per caution, Izuku doesn't let go of him for fear that he'll legs might give out.

All Might spews something about needing to leave urgently, refusing to turn around. He's about to take off again.

“Wait!” Akatani’s little voice is loud, a shout. “Wait, please!”

“I cannot—”

“Can someone who’s quirkless become a hero?”

All Might freezes.

Ah.

The age-old question. Izuku's very foreboding. The reason he hurts, what's rooted in his numbness, that leaves him unwanted.

What a cute kid with a despairing dream.

A kid like him, once upon a time.

Quirkless...This makes All Might freeze.

“You’re quirkless?”

Akatani nods, solemn and sad, undoubtedly feeling diseased. He talks about meanness and cruelty and how saving people is just 'so cool and awesome'. Izuku listens intently. He can't help how he sees himself in this young boy with so much to offer.

His answer is foreboding the story of a hero who lost despite winning, a story of tragedy and pain, spoken by a gaunt, spineless man.

A f*cking pity party.

Unfortunately, or maybe, fortunately, Izuku doesn’t know what the other two are thinking. He doesn’t know who Toshinori Yagi is. Doesn’t know he is a man with deluded dreams, another perpetrator, another conformity, in a f*cked up society. Doesn’t see what All Might sees—the face of a beautiful woman with a bright smile and a dead promise on her tongue. Doesn’t feel the despair and hate and weakness of a man who holds too much in hands too small. Izuku doesn’t know the story of Mikumo Akatani. Doesn’t know he is a boy with so much hope and love. Doesn’t see the image of a perfect hero dying in a pitiful flame. Doesn’t feel the despair and hate and weakness of a boy who holds too much in hands too small.

“So I can’t bring myself to tell you, you can do it even without a quirk,” All Might finally says, standing up tall limbs and all.

He's still talking, bullsh*tting about the truth, telling little kids to be realists, to not dream, leaving a young, trusting boy heartbroken.

“You’re pathetic,” Izuku tells him just as he’s about to leave.

All Might stops at the rooftop door and tilts his head as if to say something. Izuku doesn’t want to hear it. This man isn’t a symbol. This man isn’t a hero. This man is pathetic, fueled by nothing but pity and desperation.

“f*ck off,” Izuku says abruptly, “no one will find out about your ugly ass form, just f*cking go.”

All Might looks like he wants to object, before deciding against it and walking off.

Izuku reigns in his anger and lets it stretch across his fingers.

A sniffle draws his attention.

Akatani.

“Kid.” Izuku approaches him, ensuring he keeps a distance. He raises his hands in a conciliatory manner. “I think I should tell you something.”

Akatani looks up. Izuku steps closer and waits to see if he shuffles away. When the kid does nothing, he crouches to his height and gently brushes his hair behind his ear. His eye, equally as red as the other, is bruised and swollen, shades of blue, purple and yellow.

“It’s fine, kid,” Izuku says when Akatani jerks away. He tucks his hair and gestures to his face with a lazy finger. “I’ve seen worse.”

“W...w-what—?”

“I’m quirkless too,” Izuku admits, “some people can be real assholes.”

“Is th-that going to happen t-to me?!”

“Maybe." Despite his casual tone, Akatani flinches. “Maybe not. But that’s not what I wanted to say.”

“What is it then?”

“You can be a hero.”

The sniffling quiets. The tears stop.

“Huh?!”

“You can be a hero.”

“But All Might—”

“Can, and excuse my language, get f*ckedright in his wound. He’s wrong for telling you that, regardless of his reasoning.”

“He’s right, though.” Akatani looks down, ashamed, his voice cracking. “It’s s...s-stupid. Everyone at sc..sc-school tells me the same thing.”

“Do you want me to be honest?”

He nods.

“You can be a hero. It’s as simple as that. Thousands of heroes don’t have flashy physical quirks like All Might, and they’re doing just fine.”

“R...r-really?”

“Really.” Izuku pauses. “But.” Akatani winces, expecting it. “It isn’t going to be easy. You’re going to have to work harder than all your friends, all your classmates and peers. You might never make it to the top.” With every word, Akatani shrinks. Izuku is harsh, he knows it, all awkward and stunted and blunt.

Honest when he needs to be.

The worst kind of liar.

“So it’s impossible,” Akatani concludes.

“Nothing is impossible,” Izuku rebuttals efficiently, “I said it would be hard. Really hard.”

Akatani looks up at him, his eyes glassy and hesitant, fists clenched. To believe or not to believe. It hurts. He hurts. Now, a young boy with many scars and haunted eyes tells him he can. Is the first person to tell him he can. And he sounds so sure, so sure that Mikumo wants to believe. So badly, he wants to believe.

“You want to be a hero, right?”

Izuku thinks the kid might’ve dislocated his shoulders with how rapidly he nods.

“Then you can do it, and start now. Look up heroes like you, who fight quirkless, who fight using nothing more than strategy and skill. Work hard.”

“And if I fail?” Akatani asks, voice small.

“Then you fail.” It’s brusque. “You won’t know until you try.”

“I want to be a hero.”

“Then be a hero, kid.”

Katsuki

✷✷✷

Katsuki isn’t too sure what happened. He was walking, two no-name faces trailing behind him like obedient puppies, chatting about something or nothing. Katsuki doesn’t pay them mind.

Today they talked about their future. Today, he exclaimed he was going to Yuuei. Today, he promised he would, to every face at his no good, f*cky school.

Today he remembered a face; a different one, one he hadn’t seen in nearly three years. The face of a young boy with bright eyes who wanted the same—to be a hero. He wonders, not for the first time, where he went. Where he is. Gone, he and his mum, without a trace, without a note or a goodbye.

He'd been saying another silent prayer to a deity he didn't care for when something came up behind him, all gross and dripping with a snarl and puss-coloured eyes. It latched onto him with wet claws, talking something about being amorphous as Katsuki set off explosion after explosion. His lungs were on fire, his eyes and head stung and he couldn’t breathe. His wrists ached and he was choking. There was a fire, he could see it, wild and orange and blazing. A crowd formed, people staring at him like he was a scene from their favourite movie. Heroes watched, standing still and unsure as Katsuki died.

As he dies.

'sh*t! f*ck! Do something, you bastards! f*cking help!'

Someone runs, an unknown person with familiar hair. He throws something metal at an eye, and the villain flinches back hard enough that Katsuki can breathe. He gasps for air greedily and sets off another stream of explosions as the villain tries to drown him again. The unknown person is staring at him—freckled cheeks and blank green eyes.

And oh. Oh. He knows that face.

What the f*ck?

What the f*ck?!

There's a sudden gust of wind; Katsuki falls to his knees. Everything hurts, everything burns, and the unknown—no, not unknown, he knows that person; those freckles and green eyes and tanned skin—sits on his ass, scowling at the floor. f*ck, Katsuki knows that face.

The heroes come up to him; All Might is there, apprehending the villain. They congratulate him and offer him internships at their agencies despite not knowing who he was or what he wanted to be. They reprimand Deku for intervening and escalating the situation.

Yes, Deku.

'It had to be him. It has to be him.'

“I’m not here to listen to you lecture me,” Deku drawls. Except it doesn’t sound like Deku, not how Katsuki remembers. Deku was bubbly, quiet and nervous, his voice young and hopeful. This person...this person sounds lifeless, like sandpaper scarred the inside of their throat. “Especially not after seeing you all stand by as a kid was almost killed.”

“None of us had suitable quirks—” Death Arms starts.

Deku cuts him off, “I have no quirk, and yet I saw that that thing's eyes weren’t amorphous, and threw something at it. Kamui Woods has a quirk suitable enough that he could’ve poked its eye out, blinded it, had it release the kid fast enough for someone, anyone, to grab him and then figured out a way to detain the villain safely. Without the dying hostage.”

'Holy sh*t it really is Deku.'

Deku's words are curt and short, blunt and leaving no room for argument.

The pro-heroes are rendered speechless long enough for Deku to get up and walk away. Katsuki, confused and in pain, shoves past everyone to reach him, growling at reporters eager to interview a kid who nearly bit the dust as everyone watched.

“Deku!” he calls out. The person doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch.

“Deku!” he tries again, more aggressively. Still, no reaction.

The person turns the corner, out of Katsuki’s line of vision. When he rounds the corner, Deku is gone, just an empty walkway.

That was Deku. He knows it. It has to be. And Katsuki lost him. again. He's gone, without a trace.

It was Deku.

Right?

Toshinori

☮︎ ☮︎ ☮︎

When Toshinori manages to flee from the press, the green-haired boy is no longer by the alleyway. He is gone, and Toshinori feels his blood curdle.

He’s lost something.

He isn’t sure what; he isn’t sure who. All he is sure of is that he didn’t get to meet the green-haired boy. And yet, he’s lost something. He knows it.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“That was amazing!” Akatani praises as they walk back to his home. Izuku insisted he drop him off, lest he gets lost or injures himself or is confronted by mean kids who find joy in hurting those they deem lesser. He hadn’t intended to intervene when the sludge villain struck. But then he saw Katsuki, the boy looking so small and lost, and he ran, telling Akatani to wait in the crowd.

“Thanks, kid.”

They reach his place in a short period, only a few blocks from the attack. Akatani talks his ear off, telling him about how he’s definitely going to be a hero now. That, if Izuku can run into a villain and not die, so can he. He’s so happy, so proud. Izuku gives himself a moment to pretend he is a kid, too. For a moment, he is 9, and Hisashi's left but it's alright because Hisashi was mean, and it's his birthday. For a moment, he is 9, blowing out the candles on the cake his mum made just for him. For a moment, he is 9, telling her he wants to be a hero and beaming when she smiles and tells him he can. She was talking with no merit. Talking only to talk and keep Izuku, for that day, happy. She loved him enough.

“We’re here." Akatani looks sad to leave Izuku’s side; he eyes him hesitantly as if daring to ask a question.

“What’s up?”

“Are you going to be a hero too?” It’s soft-spoken and nervous.

He's been framed as a hero quite a bit, in the last 24 hours.

But he is not 9, anymore.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think heroism is for me.”

The kid slumps dejectedly, but Izuku doesn’t have any more to say. It’s the truth. Izuku can’t be a hero. Not because he’s quirkless, but because he’s broken. He's vile and weak and dangerous.

A monster.

“That’s fine!” Akatani sticks his chin up. “I’ll be a hero for the both of us, then.”

Izuku ruffles his head, a mop of coal-coloured curls.

“You keep that promise for me, kid.”

Chapter 3: he is good and i am not.

Chapter Text

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku walks to Yuuei, swaying at each step, movements loose and lax. He’s been around the perimeters before in attempts to cure his boredom. Seeing how far he could make it before a wire was tripped or an alarm started blaring was fun. He’s never been caught, but he’s never been inside, not like now.

The entrance exam for the General Education course is composed of three tests, divided categorically: heroics in regards to ethics and stances as opposed to application and fieldwork; general knowledge; and an essay prompt as a supposed way to discern someone’s personality. Izuku was of the opinion that words on paper meant sh*t in the grand scheme of things. People can lie, will lie, saying they’re all smiles and strength when they’re nothing better than vindictive and awful.

If Izuku was the bright young man with an iron will that he'd once hoped he'd grow up to be, he’d only be worried about those tests. But he isn't, never has been. Izuku is a half-dead suicidal idiot with jaded eyes.

He’d made a mistake; a dumb, uncalculated, f*cking stupid-as-sh*t, mistake, applying to Yuuei with Akatani around.

Izuku had grown ridiculously fond of the little kid over the passing months. Akatani reminds Izuku of a younger him, the him that needed protecting and nurturing and love. Akatani can be so juvenile, is so gentle and sweet and he makes Izuku feel welcome. His mothers, three tender and lovely women with doting smiles and warm hugs, offer Izuku solace in their little apartment. They’re so kind to him, kind to his scars and his tired eyes. They thank him for watching over their kid, whom they love so dearly and strongly. It makes Izuku’s stomach dip, not out of jealousy, but nostalgia, for a little boy with the same, big, green eyes. Nostalgia for his mother, who would hold him tight. So, he’d become so stupidly indulgent and applied to Yuuei in Akatani’s presence.

What he forgot to take into account, however, is that Akatani is a f*cking brat.

Izuku’s application to go through with the heroics exam is proof of that.

Still, on the off chance he'd pass the exam, he’d refuse admission. He shouldn’t couldn’tgo. Izuku is no hero.

The hero course students are here too. They hold a different air to them, one of importance, showcasing nerves scaling far greater than those reserved for a mere written test. They’re anxious, rightfully so. Izuku read up on Yuuei’s previous entrance exams. It’s always different, always a new trick or some pathetic ruse. It’s what Yuuei is known for. An air that obstructed all foresight and foreshadowing. A school made to pave the way for heroism, a career full of nothing but dead-ends and secret passageways, sudden arcs and disguised anomalies.

Still, there are patterns, no matter how subtle and underlying. Izuku picked up on them. Something big, flashy; dangerous, but calculated; straightforward, always direct, and without a doubt, catering favour to those with loud and flashy quirks. Quirks made for combat and demolition. (Like the sound of his pop, pop, bang and the smell of burnt sugar and gas.)

With that in mind, Izuku had sought out forms for students like him who needed support. He requests to bring an old, rusty switchblade made out of metal scraped from beach junkyards and the fire of burning candlelight and is approved a week before the exam.

He slips the blade out of his pocket, holds it in between his fingers, and flicks it open and closed, letting it dance in his hand. The test is in half an hour. He should go into the building, where other students are bustling and hurrying. The edge glints prettily, and with a sardonic sigh, Izuku lets it clip the end of his finger for that slight, achingly beautiful sting of something. He slips it back into his pocket, stalking forward.

The chatter of students left and right and all and everywhere is annoying. They’re excited, scurrying, blind to others and so focused on themselves. They’re the main characters in their own story. Izuku wonders what that feels like. To be the main character, that is. He's but a bystander, a face. He's as lively as a cadaver. He doesn’t thrive, not like these people.

Briefly, he considers tailing it, telling Akatani his nerves got to him. Sure, Yuuei's General Education course was the best option for someone like him, but he doesn't need Yuuei. He's been doing well enough on his own for a while, and it's not like he had any qualms against continuing to make a living in less legal ways...

⚬⚬⚬

“You’re going to apply to the hero course, right? Just for me.” Akatani looks up at him. Izuku regrets telling him he was planning on attending the Yuuei General Studies course.

“I told you, bugger, heroism is not—"

“You don’t have to go into the course,” Akatani cuts him off. “Just apply and beat their asses. Just...just show me you can; show me that I can.”

Izuku huffs, “And if I don’t get in?”

“Then you’ll still get into the other course, because you're smart, duh.” Akatani rolls his eyes like it's the most obvious answer in the world. Cheeky little sh*t. “And I’ll just have to be the first quirkless person to make it into the Yuuei hero course!"

“Besides.” Akatani stands up and grins toothily. “Either way I can tell people you go to Yuuei! Tell them you’re so strong you didn’t even need the hero course.” He puffs out his chest, all pride and admiration for Izuku. “My Aniki goes to Yuuei!”

And yes, he calls Izuku Aniki. And yes, it makes Izuku’s bitter, world-weary heartbeat just a little too fast. It’s sweet. The kid is f*cking sweet.

'f*cking sweet, stupid, cute, dumb ass of a child I came across.'

Goddamit.

“Fine, you brat. I’ll apply.”

⚬⚬⚬

Izuku groans.

His impending despair is only further encouraged as Izuku trips on air. His foot catches on nothing and Izuku slips. The concrete doesn’t look soft this close, not like it does on rooftops when he’s too far up to see the ridges and cracks and gravel. The concrete looks soft on rooftops. Like a pillow, something he wants to fall head-first into, to sink. He braces himself, biting back a yelp as he knocks face-first into the concrete.

(In a different world, a prettier one, there’s this girl. She’s cute, big-eyed with blushing cheeks. In that world, he arrives earlier, and she’s there, catches him before he hits the concrete. She’s nice. But that world is a prettier one, one where he has a quirk, a promising future, and time to live.)

It’s a sharp pain, throbbing from his nose. He groans, rolling over onto his back. People stare at him funnily, but no one makes a move to help him up.

Some of these kids are Japan's future heroes. Just a bunch of anxiety-ridden f*ckbrains too in their head to help a kid who crashed into the pavement like a f*cking moron.

Someone swears and footsteps head towards him.

“Holy sh*t, dude.” A boy sticks his hand out, the familiar pattern of Lichtenberg scars dancing across his arms and into his sleeve. Izuku stares up at the face, grimacing at the taste of iron in his mouth. The boy is attractive, he notes, with dark blonde hair and a single, thick black highlight. His eyes are wide and electric, a neon yellow almost brighter than the sun. His hand is still stretched out, and after a second's worth of hesitation, Izuku takes it.

The boy heaves him up with slender muscles and a wry smile.

“You’re bleeding, my guy.” He points a nervous finger at Izuku’s nose. Izuku uses the back of his hand and smears away the blood, wiping it down the fabric of his sweatpants without care.

The blonde gapes at him, freezing in place.

Weird.

“Thank you,” Izuku tells him softly, hoarsely. He doesn’t wait for a reply as he begins walking away. He’s a spectacle, he’s sure. A scruffy-looking kid dressed in too-big black clothes.

The boy snaps out of his...trance and shuffles to catch up to him.

“That was kind of badass,” Blondie says to him, matching his pace as they walk through the gate. Yuuei really is a phenomenon, large and tall with high ceilings and impeccable paintwork. Izuku feels out of place.

“I’m Kaminari, by the way, Denki Kaminari.” He throws a two-finger salute.

“Izuku Midoriya,” Izuku responds curtly.

“So, you applying to the hero course, Midoriya?”

He’s trying to make conversation…conversation with Izuku. It’s peculiar, strange.

Then again, he doesn’t know Izuku is a defect. A quirkless runt.

“I’m taking the exam.”

'But I sure as f*ck aren’t enrolling.'

“I am too!” Kaminari grins, excited. “I’m extremely nervous for this part of the test though, I’m not the best at academics, at least nothing in S.T.E.M. I’d say I’m decent enough at literature and all that but even then, you don’t get smart with a quirk that quite literally fries your brain cells.”

It’s an off-putting joke, but Izuku can respect off-putting humour. After all, he’s such an off-putting boy.

“You have an electric quirk, emitter,” Izuku states. His voice is so feeble that Kaminari leans into him to hear. “Is the output what f*cks with you?”

Kaminari stills—he does that a lot—before barking out a laugh and resuming, “It does; man, how’d you figure that out?” He doesn’t let Izuku answer, continuing, “It makes me all spacy, like dudd-ed. Is that even a word? Who cares? Anyways, it’s powerful as f*ck, so like, I think it could get me through the practical fine enough. Intelligence just isn’t my strong suit, yeah?”

Izuku shrugs. “You’ll do whatever.”

Kaminari laughs again. “I like you.”

Izuku doesn’t get to question what he meant (what is it that he liked, and is it a lie? He doesn’t know Izuku, doesn’t know he’s a monster, an unpredictable, ugly monster) as the voice of someone else draws their attention.

“Please state your name,” a lady in a pencil skirt with blush-coloured skin smiles at them, “and I’ll direct you to your venue.”

They're in different venues, much to Kaminari’s disappointment and Izuku’s indifference. At Venue 9, Kaminari bids him goodbye and turns left while Izuku turns right. The door is huge, too tall and too wide, the number ‘4’ taped boldly at the top.

The classroom is large too, stretching far, the largest room Izuku’s ever stepped in, lined with perfectly straight desks. At the front of the room is a teacher, a burly man draped in yellow-orange hair with a dog’s face, a pointed snout and protruding canines.

Izuku runs his tongue over his teeth, where he’d had fangs filed in for protection. After all, sometimes, when they'd break his legs and pin his arms behind his back, all he had left were his canines. His dull, round teeth didn't hurt enough, and would not deter them. He needed them to scream.

“Hello,” Ryō Inui, Pro-Hero Hound Dog, greets him. Most of the students were already there, save for a few stragglers like Izuku. “What’s your name?”

“Izuku Midoriya.”

Hound Dog scans the little clipboard, before nodding to the empty seat to the left. “Izuku Midoriya, row 10, aisle 8, please remove all personal items from your person and place them in one of the empty cubby holes.” He nods behind him, before turning to the small electronic tablet. “We have a list of items that set off our sensors at the door, you will have to pass through the hand-held sensor before turning to your seat.”

Doing as asked, Izuku reluctantly strips himself of his little pocket knife and brick of a phone, patting himself down. His hands shake as he pockets them into his shorts, hyper-aware at the lack of a knife and weapons on his person. They can hurt him, now. He’s vulnerable. If they attack, when they attack, it'll be merciless. Because he may be a monster, with fangs and claws and a predatory snarl, but he still is quirkless. They’ll still rip him apart until he’s screaming, pleading, begging for the hurt to stop.

Despite his menacing appearance, Hound Dog deliberately makes himself smaller, as if to stand with the students, not above them. When he runs the metal scanner over Izuku, his movements are deliberate and unintimidating. It’s manipulative, for better or worse Izuku can’t determine. Honesty is respected, not necessary.

Show a kid you’re worth their time, and they’ll trust you. Will you care for them, or will you leave them to break?

“Very well.” Hound Dog smiles, and it should look ugly, with too many teeth, muzzle and fur, but it isn’t. “Please take your seat, don’t touch the paper, the test begins soon.”

People's eyes follow Izuku as he walks down the aisle, judgemental and intimidated. He keeps his head bowed, and stares at his clunky sneakers. They whisper to their deskmates, and Izuku catches passing words.

"Daunting."

"Messy."

"Dishevelled."

"Cool."

When Izuku slumps into his seat, they turn their heads, the chorus of whispers growing louder when he ties his bangs out of his eyes. To his left, a lanky boy with lavender hair narrows his eyes at Izuku before looking away. There are scars on the boy's face too, from his ears and over his cheeks and nose in the shape of a triangle, white and sunken into his skin.

“Okay!” Hound Dog’s voice echoes in the large room. “The test will begin in one minute. Remember, cameras are monitoring you. I have the right to kick you out and prevent you from continuing or passing this exam if I catch you violating the rules or cheating. There are a total of three sections to this test, each section should take no more than an hour of your time. You will not be allowed to revisit sections once the hour is over. At the end of the test, you will not leave until I have collected every sheet. Should, at any point in the test, you have a question, there are sensors on the side of your desk. Tap the sensor and type in your question, my tablet permits me to answer you back. All candidates have the right to withdraw and leave at any time but know it is an automatic fail. There will be a short, five-minute break in between each section. Talking amongst your peers is forbidden during that time.”

An alarm sounds and Hound Dog smiles again.

“Remember, kids. It’s PLUS ULTRA!”

┎┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┒

Essay Prompt:—

Morality: Is there such a difference between good and evil?

Everyone is evil if they are human, and everyone is human if they are evil. The concept of goodness and integrity is neither relevant nor worth acknowledging, and that’s simply because humans aren’t, innately, good. Society is prejudiced and built on bigoted ideologies and dogma. Superiority is believed to be a trait that people are born with. Men aren’t equal, life is unfair, and people cheat. Everyone knows this or will come to know it.

The problem isn't society, not inherently, but the people. Yet we function as if we don't know this. And really, are we at fault? You grow up with the short end of the stick, and you learn where you stand. Those above you, always and forever seen as superior, learn where they stand too—preferred to you; towering over you, a giant, looming shadow that you’ll never escape. They keep their fingers wrapped around your throat, squeezing. They’ll sneer at you, suffocate you, spite you, because they truly, wholly believe they are better.

It’s conclusive evidence, labelling society, and people, as evil.

And it’s not necessarily that everyone has their hands on you, despite you being lesser and them not, but it’s because everyone knows this. They know how you are treated, even if it’s not their hands that strike you. They aren’t ignorant, they’re comfortable, desperate to stay cocooned in their own bubble of contentment. But, for the sake of argument, let’s call them ignorant, and say they don’t know any better. Doesn’t that only further prove the point that man is not good and will never be? If society is blind to the violence and hate that surrounds them, how dare we claim righteousness and morality?

Of course, there’s also the concept of change—that people who are evil can learn to become good. The angel of ‘Second Chance’. It’s a common mindset shared by those who see themselves as altruistic and admirable; heroic. That people can reform, rehabilitate, and bloom like the petals of a wilted flower when a kind man gives it water and sunlight. And maybe people are capable of change, maybe the girl who mocked you in middle school flourishes into a beautiful young woman who’s cordial and earnest and everything she wasn’t when she was 13. Does that make her any less evil? If you stripped her down, peeled away the hard work, forgot the unlearning, the determination, the strength, isn’t she still evil?

A world that thrives off of imbalance, of the ruining of one person for the success of another, is a world dictated by evil. And not once, as history ran and runs its course, have people proven to thrive otherwise.

Take centuries ago, for instance. Men were better than women; whites better than blacks; a slave over a helpless housewife. A hierarchy that took root, cultivated and weeded itself into progression. Antagonists to equality, empathy and prosperity. To this day, those baseless ideologies still run rampant and unforgiving. Though it’s better, though people fought for their lives and freedoms, it was costly. They were hit, beaten down, and spat at. They suffered, and continue to suffer, to their very last breath.

And so, if I walk the streets, I’m still ridiculed for my tanner skin and my unruly hair.

Further, with the mild progression; as the swarm of people ignorant to their prejudices became minorities, those pretentious rulers sitting on their bone-made thrones grasped at straws to find another perfect imbalance; something to keep the power struggle alive; something that promised them the clouds and sun and sky. It was then decided that man could only love woman, should the world cleanse itself of further sin. And again, people fought, rioted, let themselves break over and over for another sliver of progression, and let themselves wallow in their ever-growing grief as they drowned.

It became a cycle. Prejudice dwindles in the aftermath of war, and yet society never once changes.

Because following the acceptance of love, came the hierarchy of quirks.

And yet again, we bleed in a society where worth is dictated by nothing more than the genetic lottery; scratching out the right numbers or paying the price for your gambles.

Heinous, malevolent and corrupt, I can not say, in good faith that man is good.

Everyone is evil if they are human, and everyone is human if they are evil.

Further...

┖┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┚

Hitoshi

⛧ ⛧ ⛧

“Wow, you really think a villain like you can make it here?”

The test is over, and Hitoshi is waiting patiently by the door. The heroics exam is not for another forty minutes, and the venue is a short, ten-minute walk according to Hound Dog. He’d meant to gain his bearings, slow his breathing and relax his muscles.

But life isn’t fair, not to kids like Hitoshi.

He runs into an old classmate with a forgettable face but a memorable voice. This boy was one of the first to ever speak to Hitoshi. Neverdid Hitoshi answer back. Then they’d run away, and he’d be in trouble because they deemed him 'villainous' and claimed he had meant to hurt them when they heard his voice. Most of those kids knew nothing more than his f*cking name, and yet they were so quick to swear he'd had every intention to hurt them.

The bully is ugly too. It makes him all the more difficult to stare at, with puss dripping from rotten ears, smelling like a rotting corpse. Hitoshi knows he's being mean. It’s his quirk, it keeps things preserved, and the kid had been in an accident a while back, the hands of a reckless robbery. He'd been injured, and his quirk had activated when he'd nearly had his ears severed off. He can’t control it.

But if Hitoshi’s a villain, he’s unsightly.

Hitoshi clenches the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt and sidesteps the boy, determined to make it to the heroics exam site.

But life isn’t fair, not to kids like Hitoshi.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Hitoshi clicks his tongue and narrows his eyes in warning. The boy falters as if suddenly remembering what Hitoshi’s quirk is. (As if he’d ever forget.)

And then someone grips Hitoshi’s wrist and doesn't let go despite Hitoshi's flinching. He’s dragged away, around the unsightly boy and down the hall.

“Hey—”

“f*ck off, Puss Ears,” the person who’d grabbed Hitoshi mutters. It cuts through the murmuring in the halls, over the distance, halting the boy in his tracks. When they turn the corner, it isn’t to the sound of footsteps chasing them. When he looks up, Hitoshi finds that the person who saved him had been the boy who sat next to him during the test. Haggard looking, with scars and piercings and tired eyes.

The boy drops his wrist and squints at Hitoshi piercingly, before tilting his head and turning on his heel.

“Th-thanks,” Hitoshi forces out before the boy can get too far.

The boy shrugs and continues to walk away.

Curious.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“Welcome one and all to my live show! Everybody say HEY!”

...

Embarrassing.

Voice hero, Present Mic, otherwise Hisashi Yamada, doesn’t blush despite the silence; mumbles something along the lines of ‘I’ll get them one day.’

Izuku silently disagrees. Slouched against his chair, he keeps his expression neutral as Present Mic talks about the exam. Another part of him, a quieter part, silently searches the room for a familiar head of ash-blonde hair. He'll be here. Izuku knows it. He has to be, to be a hero. He has to be.

The hand of a boy only a few seats from Izuku shoots up.

“Excuse me, may I ask a question?”

Izuku can only describe the boy as pathetically square. Rigid and strict, posture too stiff, voice sounding antediluvian. He complains about a portion of the exam Present Mic had yet to explain. Izuku can’t help but frown.

Surely it'd be explained had he let the hero finish f*cking talking.

“And you!” He turns around. It takes Izuku a second to realise it is him he’s staring at. He doesn’t know him, so why is he staring? Does he know he’s quirkless? Will he call him out? Izuku doesn’t care, but damn it he will lodge a knife into the asshole’s arm if people start treating him like the exam’s target for not having a quirk.

“How dare you show up looking so unkempt? If you think Yuuei is some pleasure jaunt, then leave this place at once!”

Izuku co*cks an eyebrow but says nothing. The attention is directed to him and he drops his shoulders instinctively.

“Okay, okay,” Present Mic draws his vowels. “Thank you for the segue, much-appreciated examinee 7111.” He smiles placatingly, before explaining the zero pointers.

He tells them to avoid it and run away. Tells them taking it down is frivolous. Izuku doesn't hear it.

That'd be one hell of a robot to take down.

Perhaps this exam will be worth some merit after all.

═════════ ☻ ═════════

The faux city is large, buildings tall and many. It looks disturbingly real, like a big, city neighbourhood found at the heart of Tokyo.

Izuku’s the last of the students to barricade through. He keeps his head down and stays strolling at a slow, lethargic pace. The students are rampaging, fighting to be at the top of the top. Thousands of candidates just looking to be number one, someway, somehow. Ambitionless, Izuku wanders, marvels at different quirks and picks them apart with the ease of a baker making bread from his minute observations.

See someone strong and remember they’re weak; flourish knowing that in the end, death is inevitable.

A mild person with stringy hair shoots past him, dragging themselves using tape from their elbows like one of Izuku’s favourite old comic heroes. Numbers are yelled out over the sound of breaking robots.

"Twelve."

"Twenty-Five."

"Nine."

"Thirty-Two."

Izuku slips into an alleyway; twirling his knife between his fingers. He hadn’t touched a robot yet, only six minutes left until the test. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots one of the larger ones, a three-pointer, running down the streets. He pulls his teeth back in a pretty, vindictive smile and sprints towards it. The robot locks eyes with him, states in a toneless voice ‘target locked’, and starts forward too.

Picking up his speed, Izuku makes a show of running left and right, pushing so his muscles hurt. The robot moves fast, but Izuku; the quirkless little reject; is faster. He has to be, always ahead and never outpaced. Not just first but forward and far.

He ducks under a metal arm and kicks upward, landing shakily on the swinging limb. The robot reels, but Izuku forces his fingers in between the metal of two parts, yelping at the sting, slipping but still holding on. He careens himself upright and latches himself onto the robot's back, stabbing the little blade right at the centre and using his weight to drag it downwards.

It sparks, burns and smells as it starts to rot. The robot spasms as the knife tears at the soft metal, squirming wildly, but Izuku doesn’t let go. His grip weakens as he nears the ground, and the slip-up is enough to have him thrown off, harshly pulling out his knife and with it the exposed wires. The robot slowly, and sloppily, shuts down, folding in on itself and slumping into a heap of useless metal onto the street.

Izuku stands up and walks over, keeping at his leisure pace. This isn’t worth the wear and tear on his muscles. He starts pulling the robot apart, yanking off the limbs and exposing the wires. Participants stare at him as they run around, bewildered, affronted and relieved. He finds that the robot’s primary functions reside within the wiring of its eyes, explaining the continuous flailing despite the wires torn in its spine. It had taken far too long for the fried wires to override and incapacitate the robot.

'So go for the eye then?

He gets onto his feet, rolls his heels and paces in place, contemplating going after another one to test his theory. His train of thought is cut short when the ground starts to shake, a full-body buzzing that has Izuku almost toppling over. He stares up, right before debris and concrete are flung around and a robot, the height of a skyscraper, breaks through the ground and starts barreling through the arena.

The zero pointer.

Students around Izuku are running and screaming, frantic to get away. Izuku himself is still pacing in further consideration. That thing looks dangerous, is worth nothing, and would probably injure him terribly. On the other hand, it also looks fun. Izuku likes the way it feels when his blood starts to sing and his heartbeat deafens him; likes it when all he can feel is giddiness and fear. He likes it when death is only seconds away from him, only a step or two behind.

He's also yet to test his theory.

From the corner of his eye, Izuku catches someone buried under the rubble.

...the pretty blonde from earlier. Denki Kaminari.

(And in that other universe, it’s the cute girl with blushing cheeks. In that one, the prettier one, Izuku slams the robot with a fist made of iron. In that universe, he is a hero.)

His decision is made.

There isn’t any hesitancy, there never really was. The mirage of contemplation is merely that, a mirage. A façade of sanity, and, with Kaminari seizing—he'd mentioned it was his drawback, right?—and immobilised, now a façade of heroism. Besides, the blonde doesn't seem to be coming to his senses anytime soon. His scars are puckered and bright pink, his pupils so dilated Izuku's confident he can't tell left from right.

Izuku grins, all bite, and shoots forward. The grounds are still vibrating, but Izuku’s balance is good, and he easily dodges the pieces of flying rubble, concrete and plaster. The zero pointer doesn’t fixate on him, it stays on a one-way path, stalking forward with no sense of surroundings. He flicks open his knife, catching his reflection in the metal, and with every bit of strength that he has, jumps.

The robot doesn’t stutter despite the knife now wedged into his leg and the kid swinging forward from its grip. Izuku uses the momentum to hike upwards, climbing up and up until its faux elbow. Every second is a second closer to Kaminari, and so instead of hiking up more, Izuku throws himself onto his feet, upright on the robot’s swinging arm. He runs and jumps, stabbing his blade into the robot’s neck before he's thrown off. He must be closer to the sensitive wiring because the robot starts trembling as Izuku attempts to steady himself as best as he can on a shaking sky-scraper-sized robot's shoulder.

The eyes.

With bated breath, Izuku kicks off and flips onto the robot’s head, yanking the blade out. He bends ninety degrees. A single misstep would send him to the floor, splat on the dirty concrete. Staring at the robot’s six, unfixing eyes, Izuku grips the lipped metal on its head and drops himself, kicking hard into its side and using the dent as a foot grip. He takes his free arm, holding the blade, and stabs the first eye. The glass cuts through the fabric of his clothing as it shatters, and there are the satisfying sounds of ‘spark’ and ‘sizzle’ as he tears through the wires, arm halfway in.

He does it again, kicking into the lower eyes and stabbing the ones in reach, an iron grip where his fingers still curl under the raised metal on its head.

He laughs, a full-bellied thing, knuckles white as the robot spins to swat him off, like a pesky fly.

“f*ck you!” he sings gleefully, before pulling out the wires of the sixth, and last, eye. The robot falters, freezes, drops and ploughs downward, collapsing. Izuku falls, bracing himself.

He hits the ground with a thud, impact pillowed by random robot parts and soft metal. His muscles hurt, his legs and arm cut by little glass pieces, fingers singed by the sparks of the exposed wires, breathing heavily.

'That was...that was f*cking amazing.'

With what little strength he has left, Izuku tumbles over to Kaminari, only metres away from where the robot fell into itself, still stuck under the concrete. Izuku pushes the concrete off of him with whatever strength he has left, and Kaminari slumps forward. His eyes are less vacant.

“f*ck,” he groans. His leg is twisted horribly. “f*cking sh*t what did I do?”

Izuku gives Kaminari a hand like Kaminari did that morning when he helped Izuku. A weird premise of deja vu.

Izuku thought of Kaminari as a hero, at the time. Izuku is a mimic and fraud in comparison.

Kaminari blinks up at him—one, two, three—before attempting a smile, though it looks more like a grimace, and taking his hand.

“Time is up!” a voice yells through the speakers.

“Grab onto me.”

Izuku turns to a boy with bright red hair who's walking over to them, looking worse for wear with prominent, purple bruises covering every inch of his forearms. “Both of you.”

Hesitantly, Izuku hands over Kaminari.

“That was awesome by the way!” Red-head compliments, his teeth way too sharp, “Manly as—”

Izuku passes out.

Chapter 4: to me, death is merciful.

Chapter Text

Chiyo

⊕ ⊕ ⊕

Chiyo frowns at the huddle of teenagers in her infirmary. Day by day these heroes-to-be grow more and more reckless. Frankly, she should have a conversation with Toshinori, drag him by his ear and force him to hold a conference stressing the importance of self-safety.

‘Not that the buffoon would listen,’ she thinks haughtily.

To be a symbol, he needs to be an example, not only righteous but smart. And for all Toshinori is a hero, he’s a blundering fool.

“Is he going to be okay?” one Denki Kaminari asks, pointing to the green-haired student—Izuku Midoriya—knocked out on the bed by Chiyo. The blonde himself wasn’t doing so well either, suffering from a mild concussion, a serious ankle fracture, and, from what Chiyo can hypothesise, the after-effects of a seizure.

Although she isn’t a hundred per cent certain, the boy had mentioned having an electricity-based quirk. It could be chalked up to electrocution, not that that is any better.

However it isn't up to her to speculate, and she isn't the boy's doctor.

“He’ll be fine, dear,” she promises. “It seems he passed out as a result of mild head trauma. Also, my quirk requires energy to heal up his wounds, so it drained him some; he should wake up soon.”

Later on, she’ll gloss over the exam footage. Later on, she’ll realise how truly miraculous it was that Midoriya went so unscathed. She'd come across him and thought the mangled fingers and severe cuts were bad, unknowing that she could've been treating multiple broken bones and a shattered skull.

“Head trauma?” Kaminari squeaks. “That doesn’t sound like he’ll be fine.”

“No, no.” Chiyo waves her cane dismissively. “It’s only mild. If it makes you feel better you can wait for your friend to wake up. “

Kaminari visibly slumps at the offer. “If that’s okay. I just want to make sure he’s fine, you know, after saving me and everything.”

Chiyo smiles, that kind, ‘old person' smile that she’s been told warms children’s hearts.

“What a sweet young boy, you are.”

Denki

❂ ❂ ❂

Denki waits patiently for Midoriya to wake up, each passing minute fueling his anxiety. The kind nurse—Recovery Girl, he remembers from the brochure—had promised he was fine. Denki’s inclined to believe her, she is the expert, of course.

Yet, with the way Kirishima (a new friend!) had described what happened when Denki was...out of it, Midoriya had quite literally fallen from the height of a building after using nothing but a switchblade and sheer f*cking will to take down the monstrosity that was the zero-pointer. Denki remembers the hulking thing vaguely, convinced Yuuei was out for blood. In the same hazy sort of recognition, he also remembers seeing Midoriya, bloodied, cut up and exhausted as he helped Denki out of the rubble.

The guy was goddamn heroic. Sure, quirks made people inhuman, but sh*t, people are people. Denki knows better than most that a powerful quirk doesn’t mean infallibility.

Recovery Girl had mentioned head trauma, too. Denki is familiar with head trauma; wore it like a glove fit snugly around his fingers. He knows how bad it can get, 'minor' or otherwise.

The sound of groaning startles him, and he whips his head to where Midoriya stutters in the clinic bed. He’s rather small too, light but...dense. Far from bulky, full of lean muscle condensed into a short, nimble body. The body of a sickly runner.

“Ugh,” he gripes, flashing canine-like teeth.

'Is that a part of his quirk? I would have guessed something with agility.'

“What the f*ck?”

“Language,” Recovery Girl scolds, gently whacking her cane against the bed. Izuku flinches violently, throwing himself off the bed, hitting the floor and backing up in a frenzy. Denki startles at the overreaction. Recovery Girl’s lips are twisted in a heavy-set frown, put off too.

Denki gently walks over,hands in front of him, noting the distrusting gaze Izuku shoots at him.

“Hey, dude, you’re just at the clinic in Yuuei, yeah?” Denki keeps his tone steady, his speech slow. “Remember me? The kid you saved from the zero-pointer.”

Slowly, Midoriya's eyes come to focus, gaze softening. No not softening, sharpening. Pupils shrinking, recognition in the reflection of his eyes.

“Sorry,” he whispers, standing up. He trips but regains his footing before Denki can move to steady him.

Recovery Girl clears her throat. “I'm sorry for startling you,” she says once she’s gained their attention, “you must feel a little disoriented at the moment.”

Midoriya hums, “How long have I been here?”

“Nearly an hour.” She motions to Denki. “This young man wanted to make sure you were alright before leaving himself.”

Midoriya’s stare turns to him, though he doesn’t meet his eyes, eyebrows furrowed. “You waited?”

Denki nods. “Of course I did! Man, it’s not every day someone saves you from becoming side-walk paint splatter; wanted to make sure you were alright. Least I could do, actually.”

Midoriya’s confusion doesn't lessen, but his expression settles into something more neutral.

“Thank you.” He turns to Recovery Girl. “May I leave now?”

Recovery Girl nods, shuffling over to her drawers and pulling out a small chocolate bar, handing it to Midoriya, who takes it carefully.

“Eat up. You’re rather thin and probably exhausted from my quirk. How far do you live from here?”

“Not far.”

“Well then, please rest the second you are home. Luckily your injuries were superficial enough to heal despite the mild concussion. It should be nothing serious, but if you start throwing up, convulsing, or otherwise experience anything abnormal within the week, consult your doctor immediately.”

Midoriya nods.

“Why don’t you leave with him?” Recovery Girl offers Denki, “And take a bar yourself.”

Denki grins politely and bows, Izuku following suit as they both exit the facility. Immediately, Denki delves into his chocolate bar. Midoriya eyes him momentarily, looking unsure, before shrugging and peeling his open, breaking off a small piece.

“I still can’t thank you enough,” Denki tells him just before they part ways at the entrance, “I really thought I was a goner.”

Midoriya shrugs. “It was nothing.”

Denki hollers, “No dude, it was badass.” He pauses, digging for his phone and shoving it in front of Midoriya. “Why don’t you write in your number and I’ll text you? This way we’ll still keep in touch, even if we both don’t wind up here.”

Midoriya stares at the phone for a while, long enough that Denki lets out an awkward laugh.

“I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t—”

“Why are you asking?” Midoriya interrupts him. Not offended or disgusted, much to Denki’s relief, more bewildered.

Denki stares at him a little funnily, before realising he's being serious. There’s something off about it. Something off about him not recognizing a hand extending friendship (as opposed to what?); off about the still weary eyes and scars. There's something off about it all.

“I want to be your friend, obviously!” Denki exclaims, shaking off the thought.

“Friend?”

Denki beams brightly.

“Friend.”

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“How was the test, f*ckface?”

Izuku scowls at his roommate, unimpressed. The faint stench of smoke that he’s grown accustomed to wafts over, followed by the sweet aroma of hibiscus tea. In nothing but a pair of sweatpants, Dabi leans into his palm, elbows propped against the wooden countertop, tattooed arm flexing. The chipped, ceramic cup he holds in his other hand is full-to-the-brim and steaming.

As always, he wears a stupid smirk on his face.

“Awe, come on,” he quips playfully, “don’t tell me it went that bad, princess. I thought you were just going for the written test anyhow.”

“Obviously,” Izuku replies curtly, toeing off his sneakers and slinging off his bag. “I could give less of a sh*t about passing the heroics exam.”

“Then what’s got your panties in a twist, huh?”

Izuku cranes his neck. “That heroes are all just pretty bullsh*t,” he answers vaguely. “Still, it would be damn cool to have a healing quirk.”

Dabi sips his tea audibly, raising a single, dark eyebrow. A too-dark eyebrow, with black stains lining the skin messily. There are dye stains in their dingy bathroom too, staining the rusted tiles and one of their towels. Dabi doesn’t clean up too well after himself. Izuku doesn't question it. Dabi doesn’t question him, so Izuku grants him the same. Still, it would be nice if he asked for Izuku's help dying his eyebrows at the very least. He does a horrible job at it.

“The test wasn’t too bad,” Izuku relents, walking over to the dingy, old coffee maker and brewing himself something strong. “It was fairly easy, all things considered. I definitely wasn’t going to win against quirked kids, but the robots were pretty standard, y’know? Kinda just swung my blade around and f*cked with the wiring.”

He goes through the motions of making his drink, falling silent before settling comfortably on his tattered sofa couch, just big enough for two people. Sometimes his throat catches when he talks too much, his voice growing softer, tighter. Dabi knows this, understanding that Izuku talks in short and quick sentences. There’s a fear of being hurt for talking, being hurt for being heard. It’s better now. Dabi remembers Izuku’s one-word answers, the fumbling of his fingers, and stiff movements. It’s much better now.

Wordlessly, Dabi takes the seat next to him. Izuku slumps into his side, bones going slack as Dabi gently runs his fingers through his untamable, long locks. They don’t have cable; the TV is muted, flashing blurring grey static.

“I dismembered one of the robots,” Izuku continues, voice still gentle, “the only one I took down worth any points.”

“You dismembered it?” Dabi repeats dumbly. “I know you didn’t want to get in, sweetheart, but sitting around playing with broken parts doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.”

“Shut up,” he mutters weakly. “Anyways, I dismembered it. Wanted to find out how it was made, and if there was an easier way to take it apart.” He slurps his coffee. “Before the exam, they introduced four different robots, and one was called a zero-pointer.”

“So futile?”

“To everyone else,” Izuku agrees, shrugging. "To me, it seemed more like a challenge.”

Dabi huffs, “Of course it f*cking did.”

“So, I found out that the essential wiring is in the eye, which I found a little unnecessary considering the metal was soft enough to dent and cut through, but anyways.” He lifts his fist and mimics a punch. “It cut like a bitch but I could break the glass. When the zero-pointer came, it was the height of a f*cking skyscraper.”

“So you ran to it instead of away,” Dabi states, not questions, fairly accustomed to Izuku’s antics.

"Climbed it like a goddamn koala, played ratatouille on its head for a bit before punching its eyes and pulling out the wires. It collapsed instantly.”

“sh*t, did you say you were on its head?”

“Yeah, luckily its parts broke my fall, soft metal and all.”

“Jesus f*cking christ.” Dabi shakes his head. “So what? Did they pretty up your injuries? Because I get that you’re a damn good fighter, but I think that sh*t would even leave God with a few good scrapes. And a f*cking concussion.”

Izuku’s scowl deepens. “Yeah. I f*cking passed out.”

Dabi straightens. “You what?”

“Head trauma or something.”

Dabi pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re a f*cking moron, you know that?”

Izuku shrugs. Silence accompanies the comforting atmosphere, Dabi and Izuku drinking their choice of caffeine. (Except for energy drinks, they both love energy drinks, unhealthily so.) Dabi gently ruffles Izuku’s hair.

Then, Izuku says, because he simply can’t fathom that it happened, “I gave one of the examinees my number.”

The fingers in his hair stop, followed by the sound of someone half choking half spluttering. Izuku whirls around to face Dabi, who has tea dripping down his lips, eyes wide and body shuddering. Izuku takes away his cup, placing their drinks on the small chipped table, before gently patting his back, waiting as he coughs violently before going lax against the couch.

“Warn a man, would ya?” Dabi wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

Izuku rolls his eyes.

“Dramatic ass.”

Shaking his head vehemently, Dabi replies, “My reaction was so warranted. You think it’s every day you give people your f*cking number?!"

“You didn’t react like this when I mentioned Akatani.”

“Because Akatani is like f*cking five, not a kid your age.”

Izuku frowns. “It’s not like that.”

“No?” Dabi drawls, “you sure about that?”

Izuku tucks his face into Dabi’s side. “He said he wanted to be my friend. I still don’t know if he was making fun of me or not. He seemed serious; even helped me when I cracked my nose against the concrete.”

Dabi wraps a single arm around Izuku and brings him closer. “One, you need to stop getting hurt.” They knew that was never going to happen. Izuku likes to hurt like Dabi likes to burn. When Dabi comes home smelling thick of smoke and ash and rage, Izuku has new scars on his wrists and thighs, angry and red and sometimes bleeding. “And two, what makes you think he was making fun of you?”

“I don’t think he knows I’m a quirkless,” Izuku murmurs.

“No ‘a’, you’re not an alien. You wouldn’t call Akatani ‘a quirkless’, would you?”

“Of course not,” Izuku scoffs.

“It applies to you too, goddamn idiot.” Dabi places his chin over Izuku’s curls. “And so what if this kid doesn’t know? You told me a quirk doesn’t mean sh*t.”

“Most people don’t think that way.”

“Most people can suck Endeavor’s balls,” Dabi counters vehemently, gently patting Izuku’s back before pulling away. “And if that kid f*cks off after finding out you were quirkless, he isn’t worth sh*t.”

Izuku stares down, unbelieving but grateful.

Dabi sighs, “How about we watch a movie or something, tonight? We can order take-out later for dinner.”

Izuku hums, hugging his knees to his chest and staring at the static.

“Sure.”

one year ago

┏━━━━━━━━ ⧖ ━━━━━━━━┓

Izuku’s been told to keep off the streets at night. It’s dangerous for little kids like him, and Izuku was a little kid, standing small at just over 5’1, skinny-limbed and dangerously ashen. But Izuku has these scars, plentiful and stark; he wears shorts because they’re easier to steal than pants, easier to wash too, and sometimes he’ll tie his jacket around his waist and people'll see his arms too.It’s all scars, lines, and stories. Strangers will see Izuku, skinny little Izuku, and they’ll understand. It doesn’t matter if they look away, if they help or mock him. Because in the end, they understand, and that’s all that matters.

So, with the moon hanging high and the streets vivacious and loud, Izuku wanders. Aimless, he kicks at the rubble with his dirty soles, a lit cigarette fit between his fingers. It’s a little past two in the morning, summer break. The first semester of his last year at Genjitsu had come to a close, leaving Izuku with shank wounds and scabs as proof of his departure. Call it a mark to remember them by.

Indubitably, Izuku returned the favour. Later on, picking the blood dried under his yellowing fingernails, and reminiscing on the sound of their petrified screams. They’re lucky he hadn’t whipped out his f*cking knife, honestly. They weren’t loud enough.

'Wonder how I’ll be sent off when I graduate from there.'

He trails a finger over the textured skin on his face.

If 13-year-olds were capable of this sh*t, he doesn't want to think about what 15-year-olds could do.

Not that he'd go down without a fight.

He takes a slow drag of the cigarette, the smoke billowing around him, curling with the humid air. He doesn’t smoke often, only when the days feel a little too long and the nights a little too hot. When the prospect of naïvety and childish glee becomes too alluring, calling to him as sirens call to pirates at sea. Those days, he’ll take the cancer stick to his lips and chug the acrid taste of cheap beer and over-the-counter soju. He’ll remind himself that he isn’t a kid, staring at the lines he’s drawn on his arms and pink burns on his skin. He'll punch brick walls until his knuckles are mangled; bloody.

Because he isn’t a f*cking kid.

The echo of someone gagging pulls him out of his thoughts. It’s far from uncommon to hear, surrounded by drunkards and drug addicts. Izuku’s keen on ignoring the noise, not one to take pity on pathetic has-beens and self-proclaimed bachelors who’ve ‘lost their path’, when the sounds are followed by the clattering of metal and the repeated thudding of someone being slammed against a dumpster. His gut churns, warning signals of red, blue and white flashing in his head as the person continuously spasms against the metal. Short, repetitive thunks; one after the other, in succession.

With unassuming haste, Izuku scampers down the alleyway, rounding the corner to one of the most disturbing sights he’s ever seen. A man, fairly young or horribly old, Izuku can’t tell, is convulsing against the dumpster, eyes rolled to the back of his head. He’s wearing pants, loose-fitted, ripped and singed, but is otherwise naked. Dirtied, rejected skin grafts are covering the better part of him. At closer inspection, it seems that bloodied staples are holding the skin together, a few coming undone as the man writhes in place. Slowly, pitifully, he comes to, bent halfway over the dumpster in a failed attempt to right himself. Despite the sounds of bars and music and racing cars, Izuku can hear his breathing; a heavy, erratic panting.

Izuku notes that he’s standing in his own sick. Illuminated by the orange streetlight, there’s a large, dark stain at the crotch of his pants and running down his leg, too. Before he can call out to him, as there is obviously something wrong, the guy’s body goes rigid. He slumps over again, the sound of him retching bouncing off the alley walls, wet and loud and gross.

Crushing the butt of his cigarette under his shoe, Izuku slowly walks over, keeping his footsteps loud and his presence known to keep from startling the person. He smells the pungent stench of rotting flesh, vomit, urine and old smoke. For the first time, he's grateful that he’s dealt with worse, otherwise, he's sure he'd be throwing up too. The person whips around when he hears Izuku with frowning eyebrows and a broody expression. It’d be intimidating, if not for his bleeding wounds, flushed skin and dilated eyes; the way he sways as he goes in and out of focus. He registers Izuku as a threat, shifting his stance defensively, but he’s still clutching the dumpster to keep upright. His gaze drops unwillingly as he heaves, throwing up what looks to be blood and water onto his bare feet. The scars crawl to his ankle too, dirt and blood caked under the staples.

“I’m not bothering with the ‘are you okay’ sh*t because you’re clearly f*cking not,” Izuku tells the man when he’s stopped heaving, tone-clipped, “I’m going to take you to a clinic.”

“Fu...f-f*ck o...o...o-off,” the guy slurs, “ ‘m not goin’ to...o~ n...n-no hos...s...s-spita’.”

Izuku narrows his eyes. “It’s either that or you die, f*ckass.”

“ ‘En-n...n ‘ll…‘ll d-die.”

Sighing, Izuku walks over, tugging firmly at the guy’s arms. Like a rag doll, the guy slumps into his side. He struggles uselessly, not being able to do more than give Izuku a dirty look as Izuku moves the guy around to properly hold him up. He isn't too heavy, probably malnourished. He ignores the sticky feeling of wetness and old staples against his skin. The man is hot to the touch, just shy of scorching. Izuku has to count to three under his breath to keep from shoving him off. He hates the heat, heat hurts. Be it fire breath or explosions, the heat has always been a foreshadowing of immense pain. Despite the vocal protests, the guy doesn’t push off, can’t, bones slack.

“Where‘re ya takin’ ‘e? I t...t-tol’ you, no hospita’s.”

“No hospitals, Staples, we’re going to my place. Don’t worry about it.”

“ ‘key ‘en,” he garbles, tone lilting with deliria and confusion, “no f...f-fatha-father, t-too.”

Izuku bristles—sh*tty fathers must be shared experience of some sort, for every f*ck up there’s a f*ck up parent—but continues walking.

His little home is only a five-minute walk, but Staples isn’t light, coherent, or stable.

He isn’t paid enough for this sh*t.

He isn’t paid at all.

"f*ck me."

Touya

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

“Toxic Shock Syndrome,” Touya hears through the cotton in his ears. It's a feminine voice, velvety. “A result of an untreated infection from the burns under his skin grafts.”

“Will he be alright?” another voice, unused and throaty, asks, “he was seizing when I got to him and collapsed when I made it to the apartment.”

Seizing?

“I’m not sure. We will have to re-do the skin grafts, at least on the larger burns. To leave them untreated would undoubtedly result similarly. I managed to drain the pus from the infection with little complication, I would like to keep visiting him for the remaining week to monitor him.”

Groaning, Touya pries his lids open, squinting at the shabby, chipped ceiling. When he shifts to get a better look at his surroundings, his muscles protest, and he grimaces at the pain.

“Good morning to you,” the feminine voice from earlier greets, tone bordering on amused. “It seems the anaesthetic has worn off. Perfect timing too, I was getting worried.”

Touya tilts his head to the side. A fairly young woman, he’d presume, with short, choppy mauve hair and dull grey eyes. Where is the other voice? He is sure there was another voice.

He rasps, lips dry and throat achy.

“Hold on a second.” The lady slips her phone out of her pocket and types furiously. Another phone buzzes and Touya whirls around to see the other occupant. The person he’d seen before he passed out, he thinks. Well...the same green head, at least. Everything is painfully muddled. Are they the other voice? He can't remember what they sounded like. They look young, too young to sound like a f*cking chain-smoker.

The person glances at their phone, run-down and shattered in comparison to the woman’s, and nods.

“Good.” She smiles, before turning to face Touya again. “I’m Kumiko and I’ll be your doctor.”

'Doctor?!'

Touya startles and tries to sit up, only to be held down by a firm hand over his chest...his bandaged chest. There are bandages everywhere actually. His burns aren’t aching terribly, not the way he’s so used to.

“Don’t move,” the woman, Kumiko, orders, “aside from the obvious pain in your muscles, you’ll start shifting the IV drip.”

It is then that Touya notices the pipe lodged into the vein of his forearm, attached to a clear bag of liquid by his side.

He opens his mouth to ask ‘Where the f*ck am I?’ only for a broken wheeze to come out instead.

A small glass of water is thrust into his face. He blinks at it and shakes his head, paranoid despite the burn in his throat. He’s used to it. He can deal with it.

“Drink it.” Kumiko's smiles grow more unnerving. “I promise it isn’t poisoned.”

Touya glances at the person who’s holding the glass of water. The dirty face and matted hair; covered in scars like him. A boy, probably, though he wasn’t sure.

“He’s (so a boy) the one who helped you here,” Kumiko tells him, “and it’s not a hospital. Mentioned how you refused to check yourself in one despite needing it desperately.”

Touya’s scepticism falters only slightly.

“Drink it and we’ll answer your questions,” Kumiko finally relents, sounding impatient. Begrudgingly, Touya attempts to grab the glass himself, fingers shaking, the IV in his vein shifting. The boy helps him, much to Touya’s pride. The ache in his throat dies out the second the water touches his tongue, a continuous soothe as he desperately chugs down the oddly large glass, not caring for the way water dribbles past his lips in his haste.

“Now, what is it you’d like to ask?”

“Where the f*ck am I?” Touya’s voice is heavy with fatigue but sharp with suspicion.

“My place,” the boy replies. He was the other voice.

“Why am I here?”

“You were suffering from untreated toxic shock syndrome.” Kumiko’s thin lips pull into a frown. “Your body rejected the poorly made skin grafts you had crudely stapled over your half-healed burns, which resulted in a serious infection.”

She gestures to the IV drip. “This is currently flooding your system with an antibiotic that is fighting the infection. I had cleaned out the puss and excrements from the infection already, however, I would like to keep you under my watch until I am sure it isn’t to return. As well, I would—”

“Hold up,” Touya cuts her off. “Keep me under watch? Do I look like a kid to you?”

Kumiko nods. “You do, actually. You look like a kid on the brink of f*cking death.”

Touya scowls, but Kumiko doesn’t let him get another word in.

“You see this kid.” She nods to the green-haired boy. “He dragged your half-conscious ass down to his tiny as f*ck abandoned house to keep you from dying in the streets. Instead of taking you to a f*cking hospital, he brought me over to deal with your miserable ass because you asked him not to. Instead of being grateful, you’re pissed.”

“I didn’t ask him to do that,” Touya rebuttals.

“You want to die, asswipe?" Kumiko badgers, folding her arms, “I’m trying to f*cking treat you, so shut up and listen.”

Reluctantly, Touya keeps quiet.

“Like I said earlier, your horrendous attempt at giving yourself a skin graft only worsened the state of your burns. Luckily, the infection only spread to your first and second-degree burns by the time we caught it. Your third-degree burns were already halfway healed before you stapled on the skin grafts and, miraculously, I was able to fight off the infection before more extreme measures had to be taken.”

“Extreme measures like?”

“Amputation,” Kumiko says easily. Touya winces. “As I said earlier, resulting from the infection, you got what doctors call toxic-shock syndrome, something that is fatal if left untreated. The IV drip should treat you just fine for now. I will be putting you on antibiotics for another six to eight weeks as well. However, another surgery is going to have to be performed.”

“Hold up—”

“Shut it.” Kumiko raises a hand, cutting Touya off. “All that’s going to happen is the application of new skin grafts to your wounds. Luckily, my quirk allows me to make multiples of one thing, meaning we won’t have to shave off all your healthy skin to make these grafts. Surgical staples will be used to keep the skin in place as it heals. I will see you again after the surgery to remove said staples.”

Kumiko claps. “I will go over the after-care for recovery after the surgery. Now, do you have any questions?”

“How do you expect me to pay for all of this?”

Touya isn’t stupid. It’s never a give-and-no-take. It's take and give. Take and take, and maybe give. A favour for a favour. An eye for an eye. Always.

“I will deal with it,” the green-haired boy tells him, “don’t worry about that.”

“And why would you do that?”

“It’s fun.”

“Fun?”

"Fun."

“Okay?" Touya shrugs off his unease. "What about stay? Because I can’t go to any f*cking hospitals and, if you didn’t know, I’m kinda f*cking homeless.”

“With me,” Greenie says, “you watch over the place while I pay off the medicine.”

Kumiko's eyes light up. “See, it’s all dealt with!”

“I never agreed to this sh*t.”

“D’you wanna die then?” Greenie gives Touya a lazy glance. “Didn’t strike me as the type.”

'Unnerving little sh*t. Something about him is wrong.’

“The type?”

“Suicidal.” The kid lifts his hand; mimics a gunshot to his head. His knuckles are bruised; grisly, sporting broken fingernails and scars stretched over the skin. The hands of a boxer, not a goddamn f*cking child. “Should try roulette then. It’s fun, scout’s honour.”

“You’re not a scout.” Kumiko whacks him. “And don’t say that sh*t.”

Greenie shrugs, eyes still trained on Touya, who’s silent. How does one reply to that? There’s something so f*cking wrong. Damning seconds pass, feeling like hours and minutes and years. Time seems inconsequential when looking at the kid, into those eyes, glassy and green, bright as toxic waste. The kid smiles—no, no he doesn’t smile, he shows his teeth, large and yellowing.

“So you want to live, then.” He drops his hand.

No sh*t Touya doesn’t want to die. If he burns down in an inferno of flames, he’ll be damned if it’s by himself. When he dies, it’s by one man’s side, and his side only. Then, every sh*tty f*cking turn and forked road and wrong path he took would be worth it. He’s scared too. Scared of death. Of forgetting to live, but that's a secret he's yet to admit to himself.

“Everything is settled then?” Kumiko doesn’t wait for an answer, nodding to herself approvingly. “I will be back in a few hours with more medical supplies. We’ll perform the skin graft surgery in approximately a week when I’m less worried about the infection settling in or worsening. Until then, you aren’t to move from this bed or so god help me I’ll kill you myself.”

Seemingly satisfied with her threat, Kumiko lets herself out, briefcase in hand.

“I’ll make you something to eat,” Greenie says, heading over to the kitchen.

...What the f*ck?

═════════ 𖤓 ═════════

“It’s Izuku, quirkless,” Greenie states after feeding a begrudging Touya a small bite of his packaged noodles.

Touya raises an eyebrow.

“My name.” Greenie looks to the ceiling, taps his finger against the fork, once, twice, three times, and turns to face Touya again. “And my quirk status.”

'Quirkless? Huh.'

He isn’t expecting Touya to reply, only shovelling another forkful of noodles into his mouth. Still, as Touya swallows another bite, he says, “Dabi.”

An easy alias, a distinguishable one too. The kiss of blue flames that eats through everything, eats through his skin and bone.

Greenie Izuku doesn’t react, just lifts the bowl a little higher to keep the slurp from dripping onto Touya’s chest.

“Dabi,” Izuku repeats softly. "Cremation, then."

There’s a strain to his words, a fear—like he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Touya stiffens. He’s smart; had figured out his quirk from nothing more than the burns on his skin and a fake name. ‘Cremation.’

They sit in silence for a bit, Touya only making it through half his bowl before his stomach squirms in protest. Izuku understands, backs off without complaint and wraps the dish, stocking it into his frighteningly bare fridge. Touya stares at him; there's an itch, a need to know. Because he's still confused. Still doesn't understand.

“I’m gonna—”

“Why are you helping me?” Touya cuts him off, curiosity winning. “You don’t know me, you don’t know anything about me, and yet you’re helping me. I don’t f*cking get it.”

He shouldn’t be complaining or whining like a toddler. Dabi doesn’t want to die so he shouldn’t be complaining. But he is. Because, above all, the relief and gratitude and anger, is confusion. Life is brutal, especially to him. So why is he being given a helper? Why does this kid, tired and ragged and scarred, want to help?

“Do you want to die, Dabi?” he asks for the second time that hour.

Touya stiffens, dread creeping onto him, crawling up his ankles, over his thighs, the question fogging the room with trepidation. Izuku walks into his line of vision, and there’s something almost disturbing about his expression. Bored, uncaring, apathetic. Like Death isn’t an end, isn’t the end, but another happening. A 'there', two steps away, reaching for him, and he simply doesn’t care. Touya thinks that sometimes he’ll even wait, let Death brush its bony fingers across his collarbones, down his arms.

“Well?” Izuku looks at him expectantly.

Touya clicks his tongue. “I don’t.”

Izuku gives his answer, then, but it isn’t the answer Touya wants. There’s something left to interpretation, to thought. There’s more to be said, to be heard.

“I don’t like to see people who want to live, die.”

‘What about people who want to die?’ Touya’s desperate to ask, 'People who look like you?’

Except, he doesn’t want to know. He fears, staring at the way Izuku tilts his head, eyes dull, that he already does.

And later, when Izuku returns from a fresh shower, dressed in loose shorts and a ratty, oversized cropped shirt, Touya will know. Staring at his skin, at the lines on his thighs and arms and hips, the burns on his ribs and the bleeding cuts, he’ll know.

Izuku would kill them.

If a person wanted to die, he’d grant them that mercy.

And isn’t that bone-chilling?

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku stares at Dabi where he’s seated on the worn, small sofa, feet propped onto the little wooden coffee table. His staples had been removed, and his skin was still red and healing, but he looked better. It'll scar forever, purple and red, textured rough skin. He’d finally been able to take a proper shower, the first one he’d had in years. His towels were covered in black stains, grey water flushing down the drain. Dabi had left for the store on his own that morning, insisting it was okay despite Izuku offering to go himself. It was odd, he’d always been reluctant to be out during the daytime. His hair looked darker, richer; no longer soot-covered or coloured, but a genuine, deep black. Whenever he rested his head on Izuku 's lap, it no longer left a mark of grey. When Izuku patronisingly ruffled his hair, his hand came clean.

“What are you going to do once Kumiko-san gives the okay?” he asks. The question had been on his tongue since the skin graft surgery. Dabi is homeless, lost, and dying despite being so aching for life.

“What?” Dabi turns to him, feigning confusion. But Izuku’s observant, and Dabi’s been living with him for a month. His tongue sticks out of his cheek, index finger hooked under the fabric of his shirt. The telltale signs of his anxiety.

Izuku doesn’t give him the bullsh*t of falling for the act.

“You heard me.”

Dabi straightens, forgoing the ‘what are you talking about’ charade, frowning in resignation.

“I don’t know.”

He doesn’t know.

'Of course, he doesn’t know.'

Dabi has surrendered himself to Death, to its grip, its promise, despite still aching for life.

“Stay with me, then.” Izuku offers, not missing a beat.

Dabi’s head snaps up, startlingly blue eyes impossibly wide. “What?”

“Stay with me.” Izuku steps forward. “If you have nowhere to go, stay with me.”

Dabi looks speechless, gaping like a fish as he takes in what Izuku says.

Finally, in a quiet voice, he asks, “Why?”

Why?

Why not? He’s a nuisance, a jerk, an asshole. He’s mean with a short temper, lights things on fire and rages with a familiarly frightening heat. He’s stubborn, doesn’t listen, and can hurt.

But he’s a dying man who's aching for life.

Izuku doesn’t like feeling alone. No matter how accustomed he is to isolation, he will never like feeling alone.

It’s always too loud or too quiet when he has no one. He hates it. He hates it as much as he doesn’t. Dabi is like him; wallowing in pity, a social outcast, a face to be forgotten, to be ridiculed, be scrutinised. He doesn’t care that Izuku’s feet are a little too big and he has no otherworldly superpower that puts him above the rest. He doesn't care because they’re both rejects, left for dead years ago.

And, sure, Dabi calls him f*ckface and asshat and princess all sardonic and sarcastic, but he doesn’t beat him. He doesn’t burn him, even when his fingers glow blue and he’s angry. He’s far from perfect, but he says sorry, and he tries. He tries and Izuku likes that.

“I’d like you to,” Izuku settles on.

Dabi may refuse, but that will be fine too. Because Izuku’s never had anyone, knows aloneness like he knows the scars on his knuckles. So he may say no, but that’s fine, Izuku will simply grow used to himself, again. Rely more closely on the comfortable reality of death—the sureness of his blades, scars, and unlucky smile.

Carefully, Dabi grins, closed-lipped and sincere. His eyes water, liquid-tinged red.

“I’ll stay.”

┗━━━━━━━━ ⧖ ━━━━━━━━┛

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“It came,” Dabi tells Izuku, waving around a disc. Izuku looks up from the papers strewn across his table, little blueprints he’d been working on to build a collapsible rod with spear ends. Rumour has it that new people, dangerous people, had been showing up across dingy and dirty neighbourhoods. Besides, he liked to tinker, it gave him a semblance of mind, something to do with his hands.

“What came?”

“The letter from Yuuei.”

Chapter 5: negotiate with me a reason to try.

Chapter Text

Nezu

▣ ▣ ▣

Nezu stares at the file Shota handed to them, beady eyes squinted but otherwise expressionless save for the tame, ever-pleasant smile on their face.

“What is it you want me to do with this file?”

“Do you remember him from the entrance exam? The one who took down the zero-pointer in venue nine.”

Nezu’s smile widens. “I do. Quite the feat, honestly, and didn’t seem to use a quirk either, not one I could pick up on.”

“When you give Vlad, Nemuri, Hizashi and me the examinees’ files, do you review them beforehand?”

Nezu shakes their head. “I give free rein trusting your intuitions. I’m afraid my experience with humans would hinder me from making objective decisions.”

It's only so deliciously, ironically human. All they remember are needles, blades, and scalpels cutting their skin open, fur matted crimson. The manic gleam in their captors' eyes as they tore them apart over and over and over again. God if they could, Nezu would rip them apart limb from limb, as they did him, over and over and over again. Not a shred of mercy would be granted.

The title of 'Principal of Yuuei' is already too tempting. He could do so much...

“I would like you to take a look at his essay.”

Nezu tilts their head to meet Shota’s stare. “Essay?”

Shota nods. “Of all the essays I’ve read for the students applying for the hero course over the years, this is one of the most, for lack of a better word, disconcerting ones.”

“Disconcerting?”

Intrigued, Nezu flips open the first page, breezing through the words with ease. Shota waits patiently, hunched over, pupils shifting, eyes oddly apprehensive. It takes Nezu no less than three minutes to read through the entire thing, a hefty 1500 words despite the required being a minimum of 750. When they look back to Shota, it’s with keenness and newfound fascination.

They pause over a few sentences.

“I see where you’re coming from.”

‘Evil isn’t bred, it isn’t cultivated, it is not even the soil where we are planted. Evil is the sunlight and water, it is the seed itself, the tiny, unchangeable parts that are always there.’

‘How can one say there is good if goodness only exists to juxtapose evil?’

‘There is no solution. There is only annihilation, revolution, or ignorance. Damned, we’ve chosen all three.’

“However, I do not see why you came to me. Sure, this is a rather untimely perspective, but doesn’t that make it all the more interesting? Every year, we’re given the same spiel. Good wins against evil; villainy is cultivated; everyone is good until they are not.”

Nezu points to the most repeated phrase in the essay, the one that they find especially curious...

‘If you are human you are evil, and if you are evil you are human.’

“Ordinarily, he would not have passed,” Shota says, “he’d only taken down one three-pointer. With the rescue points; however, he’s ranked six, just behind Tensei’s younger brother.”

“And you’re wondering if you should give him a place.”

“These children are striving to be Japan’s top heroes. To cultivate a mentality like his is to wield a double-edged sword.”

Nezu takes another glance at the essay, at the name written in quick, messy scrawl at the top corner.

‘I z u k u M i d o r i y a.’

Nezu concludes, “He’d done exceptionally well in the written test, so General Education is another option. If it eases your worries, we can watch over him before deeming him worthy or unworthy of pursuing heroism.”

'Not that we should have the right.'

Shota bows. “Thank you.”

“Very well. However—" Shota pauses just as he’s about to leave, listening. “Yuuei prides itself on raising the best. I hope you didn’t forget who you were before you came here too, Shota.”

He hesitates, nods, and walks off.

“Well then,” Nezu murmurs, “Izuku Midoriya…”

Yuuei Entry Exam (Heroics)

Applicant #9027

First Name: Izuku

Last Name: Midoriya

Sex: Male

Gender & Pronouns: Apathetic - he/him

Birthday: 15/06/20XX

Address Line: XXX XXXX St. XX. XXX

Zip: 〒 XXX-XXXX

Quirk: N/A

Elementary School: Tobigary Elementary

Middle School: Genjitsu Junior High

Emergency Contact: +81 XXX-XXXX

Shota

☾ ☾ ☾

Shota mulls over his decision.

The hero course is composed of forty students, and he’d always been picky when it came to his selection. It’d be preposterous to consider Yuuei granted acceptance based on nothing but the number of robots a student defeated. A minimum total of forty points has to be reached first. Then, other factors were taken into account to weed out the students with the best potential for heroism. Five spots were reserved for the recommendation students, and thirty-five were left to Shota and his colleagues.

There had been students written off for their academic standings, others for their less than-substantial behaviour before the test, and a few for the way they answered their essay questions. Shota’s a logical man, always has been, and when it came to choosing who was accepted into the hero course, he was no different.

A hero with a too-kind heart, who bleeds liquid gold, is a liability. A hero who’s no more than his mask, no more than the narrator of their journey, is a liability. There’s a fine line between too much and none at all.

Izuku Midoriya toed that line. Watching his performance was enough to come to that conclusion. At first, he’d loitered around, before sufficiently taking down a three-pointer with a rickety blade, snarling as he did so. Then, he’d picked it apart, playing with the frayed wires and cutting through the metal. Later on, Power Loader would mention that it was this odd behaviour that gave him the knowledge concerning the robots’ essential wirings, bundled behind their glass eyes.

What was deemed as a wasteful use of time was the reason he was able to take down the zero-pointer.

And what a sight it was; a downright horrifying sight. Watching a tired, measly-looking boy climbing a robot well over fifty metres with nothing more than a switchblade and resolve. Shota nearly called off the exam when Midoriya fell off the robot, using a single arm and make-shift grooves to keep steady and hang off the robot's head as he slammed his hands into its eyes. He could see the spark of the wires as he yanked them carelessly, see the blood and burns crawling up to Midoriya's elbow. He could see that smile, demented in nature; rabid. It blazed with excitement as the robot spun, shaking him off like a flea. It wrinkled his eyes and made him look alive, staying plastered on his face even as the robot crashed with him still holding onto the edge. (It must’ve been the devil’s smile.)

Izuku Midoriya passed with an impressive sixty-three points.

Shota saw his capability, can still sees it when his eyes slip shut. Shota sees potential like he sees landscapes, a lake and a field like the reflection of a person's self and mind. Izuku Midoriya can be refined, as hesitant as Shota is to admit it. The issue is, Shota’s never stared at a lake with water so muddled he might as well call it a swamp. Shota prefers clear waters and reflections, being able to make a sure judgement at a glance. He only bolsters what he deems as ‘true potential’, a pretentious mindset but a needed one. The current ‘brand’ of heroism is half-hearted mediocrity at best. Shota will be damned to not teach students with a drive to win and save, a drive to truly protect. He sees it in these young children desperate for that glory.He grows it, flowers that bloom around their lake’s edge. He makes them all the more pretty, like a gardener strengthening a barren land.

Bad seeds only grow to rot others.

Midoriya is a painting of crimson lines, and Shota’s yet to know if they dignify blood wept or blood spilt. Anomalies, muddy water, wilted filters and crimson paintings, they’re dangerous. Shota doesn’t know Midoriya; can’t gouge out how dangerous he might be. To teach him, to grow him, to swim through his waters: it's a risk. Crimson paintings are portraits of monsters.

‘I hope you didn’t forget who you were before you came here too, Shota.’

'Damned rat bastard.'

Shota pinches the bridge of his nose.

He is logical; is factual; is objective.

Izuku Midoriya is strong, is smart.

(He smiles at death.)

Izuku Midoriya fights and saves.

(His waters are muddled.)

Izuku Midoriya is capable; he has potential.

(His portraits are crimson-coloured.)

Izuku Midoriya is human.

(Izuku Midoriya is a monster.)

┏━━━━━━━━ ☾━━━━━━━━┓

“You’ll never get anywhere with that quirk, freak.”

┗━━━━━━━━ ☾ ━━━━━━━━┛

Izuku Midoriya is human.

(Izuku Midoriya is a monster.)

┏━━━━━━━━ ☾━━━━━━━━┓

“Stay away from him. He takes away your quirk, nothing good can come from that.”

┗━━━━━━━━ ☾ ━━━━━━━━┛

Shota Izuku Midoriya is human.

(Izuku Midoriya is a monster.)

┏━━━━━━━━ ☾━━━━━━━━┓

“You’ll have to fight; harder than anyone else. Do you understand, Shota?”

┗━━━━━━━━ ☾ ━━━━━━━━┛

Shota Aizawa Izuku Midoriya is human.

(Izuku Midoriya is a monster.)

┏━━━━━━━━ ☾━━━━━━━━┓

“We made it.”

┗━━━━━━━━ ☾ ━━━━━━━━┛

Izuku Midoriya is a monster.

(Izuku Midoriya is human.)

═════════ ☾ ═════════

Shota glances at the essay again, at the words written by a boy with bruised knuckles and chipped teeth.

‘If all humans are evil, then villains are heroes. If villains are heroes, then heroes are villains. It is a line that has been marred; blurred; poisoned. A world of false smiles, of sweet words cherry-picked from the blooming trees that always die too soon, is born. And heroes are villains, so villains are heroes.

Understand that, and the concept of morality loses to the evidence of sin. Of calamity and hate.

Morality loses to evil.

Because heroes are villains, and villains are heroes.’

Everyone is evil.

These are the words of a young boy with dead eyes and limp hair, a boy too tired to put up with everyone else’s sh*t, a boy too damaged to heal. These are the words of a boy who’s worked hard, broken tooth and nail, and trained relentlessly to make a place for himself in a world where he was given none. He paved his paths with his own calloused hands. These are the words of a hateful boy, a young boy that Shota remembers in the reflection of his mirror, glaring at him through the cracked glass.

“Remember where I came from, huh?”

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku frowns at the bulky projector he was sent.

“What’s with the look?” Dabi asks. “Doesn’t the big ass disc thing mean you’ve probably got in?”

“I wouldn’t get why,” Izuku answers, still frowning. “I only got three points. That wouldn’t be enough to get me in.”

“Then open it and find out.”

“Akatani,” Izuku reminds him dryly.

Dabi clicks his tongue. “I’m still surprised you’re letting him come over. Won’t his mums, like, question where the f*ck you live and why it’s musty as f*ck?”

Izuku rolls his eyes. “We’re picking him up, dipsh*t. And Akatani knows better than to spill sh*t to his mums.”

“How old is he anyway?” Dabi asks, deaf to Izuku's words.

“Nine.”

“Damn,” Dabi whistles. “And his mums are letting him come on his own? Isn’t that like, f*cking dangerous?”

“It can be," Izuku replies, stretching his arms, “that’s why we,” he emphasises, “are picking him up. As in, his mums are dropping him off at the park and going on a little date. I promised to have him back before six.”

“Wait wait.” It finally dawns on Dabi. “We? Like me and you?”

“No, me and the other f*cking person in this room,” Izuku deadpans, sparing Dabi an unimpressed glance.

Dabi’s lighthearted expression droops. “I’m kind of, you know, not supposed to leave this place in broad daylight.” He waves an arm, the roses and skulls flexing. “The whole, supposed to be dead, thing.”

Izuku doesn’t know much about Dabi, but he knows enough. His name is not forgotten but mourned; he has fought abuse with his little fists until the world around him became nothing more than skies of pluming smoke and streets of raging fire. And then, in the aftermath, he ran and left behind a skin suit and memory to bury instead of a body.

“When were you proclaimed dead?”

Dabi stiffens, put off guard. Izuku rarely asks questions; doesn’t feel the need to. Dabi has secrets he swears he’ll take to his grave, so Izuku rarely asks questions. It helps that Dabi’s quiet too. Quiet when staring at Izuku’s scars, quiet the day Izuku came home with fangs for teeth, quiet the other time Izuku came home with stitches crawling up his calf and painkillers in hand. Nice and quiet, a man to help heal his wounds instead of digging into his skin to kill the parasite itself.

“Fourteen,” he answers, tone clipped.

Izuku hums, “And you’ve altered your appearance quite a bit, the whole tattoos, healed scars and all. The likelihood of you being recognised is ridiculously low. Now.” He folds his arms. “You are going to leave this house to pick up Akatani with me. You won’t have to meet his mothers if you'd rather.”

Dabi still looks apprehensive.

Izuku draws his gaze to the ground. “I’d honestly feel safer if you came with,” he admits, “I know I’m capable or whatever, but Akatani is young a-and I-I...umm...would r-real—”

“Okay,” Dabi cuts him off, cheeks flushed purple. His blood flows slower than others. Thicker and darker. He stays cool and keeps his blood sugar levels high. His fire doesn’t hurt then. Everything but his flames is sensitive to heat, his skin, eyes and organs. A body made to wield ice. But his fire is blue, hot enough to feel cold. If his blood is thick, the fire is forced to eat through it first, before it reaches his skin, hurting him.

Izuku looks up, still mildly embarrassed at his confession. “Okay?”

“Okay you f*cking twerp, I’ll come with you to get the kid.”

Izuku’s lips quirk, the barest curl of a smile at its edges.

“Thank you, Bee.”

“f*ck off.”

═════════ ☻ ═════════

“Hey there, Akatani.” Izuku waves, jogging up to him. Akatani beams upon seeing him and runs his way, slamming into his legs and wrapping his arms around Izuku’s middle tightly. Izuku, much to his chagrin, was rather small, a product of malnutrition and his mother’s genes, he supposes. Akatani, on the other hand, was aggravatingly tall for someone so young, stopping at Izuku’s shoulders despite the age difference.

“Aniki,” Akatani squeals happily, giggling before pulling away.

His three mothers approach, all wearing those same soft smiles Izuku found comforting.

“Hello Yuko-sama, Mika-san and Ayako-san.” Izuku bows to all of them politely.

Yuka smiles and returns the bow. “Hello there, Izuku-kun.”

Mika walks up, always waiting patiently for Izuku’s eyes to focus on her before ruffling his long, messy locks.

“And how are you doing?” Ayako asks kindly when Mika steps away.

“Fine,” Izuku answers simply. “What about you guys?”

“Oh, same old same old,” Mika responds fondly, “little Miku wouldn’t stop talking about how you applied to the hero course.”

Izuku blushes. “Ah, yes. I really only did it for his sake, I don’t plan on accepting the admission should I get admitted.”

“It’s all of your own will,” Yuka reminds him, “and Miku knows that. Right, Miku?” She turns her gaze to her son, who nods his head quickly, still by Izuku’s side.

“Aniki said that when he agreed to apply.”

“Good then, we don’t want to force Izuku-kun into doing anything out of his comfort zone.”

She’s stern with her words, and Akatani straightens a little.

“Oh don’t worry about it, Yu." Ayako gently swats her arm. “Anyways, it’s almost four-thirty, we should go before we miss the dinner reservations.” She directs her next sentence to Izuku. “Please take care of him.”

“Of course.”

Mika loops her arms with her wives and Izuku and Akatani bid goodbye before they hurry off to the train station.

“Let’s go.” Izuku prods Akatani’s side gently. “I’d also like you to meet my roommate.”

“You have a roommate?”

They start walking. Through the shortcuts he'd found over time, Izuku’s sure they could make it to his house in half an hour, giving them an hour of time together before he’d have to leave to make it home on time.

“Yeah, he should be around…” Izuku trails off, glancing over at the crowds to spot a familiar head of ink-black hair. Dabi looks awkward, back hunched over as he slumps beside the wall of a random building, eyes glancing at every passerby nervously.

“There.” Izuku nods in his direction. Akatani follows his line of vision and immediately scurries over. Paranoid, Dabi had dressed in a too-large collared trench coat and a black mask hiding the lower part of his face. He looked inconspicuously conspicuous; shady despite hiding his scars and tattoos.

“Are you Aniki’s roommate?” Akatani asks immediately, startling Dabi who slams his head against the wall.

Izuku snorts, coming up by Akatani’s side. Dabi glares at him, gently rubbing where he’d hit the concrete, but Izuku’s amusem*nt doesn’t dwindle.

“Yes, he is,” Izuku answers for him, “he’s also pretty stupid, but, y’know? We can’t choose the best of them.”

Akatani giggles and Dabi’s gaze hardens.

“That’s enough,” Dabi warns. “Let’s just get back to your house. I hate being out when there’s daylight.”

Mikumo

✮ ✮ ✮

“Am I on the screen?!”

Mikumo freezes up, going rigid as the familiar face of All Might shows up. The hologram is startlingly realistic—aside from the few grainy spazzes here and there—colours vibrant, like what's floating directly in front of him was real. Less than a year ago, that smile, big and toothy and bold, would’ve made him happy. He’d feel giddy, latching onto every word, dreaming of a ‘what if’ where he was a hero by his side.

The Symbol of Peace.

The Symbol of Justice.

The Symbol of Fallacy.

Aniki scowls, eyes narrowed as All Might embarrasses himself on screen, stumbling over his words.

“The f*ck?” Dabi, Izuku’s really cool roommate, whispers. He has these incredible tattoos and everything. The tattoos hid the parts of his skin that were red and bumpy, the healed scars Izuku said, though they looked different than the scars his Aniki had. Dabi's were super, super big and stretched over too much skin, but Mikumo thinks they’re awesome! Dabi said they reminded him that he was real, that he made it. Mikumo understands! Scars mean that you survived, and Mikumo's survived plenty.

“Do you want to sit through this?” Aniki turns to Mikumo, wearing an expression of muted anger. His tone is concerned, though. It makes Mikumo's heart swell to know Aniki is worried about his feelings. People don't worry about those too often.

Mikumo nods, the voice of All Might like background noise as he explains something about work or whatever. “I want to know if you got in! Doesn't matter who's delivering the news.”

“Well, you did outstanding on the written test!” All Might praises, sounding cheerful. His tone doesn't let up even as he says, "But, at a practical skills rating of three points, you, of course, failed.”

'Failed? My Aniki failed?'

Mikumo can't help but feel disappointed...

At Yuuei.

They have to be morons to fail him.

'Even if Aniki didn't get enough points. He's more of a hero than any of you could ever be.'

All his life, Mikumo believed heroes were superstars, these greater than beings. Until he meets All Might, the All Might, who leaves him on a rooftop with nothing more than a broken heart. He thought they were Nova stars, unreachable, until he met his Aniki. A boy, who’s like him, who’s been hurt and hurt and hurt. A boy who takes his broken heart and fits in pieces of his own until it's mended, who redefines what it means to be a hero.

His hero. Grounded. In reach. In vision. There.

His.

“But wait!”

Mikumo looks up to where the hologram has yet to disappear.

“There’s more to it.”

“Then why mention the failure in the first place?” Aniki mutters.

All Might tells them about ‘rescue points’. Mikumo doesn’t understand entirely—he hadn't been there for the exam—but he does get one thing; his Aniki saved someone. Someone else, someone who needed it.

Everyone’s hero. (But his first.)

“So take your rescue points, the judges all agree! They saw another foundational skill of heroics in you.” All Might smiles. “Midoriya Izuku, 63 points!”

Izuku slumps, still frowning despite the news.

“Yuuei is now your hero academia!”

All Might dissipates and Aniki stares at where he floated, passively. Mikumo is looking up at him, red eyes alight with glee.

“You got in!” he squeals, pulling Aniki in for another hug, “you got in!”

Dabi gently thumps Aniki’s shoulder. “Good for you, Zu.”

Aniki awkwardly pats Mikumo’s back. He’s never been good at hugs, not that Mikumo minds. His Aniki was special to him, awkwardness and all. Eventually, he pulls away, shrugging off the arm on his shoulder.

“I’m not accepting the offer,” he reminds them all sternly, grimacing when Mikumo wilts a little. “Remember the deal, kid. Even if I got in, I would say no. Being a hero just isn’t it for me.”

Mikumi disagrees. Aniki is his hero; the person-he-saved-during-the-exam’s hero; probably Dabi’s hero. He’s better than all the other heroes, with their blind optimism and wide, tooth-rotting, sugary smiles.

But Aniki doesn’t believe that, he never will. So instead, resigned, Mikumo nods.

“You’re still going to Yuuei, right?” he questions, voice small.

Aniki picks up the envelope and pulls out a single piece of paper.

“Yeah, kid. Still going to Yuuei.”

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku flops face-first into the couch pillows.

Dabi snorts.

“Dropping the kid off made you that tired?”

“f*ck off.”

Izuku is always tired. Tired, tired, tired. His bones feel like lead, everything feels hollow but heavy. (Always tired.)

Before Dabi can say anything, Izuku’s phone buzzes loudly against the table. Groaning, he stretches to retrieve it, squinting at the screen.

“Is it the pretty blonde boy?” Dabi looms over him.

Izuku nudges him with this toe. “I told you it’s not like that. And yeah, it’s Kam.”

Dabi wiggles his eyebrows and Izuku shoves him harder.

“You’re on dinner duty, f*cksh*t, get started.”

“It’s not even eight.”

“You take hours to toast bread.”

Dabi flips him off but heads over to the kitchen. Izuku rolls onto his back, feet dangling off the side of the couch as he unlocks his phone to check Kaminari’s messages.

Kaminari is a new addition to his f*cked up life. A really sweet boy who jokes around too much, who updates him on the latest internet fad because Izuku never cares to come across them himself. A boy who says they’re friends despite knowing so little about him, who doesn't know of his wickedness. (Except, he knows he’s quirkless; he knows he’s the runt of the litter. And yet…)

═════════x ☻x═════════

Electric Boy

MIDO

MIDO

MIDO

MIDO DID YOU GET YOUR RESULTS

BECAUSE I DID

MIDOOOOOO

kaminari don't spam me.

i wouldn't have 2 if u answrd ur messages in time

evr thot abt that bro???

wow.

groundbreaking.

ik ik im the best (๑ˇ ꒳ ˇ)˒˒

now answerrrrr meeee

did u get it? did u get INNN?

honestly?

duh ლ(ಠ_ಠ ლ)

then yes.

but I'm declining.

(⊙_⊙)

WHAT???

what?

UR DECLINING?

yes.

BRO???

you asked for honesty and i gave it.

heroics just isn't my thing.

but classssmaattesssssssss o(TヘTo)

classmates?

i got in to (╥﹏╥)

congratulations.

i'm still not enrolling.

BUT CLASSMATTTESSSSSS ○几 ○几 ○几

we'll still be in the same school kam.

ik ik

it's still sad

y attend the exam if u didn't want 2 apply

a 9 year old boy.

(・_・;) . . .

alright? i think?

honestly, i didn't think i'd get in.

i only have 3 villain points.

3??? damn how many rescue points did u get?

60.

HUH?!!!

for saving you.

that makes sooooooo much sense

figured.

ur rlly not gonna accept

nope.

don't try to convince me otherwise.

ughhh fineeeeee <(￣ ﹌ ￣)>

ill c u outside of class anyway

you will.

OH OKAY ALSO ALSO ALSO

yes?

OKAY SO TODAY

═════════x ☻x═════════

Nezu

▣ ▣ ▣

Nezu stares at their laptop, and for the first time in what seems like millennia, is puzzled. Further than that, they feel disoriented.

Izuku Midoriya, it seems, is a lot more interesting than they had initially anticipated.

═════════x ▣ x═════════

Subject: Admission Into Hero Course

To: [emailprotected]

From: [emailprotected]

To Nezu-sama,

I am writing to you to decline my admission into the Heroics Programme, as I feel I am underqualified.

Rather, I'd like to keep my acceptance for the General Admission course.

Regards,

Izuku Midoriya (he/him)
Applicant #9027

═════════ ▣ ═════════

Decline?

In their many years running one of Japan’s most well-known hero schools, not once has any student ever declined without the promise of admission into another heroics programme. Even then, it was a dime a dozen. Statistically, students who graduate from Yuuei are the most likely to succeed later on in their careers as pro-heroes.

Izuku Midoriya, it seems, has no interest in heroics. While that in itself isn’t unheard of, Nezu themself can understand the dislike for such a wonderfully flawed system, it’s rather odd he applied for the entrance exam in the first place. The wording of the short email too…

‘I feel I am underqualified.’

Midoriya, the boy who’d single-handedly taken down the monster of a zero-pointer to keep another student from further injury sees himself as underqualified.

What is qualified, then?

Not strength, not speed, not the innate need to save. Nezu had seen it when Midoriya spun his blade in between his fingers and stared at the robot with apprehension that left him in an instant the moment he caught sight of Kaminari, unfocused and trapped under the rubble, taking off without a second thought.

Morality, maybe?

Nezu is curious, always curious.

Izuku Midoriya is an asset, undoubtedly. He’s smart, irrevocably so, an intelligence that Yuuei should feed and water. It isn’t a ‘gifted’ talent, but rather something raw, something that’s been carved and crafted, the consequence of blood, sweat and tears. Cultivated talent is not lost with old age, and that makes his intelligence all the more menacing.

They swipe their paw across their tablet and the door swings open, Shota waiting with a fist raised, seconds away from knocking.

“Come in,” they greet with a smile, already prepping a cup of tea. “Care for a cup?

Shota shakes his head politely, as he always does when Nezu offers, and waits, standing.

“Take a seat.”

He does, always a little unwillingly.

“Why did you call me here?”

He asks, always a little uncomfortably.

It’s become routine. Of all his staff, Nezu trusts Shota to deal with student affairs the best. He does not have the empathy that Hisashi does, nor does understand their perplexing way of thinking like Ryu or Nemuri. But he’s smart; observant in a way that the other teachers aren't. He's shrewd and calculating, with frightening foresight. So he is who Nezu prefers to call when handling more perplexing students.

“It’s about a student.” Nezu pauses, takes a small sip of their tea, and lets the anticipation build.

“Izuku Midoriya,” they finally say, watching Shota’s interest perk, “has declined enrollment into the hero course.”

“So has Inasa Yoarashi. That isn’t why you called me here.” Blunt, said like a statement, not a question.

“Yoarashi declined to enrol in Shiketsu High. Izuku Midoriya, however, accepted his enrollment into our General Education course.”

The realisation dawns, slowly, only expressed by the smallest twitch of his eyebrow.

“Exactly.” Nezu places down their cup. “Midoriya is the first student I’ve ever come across to do that, and quite honestly, I’m fascinated.”

Shota straightens. “Fascinated?”

“Yes. I have already sent an email and within the hour Midoriya is scheduled to meet with me regarding his placement in Yuuei. Of course, I will honour his wish of enrolling into General Education over the hero course.”

“But?” Shota looks at them forebodingly.

“Well…”

═════════x ▣ x═════════

Re: Admission Into Hero Course

To: [emailprotected]

From: [emailprotected]

Dear Izuku Midoriya,

I'm sure you're aware of how odd your request is. Of course, it is permissible and you will be granted enrollment in General Education.

However, considering this is the first time I've come across such a request, I would like to meet with you and your guardian in person before the start of the semester. While I'm aware it is short notice, does tomorrow at 3 in the afternoon work for you?

I have a request I'd like to discuss.

Regards,

Nezu (they/them)
Principal of Yuuei
Yuuei High School
[emailprotected]

═════════x ☻ x═════════

Re: Admission Into Hero Course

To: [emailprotected]

From: [emailprotected]

To Nezu-sama,

Tomorrow is fine. My father is currently outside of Musutafu on a business trip, however, and won't be here for some time. Does he need to be there in person?

Regards,

Izuku Midoriya (he/him)
Applicant #9027

═════════x ▣ x═════════

Re: Admission Into Hero Course

To: [emailprotected]

From: [emailprotected]

Dear Izuku Midoriya,

Wonderful!

A written slip is all that is needed indicating that your guardian gives you full autonomy over your decisions in the meeting. Your father does not need to be there in person.

Regards,

Nezu (they/them)
Principal of Yuuei
Yuuei High School
[emailprotected]

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku stares at the large, wooden door, hands in his pockets. The name ‘NEZU’ is written in short, capital letters on a sleek metal plate, neat and orderly. When he squints, he can make out a small, hidden camera, right in the corner. It’s far from noticeable, a grey only a shade lighter than the metal, slightly protruding, easily mistakable for a speck of dirt.

He wipes over the spot with his thumb twice and salutes at it with two fingers when it doesn't wipe off.

The door swings open.

“Welcome!” Nezu embraces brightly, holding a small, ceramic cup of steaming tea.

Seated in the chair across from them is another person, a man with black hair and slanted eyes. It takes Izuku a few seconds to put a name to the dishevelled face; underground pro-hero Eraserhead.

“I hope you don’t mind our guest,” Nezu says, noticing Izuku’s line of vision.

Izuku shrugs.

“Very well, take a seat.” They gesture to the chair across from Eraserhead. Izuku keeps his posture small and nonchalant, hunches his shoulders and pulls down the sleeves of his shirt. Adults don’t fare well to his scars, to the lines and burns and stab wounds. They’re either pitying, ridiculing and mean, or they try to help. (At least, until Izuku tells them he’s nothing but a freak. After that, they always run away with their tails between their legs.)

“Care for a tea?”

Izuku shakes his head politely, focusing on the scar running over the stoat’s eye.

Don't make eye contact.

Don't make eye contact.

.ƚɔɒƚᴎoɔ ɘʏɘ ɘʞɒm ƚ’ᴎoᗡ

“Well, before we begin, I have a question, just a run-of-the-mill one that I greet all my guests with.” Nezu stands up on the desk and gestures to themself grandly. “Could you tell me what hybrid I am?”

“Stoat,” Izuku answers without hesitation, “you look like a stoat.”

Their smile, toothy and fake, shifts into something more frightening, more hungry.

“Well then...”

Chapter 6: they're restless in their cruelty and i am them.

Chapter Text

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku agitatedly loosens his tie, half tempted to just chuck it off. He doesn’t and has never learnt how to fix the knots, and no one at Genjitsu cared about uniforms or conduct. Considering it was a school where every student is another's punching back, every smile is chock-full of malice and chipped teeth, and every blazer's been flecked with blood, how could they give a damn about something as inconsequential as the fit of a tie or a few undone shirt buttons?

⚬⚬⚬

“That looks f*cking terrible,” Dabi tells him unhelpfully, leaning against the doorframe, nursing a cup of tea.

Izuku flips him off, still attempting to make his tie look somewhat decent in the shattered mirror.

“Sorry my daddy never really taught me how to do this,” he drawls sarcastically. “Why the f*ck are ties a part of uniforms anyway? Am I dressing up for a f*cking business deal?”

“Order and sh*t?” Dabi suggests, unsure. “I dropped out of school when I ran away, Zu, I haven’t worn a uniform in like, seven f*cking years.”

“Do you remember how to tie a tie at least?”

Dabi stares, long and hard at the mess of...something on Izuku's chest, and relents, out of pity if anything.

“No promises it’ll look good.”

“Anything is better than this sh*t.”

⚬⚬⚬

Dabi’s attempt was much better than his. Dabi's father—or, as Dabi refers to him kindly, the f*cking monster who happened to put his seed in Dabi's giver of birth—stressed the importance of appearance and reputation, and though Dabi hasn't been around the dickhe*d in ages, he still remembers how to fix the damn knot.

(Dabi recounted the story of his first piercing, a standard lobe he’d done himself. His father had yanked it out and cut open his ear. Dabi’s response was to cauterise the wound and give himself another four. His right lobe still has the tear. It isn’t funny. To remember a time in your life when you were left bruising, crying, and scared isn't funny. But Izuku laughed because Dabi talked about the way his father walked like he had crabs in his pants. Izuku will continue to laugh because the world is cruel, and laughing feels like the biggest ‘f*ck you’ to all the sh*tty things they’ve been through. He's spiteful like that.)

Still, Izuku struggles with feeling things snug around his neck squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, purple, blue blossoming veins and so he'd loosened the knot the best he could without undoing it. The only thing that can sit around his throat is the pendant he wore for his mother. (The rope was still like a noose, but this noose was hers, all of it was her, and he refuses to forget so.)

People stare at him as he waits by the gate. It isn't unusual. People's eyes always seem to find him, like he's some sort of amusing, carnival attraction to be gawked at. He gets it, with his uniform sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his blazer tied around his waist, the bandages on his arms are on full display along with the rest of himself. The rest of himself: scars, dirt, piercings, hair. Hair. His hair, styled like hers but her hair was straight, and pretty, and fell around her shoulders like gentle water. Izuku's hair sits on his head like a cloud, a thousand curls, messy and untameable and is never, just, right. (Will he ever escape her? Will he ever...)

Still, they shouldn’t stare. He hates that they're staring. It's uncomfortable.

Izuku looks down, pulling out his phone as the stares start to feel like nails across his skin.

═════════ x ☻ x ═════════

Electric Boy

kami i will leave.

where are you?

IM HERE ISTG IM LOOKING FOR YOU

═════════ ☻ ═════════

Izuku looks up and catches the head of dark blonde hair scurrying around, only a few paces ahead of him.

═════════ x ☻ x ═════════

Electric Boy

i'm across from you dumbass.

═════════ ☻ ═════════

Kaminari snaps his head up and notices Izuku leaning against a pillar, dull eyes glittering amusedly. He beams and jogs over. Izuku catches a few pins latched onto his uniform; little lightning bolts; characters from old animation films he’s seen with Akatani; a small bi and genderqueer flag.

“Cute pins,” he says, as opposed to a greeting. Kaminari flushes, cherry cheeks pulling into a more embarrassed smile.

“You think?” He brushes his fingers against the genderqueer flag. “I’m afraid of how people will react. Do you think it’s even allowed? I was worried that it wasn’t but I hate not wearing them and I would’ve pinned them to my bag but I already have a bunch of pins!” Kaminari points to his shoulder bag enthusiastically. “See! I have another bi flag, a ‘he/him’ pronoun one and—sh*t—I just realised! I never asked!” Kaminari looks away from his bag and to Izuku, eyes alight. “What are your pronouns? I assumed ‘he’ but y’know you do look pretty androgynous and looks don’t mean anything when it comes to pronouns or gender identity.”

He stops his tangent and looks at Izuku expectantly. Izuku’s lips quirk. He’s like an energised puppy. It’s precious.

Izuku starts walking to the building, Kaminari in tow, still looking up at him.

A few seconds pass before Izuku answers.

“The pins should be fine. As for my pronouns, I don’t really care, but ‘he/him’ works. It’s what I’m used to.”

"Cool! What class are you going to, by the way? I know you said Gen Ed but which section?”

“1-C.”

“I’m 1-A.” Kaminari makes a fist with his hand. “I’m kinda nervous actually! Like, what if they don’t like me? Actually, one of the dudes from the exam, the redhead who helped us when you passed out...”

⚬⚬⚬

“I'll have you tail 1-A...”

⚬⚬⚬

Izuku lets Kaminari talk, tangent after tangent, word vomit of messy and uncoordinated thoughts that are difficult to follow. Kaminari talks with his hands, enthusiastic and upbeat, all jumpy and expressive. Sometimes he’ll catch himself and shrink, almost as if embarrassed. Izuku understands that, talking with stars in your eyes only to be yelled at for being too loud and too much and too noisy. Being told to stop. ('You shine too brightly, Zuzuchan. That's why the world wants to keep you quiet.') Izuku asks a question whenever that happens, and Kaminari lights up all over again. It’s a little sad. Kaminari talks and all Izuku does is listen; that should be the way it works.

“Then there was this weird bird and—ah! The classroom!” Kaminari widens his eyes, facing the large door. He turns to Izuku apologetically. “I’m so sorry. I kept you away from your class and now you’re going to be late on your first day. You could’ve just told me you were headed a different way. If you want I can ask whoever my homeroom teacher is to write you a slip so you won’t get into trouble for dropping me off.”

Izuku waves his hand dismissively. “I’m coming with you, Kam.”

Kaminari’s distress melts way to confusion.

“You are? Why? Didn’t you say you were in 1-C?”

“I am.” Izuku ties his jacket around his waist. “Remember I told you there were conditions I have to meet for my request to go through.”

“Oh yeah, I remember,” Kaminari nods. "So the condition is what? Joining both 1-A and 1-C?”

“Not quite.”

Shota

☾☾☾

Shota Aizawa’s sleeping bag is his haven. Life is unfair; an indisputable fact. If there is a god, they are not benevolent. There is abuse; hate; discrimination. There is an ugly truth about humanity that God has injected into the blood of their creations, and so Shota cannot call them benevolent.

Day in and day out, Shota fights gory battles; fights for children who cry; fights for the women hiding in back alleys; fights for the men left penniless by power-hungry bastards.

Day in and day out, Shota fights.

His sleeping bag is his haven; his own, little world of warped reality. To him, the flimsy, piss-yellow material wards away devils. In that little bag, in his cocoon, no one can touch him. He is no longer real, no longer a person who breathes and walks and eats and lives. In that little bag, he is alone, truly friends with the Nothingness. Not with his thoughts or the voices of people long since gone, but true Nothingness.

It's bliss.

Shota loves his sleeping bag. He carries it anywhere and everywhere he can. With it, he hides. He pretends no harm can come if he holds onto the material a little tighter. As he lays on the floor, his students swarming in—nervous and excited for their first day in Yuuei’s hero course—sleeping bag drawn, he pretends, for those few seconds, that there is Nothingness. He forgets who he is; forgets his naivety; his faults. He forgets the dreadful fatigue that threatens to drown him anew every year, whenever he meets his new students, as he watches reality distort those eager faces. He forgets that it's he who watches them die, a slow, agonising death.

In the end, however, Shota is a man of logic and a somewhat sound mind. After those few seconds, he draws himself out, minutes before the bell rings. He slouches at the front of the room, his sleeping bag still halfway on and his presence kept quiet.

'What sh*tty spatial awareness.'

He looks at the faces and notes that Izuku Midoriya is not among them.

Only three minutes to the bell.

⚬⚬⚬

“As I mentioned in the email,” Nezu starts, running over to the kettle and pouring themselves a cup of tea.

Midoriya had called them a stoat. In his many years of knowing the infamous principal, Shota has never once met a person with that answer. It's always the same ‘I don’t know. A rat and a bear?’ Shota's answer over a decade ago had been no different.

Of course, they are wrong. Nezu is, indeed, a mutated stoat, something he’d only found out months into his first year as a Yuuei teacher. The word stoat wasn’t what made Midoriya's answer significant, though. People knew of stoats, and Nezu is an animal with a rat’s face and bear paws. The significance lies in seeing through the trick, in being told the word 'hybrid' and sticking with the word stoat, only.

“Your request was rather odd. May I ask why you’d rather enrol in the General Education course?” Nezu walks over to their desk, stands on the table, and keeps their smile plastered prettily on their face. Shota knows it's an impression of a humanistic smile and finds it to be rather morbid.

“I don’t think I’m qualified.” Midoriya’s words are clipped, simple, and honest.

'Unqualified?'

“Very well.” Nezu’s eyes glint, beady black and bottomless. “I suppose that is a conversation for another time. For now, let’s get on with why I brought you here today.”

They gesture to Shota. “This is Eraserhead, otherwise Shota Aizawa.”

Midoriya spares him a glance, eyes raking over his appearance like they did when he first walked in, before turning to Nezu, still silent.

“Considering how unique your request was,” Nezu continues, “I’d like to propose certain conditions for discussing your enrollment. You’re welcome to decline.”

"Am I?"

The scepticism is palpable.

Nezu tilts their head. Blinks. Smile so morbidly humanistic.

"You are. But, I can't help but warn you that it will be a rather substantial missed opportunity should you choose to."

It's an unsaid statement.

'I can shatter you without batting an eye and make sure you live through it.'

Midoriya stiffens, guarded eyes hardening. He must hear it too, then, what is unsaid.

Nezu’s posture brightens. Because they know—they all know—it never was a request.

⚬⚬⚬

The door slides open and Shota’s last student walks through.

Midoriya in tow.

They’re talking. Well, the dark blonde—Denki Kaminari—is talking and Midoriya is listening, though his eyes dart around the room the moment they walk in. They find the exits, Shota realises, briefly settling on the window and vents and second door before taking in anything else. Eventually, his eyes dart to Shota, and he mumbles something to Kaminari, who quiets and follows Midoriya's gaze, eyes widening.

Seeing as he's been noticed, Shota steps forward.

“If you’re gonna be hunting for buddies do it elsewhere.” Shota lets his sleeping bag fall off of him as he makes himself known. “This is the department of heroics.”

He counts.

One.

The ceiling caves in.

Two.

Blood splatters against the walls.

Three.

Bullets find their home in soft skulls.

Four.

Someone loses a limb.

Five.

Fire rages, high as empire buildings.

Six.

You can see their bones.

Seven

All you hear are their screams.

Eight.

The nineteen students sit at their desks, attentively.

“It took you eight seconds to quiet down. Life is short, kids, you’re lacking in common sense.”

All it takes is eight seconds before everyone is dead. All it takes is eight seconds, and everything you have is taken away from you. All it takes is eight seconds for the ground to split open and for hell to swallow you whole. Eight. Measly. Seconds.

“I’m your homeroom teacher, Aizawa." He points to the many metal briefcases stacked against the wall. “Wear these immediately and then shove off to the P.E grounds.” He looks to Midoriya, who stands at the front, slumped against the wall. He’s playing with that same rusted knife Shota remembers from the entrance exam.

“You, follow me,” he orders and walks off.

All it'll ever take is eight seconds.

When Midoriya walks over to him, he takes nine.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

A quirk apprehension test?

How cruel.

Izuku remains away from the students, crouched low to the ground, as Aizawa explains to the students what their first lesson will be. When they complain about the entrance ceremony and how they're missing it, Aizawa rebukes them by telling them that 'frilly niceties' aren't made for the hero-course students. They have to harden themselves, and can't be made of fluff and cotton candy if they want to have any hope of becoming the next generation of pros.

Izuku doesn't have much of an opinion. He briefly considers why he's with the hero-course students before decidedly adding his own 2 cents.

"Besides, what good is a f*cking welcome ceremony, anyway? Shouldn't you be familiar with the rules of the school you applied to?"

Aizawa shoots him a look and Izuku shrugs.

It's not like he's here because he wants to be. But Izuku's a bloodhound for threats and danger, and Nezu was a force to be f*cking reckoned with. The kind that Izuku avoided. (The kind that would never let him die, if it came down to it, just live despite.)

"Who are you anyway?" the cute girl with bright pink apple-cheeks who voiced her concerns about the ceremony asks. "And why aren't you dressed in a P.E. kit?"

Another person with choppy bangs directs the next question at Aizawa. "Didn't you call him over specifically? He's a student too, right? He's wearing the uniform."

"Oh! I remember you from the entrance exam!"

"sh*t, right! You're the manly dude who took down the zero-pointer to save Kaminari, right?"

"No-f*cking-way he took down the zero pointer?"

"Holy sh*t, he's so small though?!"

"Dude it was so f*cking crazy to watch like straight out of— "

When Aizawa silences the class, it's through a sharp glare accompanied by the flare of his quirk.

Izuku wonders what it’s like to have something you're so reliant on be stripped away in a second. He wonders if it’s like losing someone you loved, or like losing a limb. He wonders if it’s enough to break you, losing that part of yourself. He wonders with unspoken sadism and an itch in his fingers to test it out.

Aizawa looks frightening, eyes glowing red and hair levitating around him. Everyone falls quiet.

"He isn't in the Hero Course," Aizawa clarifies briefly, "but he’s going to be tailing you all per Nezu’s request. If you have any questions, you can ask him after class.”

His tone is strict, with no room for make-way or questioning. Seemingly satisfied, he explains the activity. He goes on a small spiel about the ignorance of the military by never allowing students to hone their quirks, legally, within school grounds. His tone is bitter as he reprimands them, calling it meaningless to police people in their attempt to claim control over the masses. Izuku feels the bitterness sitting in his blood, too; understands the anger.

He thinks people like Aizawa, though, are crueller, though. People who understand but can no longer sympathise.

“Katsuki Bakugo.”

Izuku straightens at the name.

He's been purposefully keeping his eyes off Izuku, ignoring him the way he never did when they were kids. The colour of his eyes is unforgettable. Red, like the blood on Izuku's hands and under his nails, staining his skin, stubborn no matter how much he scrapes his palms or rubs the skin raw. Red, like the blood on his hands—on Katsuki's calloused-to-the-bone hands—Izuku's blood.

“How far could you pitch a softball in middle school?”

“67 metres.”

It’s been ten months since he’s seen that face, three years since he’s heard—since he's listened—to that voice. It’s deeper now, gruff and raw and angry as ever.

“Try using your quirk this time around. Don't exit the circle. Otherwise, anything applies."

Izuku keeps his gaze on Katsuki, holding his nose as the familiar stench of gas and burnt sugar circles the air. It’s faint. Katsuki doesn’t face him, the heat of his explosions doesn’t blister Izuku’s skin. Yet it’s all he can smell, so strong he thinks he can taste it like syrup coating his tongue. (It isn't faint. To him, it'll never be faint.)

“Don’t hold back.”

He won’t. Katsuki Bakugo is all in. Always everything. Never nothing.

Katsuki smirks a self-satisfied smile.

“You got it.”

Katsuki Bakugo never holds back.

“Eat sh*t!” he screams. It's aggressive as ever.

Izuku's surprised he isn't screaming 'die' instead.

“Eat sh*t?" a voice echoes quietly.

“Before anything else, one must know what they’re capable of.” Aizawa shows the students his screen, showcasing the impressive number ‘705.2’. “This is a rational metric that will form the basis of your ‘hero foundation’.”

Excited chatter follows his words, and Katsuki stuffs his hands in his pockets, a confident leer showing off the glint of his teeth as students praise his high score.

“We can really use our quirks now?!” the redhead exclaims happily to the girl with pink skin. “That’s the department of heroics for you.”

“This is going to be fun!” Pinky beams back, raising a fist into the air.

Izuku sees Aizawa bristle at her words.

“It looks fun, you say?” The old man's hair falls forward, shadowing his features. His lips pull into the fraternal twin of a smile, eyes glowing red. It’s sinister, fear-instilling. “So you were planning to spend your three years here having a good ol’ time? What happened to becoming heroes?”

He slowly, methodically, pulls back his hair, showing off a nasty expression. “All right then.” He grins. It isn’t sweet. “In that case, new rule. The student who ranks last in total points will be judged hopeless and instantly expelled.”

The silence is suffocating. Izuku looks at the students and sees which of them already feel damned, students who boiled themselves down to 'useless' the moment Aizawa uttered 'rank last' and 'expelled' in the same sentence.

“Our freedom means we dispense with students as we please.” Aizawa cards his fingers through his hair and out of his face, his smile complemented by his wide, bloodshot stare and dilated pulis. "Welcome to the department of heroics.”

“This is our first day here!” Apple-Cheeks bravely voices the shared disgruntlement, “And even if it weren’t, that’s just too unreasonable.”

Aizawa drops his hands, his intimidating presence falling flat. Izuku, mildly perturbed by her naïevety, finds himself on his feet, replying before Aizawa can.

“Unreasonable?”

Izuku pulls out his switchblade, tucked in his pants pocket, and flicks it open, pointing the end of it at her lazily. He pointedly ignores he warning look Aizawa shoots him.

"I could kill you right now with just this."

A few students gasp at the casually spoken threat, off-put by Izuku's behaviour. Aizawa, who must not see Izuku as an immediate threat to his students' safety, stays back, those his gaze is still sceptical and watchful.

Izuku continues, "Aizawa might try to stop me, but I'm sure I could inflict a good amount of damage, at least." He pauses, eyes flickering between Apple-Cheeks and her shoulder. "If I stab you, right by the ligament over there," he points, "I could render your entire arm useless forever." The students by her crowd nearer, protective. Izuku doesn't pay it much mind, though he's sure this initial show of goodness and camaraderie would prove good for their future. "If I did, would it be fair?"

Confusion. Very few students follow Izuku's train of thought, though Aizawa finally loosens his stance seeing where Izuku is going with this deviation.

“I’m sorry I don’t quite understand what you're trying to prove. And threatening someone is unbecoming of a hero,” a smart, velvety voice responds instead. Izuku recognizes that face, the astounding daughter of the Yaoyorozu family.

“I’m not a hero,” Izuku reacts brusquely, “and my question wasn’t answered. If I suddenly kill her, is it fair? Is it f*cking reasonable?"

“Of course, it isn’t reasonable,” Glasses—wasn’t he the boy who poked at Izuku’s appearance during the entrance exam?—interjects, “It’s murder without justification!”

He looks like Ingenium. Probably an Iida, then.

Izuku shrugs.

"That doesn't mean I won't do it." He gestures to the scars on his face with a blade. "Do you think the people who gave me this cared about fairness? About being reasonable? Do you think they were justified in their actions? Or that I decided on a whim to slam my face into uneven concrete and then take sandpaper to the bleeding wounds? Is that what you think happened."

'No.'

What happened was that Izuku was 12. So young. Too young and small. But 12 was big enough to know how to hurt someone. 12 was big enough for his bullies to realise that maybe, next year, they'll lose their favourite quirk-dummy. 12 was big enough to know that it didn't matter what they did to someone like Izuku, not at all, not now that they were leaving.

12 was big enough for the kids his age to find it funny to leave him with a grand finale for a final memory of his elementary school years.

'Stop! Stop! It hurts! I can't see! Stop! Please! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅStop! Stop! sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅ! Stop! Stop! Stop! sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅStop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! .qsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ.sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅ qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ.qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅqoƚꙄ.qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. qoƚꙄ. sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅ
qoƚꙄ.sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅ
sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅqoƚꙄ.
qoƚꙄ!sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅ
S̸̟̲͙͔͙̟̭̦͕̐̋̃̓ͥ͊͌̄̅̍̈́͐ͧ̉ͪ͐̕͢͠ͅt̡̖̬̺̠͉̯̜ͪ̇̊͡ǫ̴̬̐p̴̵̛̻̠͚̭̹̙̝̠̟̪͈̘͔͓̫̳̬̼̲͓̓͊́̒̾ͧ̒̒́́̅̔͒ͬ͛̌͋̐̕͝.̶͇̲̮̄͢͡'sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅ
sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅsͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅ
sͯ͢t̴̰̩̝̙̦͋̍͢͠͠ǫ̶̛̗̟͉̮̩̙̪̼͊̍͌̐͑̑̏̈́̕͢p̩͂͊̔̐̂ͮ͝͡ͅ

They didn't listen.

Izuku's head was slammed into the road and pavement hard enough that he swore his brain was leaking from his skull. They did it until he could only groan, saliva and blood dribbling down his skin and staining his clothes. They did it and complained and whined when Izuku stopped screaming so they found a broken bottle and pressed the glass into the large, gaping wounds on Izuku's face. Then they laughed and laughed and laughed until Izuku was throwing up the little he managed to eat.

They laughed more and made him lick it up. Laughed as he cut his tongue.

12-year-old boys who were not big but big enough to know what a scar was and the memories it could leave behind.

But Izuku doesn't remember the moments very clearly, only that it hurt. He doesn't remember a lot, back then. (Her. How could you forget her? She just died. You can't cry over spilt blood that isn't yours, not until you're done crying over hers. Will you ever be?)

Izuku swallows.

"You guys chose to be heroes. You signed up for this sh*t. What? Did you think they lived in mansions and did nothing else? Did you think they always won? Don't be so f*cking stupid. People aren't reasonable. Not just villains, not just the kids who f*cked up my face, but people. Humans. You and f*cking me. Japan isn't reasonable. If your ultimate aspiration in life is to fight off psychos who are looking to raise hell, you can't expect reasonability.

"Not unless you're looking to be killed before you can even graduate."

Izuku folds the knife back into its holder and slips it back into his pocket, pressing against the base of his throat with the hell of his palm. His voice hurts.

When he looks up at Aizawa, he blinks at the mildly impressed, more obviously aghast expression he wears.

It's dripping with melancholy.

Izuku's sure Aizawa would've said the same thing, though, just gifted in a less ugly box. (But, Aizawa is a grown man at 30. He's a pro-hero, a teacher, a mentor, a father. Aizawa has peeled bodies off bloody pavements and picked up kids with chipped teeth and mouldy bread for dinner. He knows how vile the world is because he's 30 and he learnt.

Izuku is a kid.)

Aizawa turns his gaze, then, as does Izuku, noting all eyes on him, now. The expressions vary, from contemptuous to intrigued to fearful to contemplative. Kaminari looked awed, his cheeks a quiet flush of pink.

“This is ‘Plus Ultra’,” Aizawa reminds them, “I expect you to overcome these trials and climb to the top.”

“Really, who are you anyway?” a cool voice demands. Izuku recognises the Todoroki heir, instantaneously eyes finding the distinctive scar before all else.

Momentarily, he's put off by the boy's beauty.

'Holy sh*t.'

Pretty. Pretty as f*ck.

'Where the hell did get that from because it surely wasn't Endeavor.'

“Aizawa-Sensei said you weren’t a hero; you’re in the uniform so you are a student, and you’re our age. I would like to know why a student is tailing us?”

Aizawa sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and mutters something under his breath before gesturing for Izuku to stand at his side.

"He placed in the entrance exam with all of you, but declined admission into the heroics department, wanting to remain in General Education only. Resultingly, Nezu offered him a proposal to ensure his talents weren't going to waste."

"What a way to make it sound pretty," Izuku mumbles dryly.

Aizawa rolls his eyes, blatantly ignoring Izuku as he's officially introduced.

"Everyone, please welcome Nezu's personally chosen representative, Izuku Midoriya of 1-C."

A bang—loud and hot and loud loud loud and hot and ƚoʜ.

“Deku?!”

⚬⚬⚬

“Representative?” Izuku repeats sceptically, half a mind to throw himself out of the window. “You want me to be your representative?”

“I believe that is what I said.” Although Nezu gestures to nothing, Izuku knows they're gesturing to the world and the universe, to hate, greed, and power. Or maybe they are gesturing at nothing, and grandiosity is Izuku's means of justifying such an outlandish request. “I would like you to be my personal representative.”

“And what does that entail?”

Their beady eyes crinkle, and though it's disturbing, Izuku feels it’s reassuring too; he knows he’s asking the right questions.

Only ever ask the right questions.

“Observations; analysis; strategizing. I would like you to watch over Class 1-A up until the end of their summer training camp, which you would be attending.”

There’s more…

“Do not fret, you are not obligated to participate in the classes, nor will you be attending them continuously, as you are, currently, enrolled in General Education. You’ll only tail the class when Aizawa is present, and you do not have to report your findings back to me daily, though I will call you in on occasion.

“And then, after the training camp, if you have yet to change your mind, I will officially accept your decline to join the heroics course. Is that alright with you?”

'Motherf*cker.'

Katsuki

✷ ✷ ✷

Katsuki would be lying if he said he didn't have expectations for Yuuei. They weren't as grand as they had been when he was young, but for someone who'd been told he was the best, to be enrolled in the most prestigious and praised hero course in Japan, Katsuki expected the best.

The closest thing to perfection.

Katsuki's expectations have all been met, up until this point. He got in like he said he would, and ranked first like he knew he would be.

He's f*cking Katsuki Bakugo. He wins. He'll always win. (Always?)

He comes in with the same sureness he's carried on his shoulders since he was 4 and a teacher told him he was destined for greatness. He's a tower of bravado, toughness and arrogance backed by talent. He comes in, expecting to meet some of Japan's greatest talent, and isn't disappointed but isn't awed, yet, either.

He doesn't expect the short, green-haired student to walk in among the rest of the students.

He doesn't expect to see the same, once brilliant green eyes he could've sworn he met nearly 10 months ago.

(But did you? Did you really see him? You say once brilliant because the eyes you saw were dull. The person you saw looked nothing like the boy you remember, and everything like him too. So did you? Did you really see him?

Are you sure?

Are you honest?)

Katsuki isn't sure he saw him though. His mother told him he must've lost it and the boy who ran after him as he died was held hostage looked like hell had run him over twice. So did he see him? Really? Is he sure?

Wasn't it All Might who saved him? Because the boy who left wasn't the happy-go-lucky kid Katsuki sees in his nightmares remembers in passing. The boy who reached for the slime with broken fingernails was a familiar-looking stranger. He had to be.

Katsuki couldn't accept any other conclusions.

So, when his expectations are defied and the same boy walks into the classroom with some dark blonde in tow, Katsuki decides right then and there that he is no more than a familiar-looking stranger. Deku was a happy, bright kid. Deku didn't bear such dark scars on his face. Deku smiled like the world was made of colour. That was who Katsuki mourns remembers. The kid with galaxies and meadows in his eyes.

His beliefs are only further cemented when the stranger speaks. He's too mean, too harsh, too cruel, to be Deku.

Deku would weep when butterflies died.

When the pretty boy with a f*cked up face asks who he is and asks for his name, Katsuki can't help but lean in. Just to confirm that the person was indeed a stranger and not the boy who left 3 years ago. That the boy from 10 months ago was not Deku, and that his mother was right this time. That Katsuki lost it because not enough oxygen was reaching his head.

"Everyone, please welcome Nezu's personally chosen representative, Izuku Midoriya of 1-C."

'Deku?!'

═════════ ✷ ═════════

No one tells you how to prepare for loss.

Not death, but loss.

Disappearance.

When it comes to death, there’s a body. With death, you know there is no return. With death, there’s a sense, a semblance, of closure.

When it comes to loss, there’s nothing but question after question, a where and why and what. (Never how or when or who. No one cares about how or when or who if you don't know the where, why and what.)

Where are you? Where did you go? Where can I find you?

Why aren't you here? Why did you leave? Why do I know nothing?

What happened?

Because with loss, there is no hate or resentment or grief, but gut-wrenching confusion. It eats at you. No matter how strong you are, how brave, or how ferocious. You can be number one, lie in serpent's tongue and use your fists to prove you’re fine, but that’s all it’ll ever be—a lie. Not a pretty white lie, but a grotesque one. A lie in the shape of a gargantuan, wicked monster, with wet lips leaking slobber, gouged-out bleeding eyes and razor-sharp teeth. It’s a monster that likes the way you taste, the way you scream, the way you beg.

The way you go mad wondering where and why and what.

You’ll never get over Loss. Because loss has no end or middle. It's only a beginning, a re-read of the first chapter, again and again, questions that can be answered if you just turn the damn page.

Except there are no pages to turn to. It's impossible.

You’ll never get over Loss.

(And if the person is found...)

═════════ ✷ ═════════

“Deku?!”

It’s followed by a series of explosions, not a small, feeble ‘pop’ and ‘crack’ but a resonating ‘BOOM!!’. Katsuki's ears ring. He careens himself, flying mid-air and fisting Deku's uniform shirt in his smouldering palms. Deku. This is Deku. He’s all scars and washed-out skin and limp hair, but some-f*cking-how, it's Deku.

“What the f*ck?!” he cries, even those he’s so close, so close he can count Deku’s eyelashes, curly and long. He remembers a lifetime ago when every time he blinked it was like his eyes shone even brighter. He’s so close he can see his freckles, how they cluster around his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. He remembers a lifetime ago when Deku would count them, frustrated every time he lost count. He’d giggle about how pretty they made him feel.

He’s so close he can see his scars, the textured skin running down his forehead, over his cheek, scars that were never there; so close he can see the bruises under his eyes, far darker than he ever remembered; so close he can see the glinting piercings. There’s no lifetime ago to remember. This is new. These parts of him are new.

It’s wrong.

He’s so close he thinks it isn’t Deku. So close, he knows that it is.

“What the f*ck?!” he repeats, deaf and blind to everyone but Deku, Deku who stands here—no, he sits, Katsuki pushed him to the floor—startled with glazed-over eyes, scared.

Like a lifetime ago...

═════════ ✷ ═════════

When the person is found, it isn’t relief or happiness or joy that hugs you. It's anger and pain and raw hurt.

Because nothing is the right answer, because you never wanted an answer.

The monster will lurk forever.

You still can’t turn the f*cking page.

═════════ ✷ ═════════

“You gonna explain what f*cking bullsh*t trick you’re trying to pull, huh?” Katsuki shakes him, but Deku doesn’t answer. He fists the dirt, but he stays quiet.

“What the f*ck do you think you’re doing here!” he roars. His palms spark, hotter and hotter, sweat collecting.

In an instant, the heat is gone; fabric is wrapped around Katsuki's wrist and he’s tugged away. He's restrained, thrashing wildly, still f*cking screaming.

“You think you can just show up after leaving for years you useless nerd! Think that a few scars and piercings suddenly mean you’re the sh*t?! Who the f*ck do you think you are you useless, worthless asswipe! You think you can beat me now that I— ”

His words are cut off when the fabric pulls against his jaw muffling his voice. It tastes like sh*t.

“Katsuki Bakugo,” the voice of his teacher orders, “you aren’t to attack any students, especially unprovoked. This behaviour can warrant expulsion."

Katsuki stops flailing.

He only wins. He can’t be expelled. He’s Katsuki Bakugo!

And that's…

That’s useless, quirkless, stupid f*cking Deku.

Denki

❂ ❂ ❂

Denki jogs over to Midoriya the second Aizawa pulls away the explosive blonde, Bakugo.

It's frightening. Not the horror-movie-creepy-doll-blinks-at-you frightening, but my-dad-said-he'd-be-here-three-hours-ago-but-isn't frightening; the I-hope-he's-alive frightening.

Midoriya doesn’t react when he gently lifts him. He isn’t hurt, save for the few scrapes on his palms and the char on his uniform.

Denki has to gently shake him, once, twice, before he startles, spine going straight and feet moving into a stance as if ready for a brawl.

“Hey dude,” Denki tells him warily. In the background, Aizawa is reprimanding Bakugo. “Dude we’re at Yuuei. You’re in the yard with my class, 1-A, and the teacher, Aizawa-Sensei.” He keeps his hand on Midoriya’s shoulder and squeezes lightly. Midoriya flinches, shaking it off weakly. Denki stays at his side, pressed against him.

Midoriya’s dissociating as he did at the hospital. Denki, human in the way that he always wanted to know, wonders why. If it's to do with Bakugo; if it's some faceless asshole. He thinks it's the story behind some of his scars and the cynical lens Midoriya has on the world. He knows it's to do with the unfairness and cruelty he'd uncurtained for them a few minutes ago, holding a knife to their throats.

Suddenly, Midoriya jerks. Deki's eyes zero in on the blood dripping down his curled fist. He grabs his hand and gently pries his fingers. Izuku lets him, his chest rising and falling rhythmically as he gains his bearings. The deep, crescent-shaped open scars in Midoriya's palms are worrying. Midoriya using pain as a grounding method rubs Denki the wrong way, but he says nothing because he doesn't know what to say. Denki uses the edge of his shirt to wipe away some of the blood and hopes it offers the smallest comfort.

Midoriya's eyes come to focus on Denki, before moving to where Aizawa is threatening a gone-silent Bakugo.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, so only Denki can hear.

“It’s no problem,” Denki shrugs. He plasters a goofy smile because being silly is fun and distracting and Denki likes being that; knows how to be that. “Just call me your hero.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe more.”

Midoriya shakes his head bemusedly. Denki takes it as a win.

“As for that Bakugo dude,” he whispers it for Midoriya's ears only, “I don’t think you have to worry about him attacking you randomly, Aizawa-Sensei’s drilled into him that it is grounds for expulsion.”

He sees Midoriya’s twitch, surprised.

But Denki won’t ask today.

“Man he’s scary,” Denki adds, “only been fifteen minutes and I’ve almost pissed my pants twice. Especially with this whole quirk apprehension test. My quirk isn’t suited for it at all.”

Midoriya gives him a look that Denki’s grown way too familiar with over the phone. A look that just screams, ‘Shut up before I kick you'.

"Am I wrong?" Denki mutters.

"Aizawa is cruel," Midoriya admits, sparing the man a glance. He still has Bakugo wrapped up. "But he's...fair. Or, tries to be."

"You think?" Denki asks sceptically.

Izuku hums.

“Anyways,” Aizawa draws back their attention, “let us continue.”

Chapter 7: i’m a loser amongst losers who call each other losers.

Chapter Text

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

The girl whose quirk turns her invisible comes dead last, followed closely by the girl with earphone jacks for lobes, and then Kaminari, who looks like he's about to sh*t himself. The last 3 students have yet to finish the final test, but the gap is too far between them and those in last place to make a difference.

They aren't aware of it, yet. Izuku had been given the tablet to attach their names to their faces and the ranking is glaring up at him where he's slouching by Aizawa. He fights the urge to reassure Kaminari that he hadn't placed last as he watches the electricity user stim. He's sort of reminding Izuku of a live wire, left to fray and spark in a room doused in gasoline, waiting to slap the floor and set the room alight. Izuku likes Kaminari; he wants to ease Kaminari's nerves.

Well, he supposes, Kaminari must have some sense if he's this nervous. After all, the ranking was pretty sensical and predictable. The quirks of the last 3 are unfathomably useless for this sort of exercise. At least, at this level or practice. Electrification did not make you run faster; manipulating vibrations did not tighten your grip—though strengthening her ability to amplify sounds would've definitely helped her in the other tests; light refraction worked better when it came to illusions, not when it came to throwing a ball. The students following them, too, had rather useless quirks. Or, in the case of the glittery person, heavily unstable ones. It was either strength given to them by their mutations or some one-hit-wonder application of their quirk that was only practical for one of the exercises that put them ahead.

"Where do you think you'd place?" Aizawa asks him as Momo Yaoyorozu lands her long jump. She'd used her quirk to pull out a pogo stick. Izuku had been momentarily mesmerised by the glittering skin, curious to know if it was a trick of the light or the tiny, atoms of her flesh being eaten away, the fragments catching the sun as it splits open and seals itself again.

Izuku looks back at the rankings and points.

"14th," he decides. "Maybe 15th."

"Why?"

Izuku holds his breath, remembers that Aizawa had asked and, probably, wouldn't rip out his vocal chords for answering, and relaxes.

"The students in last place are there because they don't know how to use their quirks in this exercise or their quirks serve no purpose. I'd take it I'm faster than them." He points to the short boy with orbs for hair and the glittery...being. "Their quirks only benefited them in one exercise, but their athletic abilities outside of their quirks are the worst in the class. I'd guess the purple thing is weaker than anyone here."

"Even though he's placed 17th?"

"He got lucky with the side-jump." Izuku shows the point difference between 20th and 15th place. "There isn't much of a jump in between these numbers. The guy with the animal quirk managed to pull ahead of the boy with balls for a head despite never once utilising his quirk. Kaminari is 20 points from surpassing him."

Aizawa says nothing, but there’s something in the way he looks at Izuku, apprehension and understanding, Izuku thinks.

“This test is stupid,” Izuku says as Aizawa rounds the students to gather by him, keeping his voice low.

Aizawa raises an eyebrow but gives no reply. Izuku keeps his eyes on the students. Students like Yaoyorozu, Todoroki and Katsuki, are confident, proud, calm and collected. Students like the invisible girl, Kaminari, the grape-headed boy, are nervous and twitching; glistening with sweat.

“Time to present the results.” Aizawa hands over papers to every student. The invisible girl, Toru Hagakure—Izuku has to make a point to use their names now that he's had time to learn them—makes a noise akin to a pained whimper. Aizawa smiles. It’s a really ugly smile.

“Oh yeah, that whole expulsion thing was a lie,” he says like he’s talking about the weather, a subtle change in the forecast, purposefully ignorant to the horrific way some of his students look at him. “It was a logical ruse to pull out your best performances.”

“What?!” rings out like a chorus from some demented choir, and Izuku looks at Aizawa with a frown. He knew Aizawa was cruel. He reminds him of a local prostitute he's acquainted with, Iyla. She's nasty; likes to raid the wallets of pathetic men who spend too much time in bars and clubs instead of with their wives and little kids. He's cruel like her, vindictive and sly. But Iyla and her friends survive with their vixen-like smiles and guile tongues. Aizawa lives.

“Obviously, it was a ruse.” Yaoyorozu folds her arms. It’d be more haughty if not for the way her eyes are genuine with confusion. “Use your brains, you guys.”

“You’re lying,” Izuku confronts Aizawa as the class heads over to the lockers to change back into their uniforms. “The whole logical ruse thing was a lie. Nezu gave me your file, you have the highest expulsion rate.”

“They’re heroes in training and like you said, life is unreasonable. If a student was lacking potential, they would’ve been expelled for a week before I’d re-enrol them, cementing the idea that a career in heroics isn’t plausible for narrow-minded and naïve kids.”

Izuku knows this too. Aizawa has the highest expulsion rate because he’s expelled three students total in his entire career, and the other teachers don’t have the same authority. Aside from Vlad King, who’s never deemed it necessary. Almost always, if Aizawa expels a student at the start of the year, within a week he re-enrols them. It's an effective warning.

That doesn’t make him any more honest.

“If those students were me, Aizawa.” Izuku forgoes the ‘sensei’ because Aizawa isn’t his teacher, and forgoes a ‘san’ or ‘sama’ because Izuku doesn't care for manners. “If they were quirkless or deemed useless because of their quirk, an exercise that at first impression is clearly biassed…” Izuku thinks about himself, the version of him that was well and alive before her passing, stuttering and nervous, fingernails bitten to the skin, blood on his lips as he watches students surpass him with the ease of someone born just a tad luckier. He thinks about his desperation, his obsession, and how he'd made them his life-lines.

Had he been expelled, Aizawa wouldn't have had the week to re-enrol him. Izuku would've killed himself that night.

“...students will lose their trust in you as a teacher.”

He knows he’s overstepped his boundaries. But his knife is still in his hand, and Aizawa’s a good distance away. He could run; slit his own throat; slit Aizawa's. Just passing thoughts.

Much to his astonishment, however, Aizawa doesn't yell. Instead, he gives Izuku another look, like he understands one part of him and is confused by another.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He looks away. “Head to class, you wouldn’t want to be late for your first lesson.”

Izuku nods, bewildered, and walks off.

Aizawa hadn’t mocked him, hit him, or threatened to choke him with the binding cloth.

'Weird.'

Shota

☾☾☾

‘Students will lose their trust in you as a teacher.’

Shota’s a smart man. He prides himself on his intelligence and quick judgement. There is no room for fruitless thinking and inefficiency in his line of work, as both a hero and a teacher. As a man most attentive to logic and objectivity, he’s predisposed to breaking down people and their authorizations to understand them. Otherwise, he refuses to obey them.

This is until he meets Nezu.

Nezu is an enigma to him. They’re impossibly shrewd with foresight only rivalled by that of Sasaki, and they’re fiendish, brutal, and unforgiving. They have no concept of humanity, and that in itself is frightening. To think about how someone so intelligent is simmering in constant anger, anger directed at humans at that...it's unnerving.

Nezu is one of the few people Shota will listen to without question. It's not that he doesn't doubt him, that he's never hesitant or confused. More often than not, the orders Nezu has him undergo drive him up the wall. Regardless, he listens. Unlike people, Nezu can’t be driven by empathy and care, and so even if Shota doesn’t understand or answer all the questions, he knows that there’s gain. (And sacrifice. But there is always sacrifice.)

Nezu is far from saint-like, but they are on humanity's side. Nezu, no matter how pissed and vengeful, is a curious stoat, and humans make them curious. They feed their curiosity as everyone else waits with bated breath for the day they decidedly become bored.

So, when Nezu tells Shota that Izuku Midoriya is going to be tailing them until the training camp, before the provisional licence exam, he doesn’t question it.

Midoriya is a puzzling character, and Nezu’s always seen more than Shota ever could, so Shota complies.

To hear Izuku Midoriya so quickly critique the test, critique his judgement, with such a clipped, straightforward tone, Shota understands the intrigue. Having him tail 1-A feels more meritable.

Surely, his insight would widen the hopeful heroes-to-be. Midoriya is calculating and cold. He’s blunt, his humour dry and—from the snippets of conversation he’s heard from Midoriya's conversations with Kaminari, a little crude. He’s not only smart, something Shota could deduce from his exemplary scores in the written exams, but he’s also analytical. Like Shota, Midoriya breaks things apart. But where Shota does so to learn more about them, Midoriya does it to simplify and rebuild them to his liking. Like Nezu.

It's no wonder he's piqued the stoat's interest.

Midoriya's a shattered mirror; a warped and twisted reflection; the other side of the coin. He reminds Shota of himself and yet is nothing like him. He offers a new perspective; he has an irreplaceable potential that’s yet to be honed. He's like a poorly wrapped gift from a fallen angel sporting a demon's eyes.

“Where's the Midoriya boy?” Uraraka Ochaco asks him, coming out of the locker rooms with a few other students.

“He’s going to Gen Ed now,” Kaminari answers in his stead, showing up behind her. “He told me he’s only gonna be here if Aizawa-Sensei is here, or if he’s, like, ordered to show up any other time for some reason. Right, Sensei?”

Shota nods in confirmation. "Midoriya's circ*mstances are especially unique, so Nezu's leaving him for me to handle, for now."

Uraraka's eyes glitter.

Shota's having none of it.

“All of you get to class," he orders before she can attack him with questions, "you have Art History.”

The sound of someone clicking their tongue drags Shota's eyes to Katsuki Bakugo, arms folded over his chest defensively as he slouches to the doors.

Shota presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, already dreading the oncoming headache. He'd briefly forgotten about the blonde's outburst.

It's not even one hour into the new school year that Shota feels like he’s being underpaid.

Hitoshi

⛧ ⛧ ⛧

'Life sucks,' Hitoshi muses sardonically, as his classmates none-too-subtly scoot away their desks and chairs from his vicinity.

See, because the government is cruel, hero schools are ordered to disclose all ‘necessary’ information about a student on their student badges.

On Hitoshi’s badge, in small, legible, bold font, right under his birthday, is his quirk.

‘Brainwashing.’

Hitoshi hates the name. Even if his quirk is brainwashing, even if he knows nothing about its logistics and technicalities—after all, how could he ever practise using such a villainous quirk—he hates it. All he knows is he can, essentially, make someone susceptible to any action so long as they answer his question. It's like, extra strong persuasion or manipulation or something. The kind of quirk successful cult leaders have but a little more effective.

He could’ve called it so many other things.

‘Hi. My name is Hitoshi Shinso, and my quirk is Persuasion.’

That sounds nicer, almost. It paints Hitoshi as an incredible debater, a man skilled with his words. But Hitoshi’s quirk manifested when he was five and still very f*cking stupid. Stupid enough to let his uncle, whose dislike for him was so obvious Hitoshi could smell it, choose the name for him. He thought it’d make the bastard hate him less, make him stop yelling at Hitoshi for f*cking existing. Instead, it brought on years of people yelling at Hitoshi for speaking, assholes threatening to cut his tongue out; beatings and bullying and bullsh*t.

And because life sucks, when Hitoshi finds his seat on the seating chart, slumping into it and far too tired to make much of anything, a different student, with a square chin and a pompadour on his f*cking head—seriously what the f*ck is that hairstyle?—snatches his ID tag. Because life really f*cking sucks, the student yells out his information for everyone from heaven to hell to hear, like some f*cking gameshow host introducing Hitoshi as a contestant.

“Hitoshi Shinso!” He waves the card around. “Quirk—”

Hitoshi’s expecting it; is always expecting it. Yet, when the guy drops the badge like it burned, the plastic clattering against the floor, he can’t help the way his stomach rolls.

“What’s up?” a girl, with long blonde hair and pale yellow eyes, asks, “What’s his quirk?”

“Brainwashing.”

For all Hitoshi loves the quiet, the silence that follows hurts.

“Oh.” A different girl with a petulant sneer looks Hitoshi up and down and then turns her nose. “Pity.”

That became that. No one approaches him, no one acknowledges him. It’s better than during his middle school years when they’d carve words into his desk and leave notes in his locker, or smirk and giggle when he was forced to wear the ‘special accommodation' his uncle insisted was necessary for a boy with a quirk like his.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” a cheery, happy-go-lucky voice cuts through the chatter. The students scramble to their seats—Hitoshi notes that the guy seated in front of him isn’t present—as their homeroom teacher walks in.

Present Mic, Hizashi Yamada.

'Dad.'

“Nice to meet ya, little listeners!” he grins up at them. “The name's Present Mic but you guys can call me Yamada-Sensei or Mic-Sensei, they both work.” He gestures to the little copy of their schedule posted on the chalkboard. “I’m both your English and homeroom teacher, so you’re going to be seeing a lot of me around. Hope we get along well.”

His eyes gloss over the seats, lingering on the empty desk in front of Hitoshi, acknowledging it silently.

“Seems like everyone is present, I’ll do a proper roll call after the orientation ceremony, c’mon let’s head on!”

When Hitoshi steps into line, students shuffle away from him. When he takes his seat in the large auditorium, they leave the seat by him unoccupied and glance at him like he’ll injure them by meeting their eyes.

It's all so grossly familiar.

‘I should think about changing the f*cking name of my quirk.’

═════════ ⛧ ═════════

Orientation is an hour of Hitoshi's life that he'll never get back.

He feels resigned to his fate as they’re taken back to their classroom.It’s going to be another, lonesome, boring, hateful year. Another year of glares and whispers and friendless lunches; empty notifications and sleepless nights.

“Ah, hold on students!” Hizashi waves his hands to garner their attention. “I seem to have misplaced the attendance board. Take your seats and wait for a second while I fetch it.” He scrambles, discreetly tapping Hitoshi’s shoulder twice before heading off. It’s a sweet gesture and makes Hitoshi feel less like sh*t when he heads back to his seat.

He does a double-take once he’s taken his seat.

There’s the student—the boy? he isn’t sure anymore—from the entrance exam, the one Hitoshi couldn’t forget. Looking more closely, he notes how long their hair is, curling to a little above their waist and absolutely wild, tied back in a half-up-do in an abortive attempt to look neat. Their back is to Hitoshi, hunched over as they draw into the notebook in front of them. Hitoshi entertains what someone so curious looking might be writing or drawing. It isn't often that people draw Hitoshi's attention so instantaneously and effortlessly, and it's even rarer that Hitoshi thinks of speaking to them at all.

People are mean. They leave. They leave people like Hitoshi, and Hitoshi's done bothering with disappointment.

Lost in deprecating thought, Hitoshi's only startled out of it when the student turns their head and asks, "Are you alright?"

Hitoshi jolts, ears flushing pink at having been caught staring. He doesn't look away though, now getting a better look at who he's more sure is a boy his age. He has very bright, vibrant green eyes punctuated by deep eye-bags and a lack of lustre. He's wearing a very bored, unmoving expression, but it isn't as intimidating as Hitoshi thinks it could be. His scars are more visible with his hair like this, and they have a silver ring that glints on their right eyebrow among their other piercings that Hitoshi hadn't seen 2 months ago.

Hitoshi's throat starts to constrict the longer the silence between them is held. He feels lava slide down his throat; feels something glue his teeth shut together.

'Swallow. Relax. Count to 5. Move your tongue. Step by step, Hitoshi. You're not obligated to speak if you can't bring yourself to.'

Hitoshi takes a deep breath through his nose, choking out a heavily stuttered, "Sorry."

The student tilts his head, still with the same expression. "You're from the entrance exam."

Hitoshi blinks.

He didn't think he'd be remembered.

“Yeah,” he confirms, “you hel...h-h...he-helped me. Thank you, a...a-again."

"Don't mention it."

For someone who is so done with disappointment,Hitoshi’s always been reckless with hope. Always a little too optimistic. Too desperate for it.

He persists. “I-I-It’s Hitoshi Shinso." Hitoshi pauses, adding, "He o...o-or him."

“Izuku Midoriya, he/him.”

Before Midoriya can say anything else, a different voice interrupts the conversation. The kid with the pompadour hairstyle.

“Don’t talk to him,” he whispers loudly; like Hitoshi can’t f*cking hear, “his quirk is brainwashing.”

'Well, it was fun while it lasted.'

Hitoshi sours before the reaction. It's not like it'll be any different. No one bothers with him once they know. Even if they don't outwardly show disdain like Pompadour, they're always too hesitant or scared or disgusted to bother with a relationship. It isn't worth the trouble to determine if the stereotypes associated with people with quirks like his were true or not to him. It didn't matter if he never gave them a reason to think they did.

Except, it is.

Midoriya doesn't recoil, and his eyes don't darken or wrinkle with disdain at the information. Rather, it's Pompadour who's looked at like he's worth less than the dirt staining the soles of their shoes. It's f*cking gloriously insulting, Hitoshi almost laughs.

“So?” Midoriya’s eyes trail to Pompadoure’s hair. “I don’t think someone with a f*cking poodle on his head has any right judging other people.”

Just like during the entrance exam, when Midoriya speaks it’s quiet, but it cuts through the noise like a knife. People snicker and giggle. Hitoshi can’t help but snort, too. Pompadour flushes red.

“I’m just trying to help,” he grits out, “you don’t know what he could do to you!”

“What he could do to me?” Midoriya reiterates, leaning back in his chair and co*cking an eyebrow. “You must be one perverted, sick-in-the-head bastard. I mean, to think like that...” The insinuation is left as an open statement as vulgar as being stamped with The Scarlet Letter's A.

Hitoshi nearly chokes on the f*cking air. A few students gasp, scandalised, and the laughter picks up again. Pompadour, impressively, gets even redder. Hitoshi would think someone walking around with a hairstyle like his would be shameless, but he's been mistaken.

“Not like that!”

“I mean,” Midoriya continues, not acknowledging Pompadour's stuttering rebuttal, “I do think it’d be a little fun to be ordered around like that, you know, at someone's mercy.” He smirks, the sharp fang of his canine glinting. “But to voice it to everyone, you’re one ballsy motherf*cker.”

“That is not what I was talking about!” Pompadour splutters over the shared laughter. Hitoshi grins to himself.

“Take a seat, Poodle-Head.” Midoriya nods to the empty chair a few desks down. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”

Heated, Pompadour stomps—knees going up and footsteps coming down loudly—away like a toddler, face in his hands as the giggles die out.

“Tha...Thanks,” Hitoshi says, feeling deja vu.

"I would've insulted his hairstyle at some point anyway," Midoriya mutters, "don't worry about it."

Hitoshi leans on his elbows and presses his palm to his lips, hiding a smile behind his fingers

Midoriya treats him fine; is mean but not mean.

Since taking him in, Hitoshi's dads have tried to instil into him that being treated humanely wasn't a luxury, but a right. Hitoshi isn't so disillusioned though. Kindness, never mind basic humanity, given to people like him, is a privilege. Midoriya isn't telling him not to feel gracious for sticking up for him, and Hitoshi wonders if it means he recognises that what he's done is aeons more than what people think someone like Hitoshi deserves. Even if it isn't true from a place of morality, it is from a place of majority, and society is dictated by the masses, after all. Kindness is something that should be held in people's prayers, but it is only people like him who recognise how seldom people can be kind.

Is Midoriya a person like him?

Hizashi chooses to walk in then, clipboard in hand and smile as broad as ever. His eyes catch Hitoshi before sliding over to Midoriya, expression blanching. It hits Hitoshi that Midoriya wasn’t there for orientation, then. It hits him that Midoriya is a little unnerving, then, too. Hizashi's expression reflects the sentiment.

“Well, since it’s the first day, I want everyone to stand up and introduce themselves!” Mic smiles. "It's he/him, by the way."

Hitoshi feels dread pool in the pit of his stomach, the feeling worsening when he realises he'll be the last to introduce himself. He gently taps his finger at the corner of the desk and focuses on the other students' introduction to help ease his anxiety. He learns Pompadour's real name is Tsutsutaka Agoyamato, decides that he isn’t worth the respect of being remembered by his name, and files him—officially—under the moniker Pompadour in his head.

Although Midoriya is second last to go, Hizashi glosses over him and gestures for Hitoshi instead. The pressure of feeling unprepared overwhelms Hitoshi’s confusion, and he reactively signs his greeting. Being around too many people makes him feel like the barbed wire he’d swallowed years ago is tightening around his vocal cords. It's still hard to speak in crowds. Hizashi translates with a smile, moving on like nothing was amiss. Students look at Hitoshi with bemused and sceptical stares.

After all, villains aren't mute, especially not ones with, likely, voice-activated quirks.

'Jesus f*ck, look away you pieces of sh*t.'

They do, to turn to Midoriya. Hitoshi turns to him too.

“Why didn’t they greet themself?” the girl with the petulant sneer, Togeiki, asks, folding her arms across her chest and glaring at Midoriya.

That same unnerved expression that looks almost foreign on Hizashi’s face resurfaces. Nonetheless, he claps his hand and waves Midoriya over. With obvious reluctance, Midoriya drags his way to the front. Hizashi almost pats his shoulder, hand freezing mid-way before dropping limply at his side.

“Introduce yourself.”

“Izuku Midoriya, he/him.” Midoriya bows. Hitoshi feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

'Did he sound this cold earlier?'

“And what makes him special?” Pompadour disdains, cheeks still pink.

“Midoriya, here, is a one-of-a-kind case." Hizashi looks at Midoriya encouragingly, but he doesn’t budge, giving Hizashi a look that screams, ‘This is on you.’ Hizashi, ever the expressive man, deflates. “To put it simply, he isn’t going to be present for every lesson and will take frequent unprompted absences. His circ*mstances permit him to leave during impromptu moments, too. The other teachers are aware, but seeing as you guys are his classmates, I thought it was necessary to explain to keep you all from worrying.”

Hitoshi’s interest heightens.

“Why?” Pompadour asks.

Hizashi tries for that look again, but Midoriya still makes no move to elaborate. Hizashi dims again.

“Midoriya is Nezu’s personal representative. He’ll be taking leaves to tail the hero course students of class 1-A as part of the requirements regarding his enrollment at Yuuei. Please, keep this information amongst yourselves as most people aren't privy to it.”

Though Hizashi says it casually, Hitoshi can tell, with the way his moustache quirks and the frantic back and forth of his pupils, that he’s apprehensive.

“Nezu-sama’s representative?” Pompadour is significantly less snotty as the weight of Midoriya’s title makes itself apparent. Hitoshi can feel the weight too, a heavy, heavy weight that takes up all the space in the room, suffocating them. Midoriya's reputation is writing itself in the history books despite it only being his first day.

After all, Nezu was known infamously as Yuuei's demonic principal. As far as people are aware, he's never had a representative before, never mind a first year in the General Education course.

Quietly, astonished, Pompadour then questions, “What kind of quirk is someone born with to be that?”

Hitoshi can’t help the way he leans in, as eager as the others to know. Your quirk defines your very existence. He knows that better than anyone.

Midoriya looks rough, looks like someone cut from old stone, not marble. He is dirt-stained and heavily scarred; doesn't give the impression of someone silver-spoon-fed.

But to be Principal Nezu's Representative...

“Why does that matter?” Hizashi tries to evade the question, laughing it off with an easy smile. Hitoshi's lived with the man for 2 years, now. He can see how it sits on his face a little too perfectly.

“Because,” Togeiki states, “to be Nezu-sama's representative, it has to be something good. Right? And if he's that good, why is he in the General Education course, anyways?”

Hitoshi agrees.

It's the ugliest kind of truth.

It keeps him bitter to have to acknowledge that. 'The Ugliest Truth'. Yes, Midoriya was nice to him and stood up for him, but this truth that he knows means that he's also too out of reach. Impossible. He must have a pretty, powerful, perfect quirk. Something that promised him a flashy, fulfilling future. Hitoshi's struggle is something he'll never know, and within the week he'll already be out of Hitoshi's line of vision and light years ahead.

It really is a bitter taste on his tongue.

"It's fine," Midoriya assures Hizashi, who falls quiet. It's a feat so rare Hitoshi straightens. Hizashi's very existence outside of his house is noise; loud, boisterous noise.

Midoriya's demeanour hardens. He falls into a stance Hitoshi has seen with his other dad, one with nearly no openings. He pulls out an old, grey plastic handle that looks moulded to his grip, and holds it up like a weapon.

"Midoriya," Hizashi warns, and it's enough to drown the room with fear and apprehension. It's fascinating; Midoriya is fascinating. How is it that he can make a dented, ratty plastic handle look like a diamond? Better yet, how does he make it look like a loaded gun or a waiting grenade?

Midoriya rolls his eyes but does not shift or relax.

"I'm quirkless."

He doesn't hesitate; states it like one would declare the upcoming weather or tell you about their favourite colour. Nonchalant. Serious. He blinks twice before someone takes a breath.

'Quirkless?'

The ugliest truth is still a truth. Quirks are who you are. They build your character; define your legacy; fate your future. Hitoshi knows this; has lived, endured, and shattered in consequence. But Midoriya is there, not quite slouching at the front of Hitoshi’s homeroom, standing by his father as 19 students stare at him incomprehensibly. He’s there, with a title; a name. He stands there, hair framing his soft but roughened features, suddenly demanding attention by daring to exist.

“No f*cking way,” Pompadour jeers, “so you were a f*cking charity case then?”

Quirkless.

The worst of the worst. If Hitoshi is the black sheep, Midoriya is the dye in his wool, the poison he drinks.

'Is he a charity case?’

Hitoshi thinks of his eyes, his scars; the bandages peeking through his blazer and the scuff marks on his sneakers; the way he speaks, and the words he says. He thinks of him, the so little he knows, and thinks it’s impossible.

He feels guilty for feeling bitter.

Hizashi’s eyebrows rise, his smile going rancid.

“Excuse you?”

Pompadour hiccups, unexpecting Hizashi’s anger.

“Sorry sir, it’s just..." he stutters around his words, before settling on, "It’s—it’s hard to believe.”

Hizashi’s look doesn’t soften.

“Are you even sure he’s Nezu’s representative, then?” Togeiki lifts her chin. Moronically, punctuating the insult with a worse, "Maybe you picked up the wrong guy?"

Hizashi’s expression turns to her and she drops her head, curling in on herself in an instant

“Yuuei, and I,” he emphasises, “have no tolerance for discrimination.” It’s a warning with a promise. Hitoshi notices how some students deflate and refrain from letting out a few expletives reactively.

“Midoriya is Nezu’s choice. Or are you insinuating the chimaera would take someone out of pity? The principal of Yuuei?!” Hizashi booms. Students flinch at the loudness.

It’s threatening, and the silence that follows punctuates it. Togeiki and Pompadour look down, humiliated.

Midoriya is Nezu’s personal choice. Nezu, one of the most intelligent specimens alive, with a beguiling reputation for toying around with people for the f*ck of it. Nezu: the principal of one of the most promising hero schools in Japan. The principal of Yuuei. The demon principal of Yuu-f*cking-ei. Hitoshi feels like an idiot for allowing the thought to pass his mind subconsciously.

“Now, your first-period teacher will be here in...” He glances at his watch. “Two minutes. Behave. I’m headed over to my class.” He looks to Midoriya, still obediently waiting for dismissal. “And you can take a seat, Midoriya. Thank you for the wonderful introduction.”

‘Wonderful?’

Hizashi doesn’t leave until Midoriya takes his seat, eyes zeroed in on the plastic handle held to his side. It still looks like a weapon.

Your quirk is what defines you.

That is an ugly truth that remains so.

Midoriya just so happens to be an exception.

(Hitoshi lets himself hope that it means he can one day be, too.

Hitoshi really is wreckless with hope. Too optimistic.

So. Very. Desperate.)

Tsutsutaka

￭ ￭ ￭

Tsutsutaka burns with a shame so hot and wild he swears it'll scar. It’s bad enough that he was already thoroughly embarrassed. Ridiculed for doing nothing more than being a good person. (He was helping the other boy from the dangerous one, the one who could brainwash him, hurt him—the villainous kid. He was doing a good deed, and was repaid in humiliation.) To later find out it was at the hand of the quirkless boy?! Better yet, someone who's so miserable he was chosen to be Yuuei’s principal’s representative out of pity? (Surely, it had to be out of pity. It's impossible to think that someone quirkless could ever hold such a title otherwise. Impossible. Maybe the principal had a softer heart than the rumours claimed?)

Tsutsutaka himself didn’t have a fancy quirk. Why else would he end up in Gen Ed of all things? He can manipulate small masses of water if he tries hard enough, but it isn’t strong. Despite practising, his quirk was limited in that it hurt to use. It rendered his joints stiff, and if he overworked himself, it would leave him immobile for a time.

But still, he isn’t quirkless.

He isn’t a dying breed, lesser than less, at the bottom of the food chain. He isn’t below everyone and everything, the scum of the barrel.

A few students—Tokeigi and Saori and Yuki—promising friends, kept eyeing him funnily. The defect was in the room too, but they were judging him. Not the defect, but Tsutsutaka. Because he, a quirkless, made fun of Tsutsutaka. A f*cking quirkless acted like knew everything when he probably couldn’t even tie his shoes. Tsutsutaka f*cking took it, like a coward, a wimp, so instead of ridiculing the defect with him, the way it should've been, they were ridiculing him.

Skin itching all the wrong ways, the moment the bell rings, signalling lunch, he’s stomping over to Quirkless. The villain kid behind him startles when Tsutsutaka slams his palm on his desk. Quirkless flinches too, but it’s more subtle.

“How dare you embarrass me like that?”

Tsutsutaka is as noisy as the colour of his blush, thinking that confrontation will help the gnawing embarrassment and judgement, fade.

“You’re a quirkless. You have no right to make fun of others (me) like that! Especially not those who were only trying to help you!”

There’s a group of students lingering behind and curious kids pause in the hallway to look at the commotion. The door is open and Tsutsutaka is loud. He’s embarrassed, flushed, and ridiculed; he tries to drown it in his loudness.

Quirkless doesn’t spare him a second, doesn’t bother to meet his eyes. He casually shoves his books back into his backpack and stands up. For a second, Tsutsutaka thinks he’s going to fight him; Tsutsutaka wants to fight him because he’s bound to win. Where Tsutsutaka is buff and tall, Quirkless is tiny and frail, something to step on. But Quirkless doesn’t raise a fist, doesn’t raise his head.

He walks away. From Tsutsutaka.

Quirkless. Walks. Away.

“Oi!” Tsutsutaka reaches for his shoulder.

He f*cks up.

Quirkless skids forward, Tsutsutaka’s fingers only brushing the collar of his uniform. He spins on his heel and flicks his wrist, the move followed by a loud ‘click’. The small plastic thing that he was holding earlier catches the light, reflecting onto the surface of the desk where Tsutsuaka still has his palm splayed out. Except that plastic is f*cked, matte and dented. It shouldn’t reflect light in a sharp glare.

He f*cks up.

Holy sh*t.

“Holy sh*t,” he whispers.

The knife is glinting, a little warped where the metal meets the handle, and rusty towards the hilt. But the blade is thin, long, sharp; silver lethal. The blade.

It's a blade.

“Never f*cking touch me,” Quirkless threatens. He takes the point of his blade and drags it along the desk, featherlight. Tsutsutaka stumbles back, pulling his hands off nanoseconds before Quirkless, suddenly and furiously, stabs it through the wood. It splinters, the knife shaking as it steadies itself. Tsutsukasa notes that it's less than a millimetre away from where his palms had been splayed.

His ego bursts like Quirkless’ blade cut through it when tears collect in his eyes.

"If only it went through your f*cking palm," Quirkless mutters like he's pouting. He yanks out the knife, dusting it off with his sleeve. He looks up to Tsutsukasa with sullen, ferocious eyes. The whimpering student flinches under its intensity. "Don't f*cking forget what I said."

“Besides,” Quirkless adds, walking over to the door, "I don’t want to catch an STI, kinky motherf*cker.”

Tsutsutaka should feel mortified. He should feel his heart seize with another wave of embarrassment.

Instead, he is flooded with relief.

For a moment, for a horrifying second, he swears Quirkless...Midoriya, Izuku Midoriya, was ready to kill.

"There's no way he was quirkless," Tsutsutaka mutters. It isn't to save face. Midoriya's presence has clogged up his lungs and locked his limbs. He can't move, his knees can barely keep him upright. "No way!" he says a little louder, fear so needled into his face it pricks the faces of the students still around. They must've felt it, too, how suffocating it all was.

It must've been a lie they came up with.

No wonder he was chosen as Nezu's assistant.

Because Tsutsukasa swears up and down that the boy he faced mere seconds ago...

That boy wasn't human.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku leaves the Gen Ed room feeling like someone pissed in his cereal.

Poodle-Head is white as a sheet, but Izuku is too pissed to feel any sort of satisfaction.

Bigots, his everywhere and always. Evil, hate and people who see Izuku as a monster, see him for who he is—for what he is. A horrible piece of sh*t. His everywhere and always.

‘For the love of deities, let me have my lunch in peace.’

Chapter 8: i meet your judgement with my apathy and laugh when you call yourself god.

Chapter Text

Denki

❂ ❂ ❂

Denki is excited to properly introduce his friends to Midoriya. Heroics class was...eventful. With the randomness of the selection—and All Might’s abysmal choice for a first-day exercise—a lot of groups were overpowered.

Denki himself was paired with a cute girl named Jiro with long lobes for ears: her quirk. Much to his chagrin, they’d been pitted against another beautiful, very intelligent girl, Yaoyorozu, and her significantly less attractive and intelligent partner, Mineta. All Might decided, based on Yaoyorozu's placement in the Quirk Apprehension Test, that she'd be paired in two groups to make up for the odd numbers. She'd already proved her capabilities in the first round, which was an incredible battle. She and Uraraka had lost by hair’s width, pinned against the walking explosive hazard that was Bakugo and the sharp-minded, granted a little square, Iida.

Nonetheless, her quirk is OP as f*ck, in Denki’s opinion, and so, despite Mineta being less than favourable as a partner, they’d won. They’d triggered Denki’s quirk by frightening him, and he’d very stupidly slid atop a textured carpet, throwing him into that awful headspace where he was redundant. Ear muffs made it easy to block off most of Jiro’s attacks.

Even though he’d lost embarrassingly easily, he still wanted to tell Midoriya about it. Despite his obvious disinterest in heroism, Midoriya is at least somewhat a fan of quirks, with how often he’s asked Denki questions about his own.

At first, he’d presumed it was because Midoriya was quirkless, and wanted a better understanding of what it was like to be quirked. After getting to know Midoriya however, he'd felt rather silly for thinking so. Midoriya doesn’t see his quirklessness as defective, so entertaining the idea of having a quirk seemed counter-intuitive.

Midoriya’s someone way too badass to mope about things he doesn’t have, too badass to waste his time on the what-ifs. At least, in Denki's eyes he is. (Denki also swears he's gotten away with murder before. He just gives off the vibe.)

“Ayo, there’s a table over there.” The boy he’d exchanged numbers with after the entrance exam, Kirishima, nods over to an empty table by a large group of people.

Denki shakes his head. “Mido wouldn’t like it there, let’s sit somewhere a little less crowded.”

“Mido?” Sero raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, the dude that’ll be tailing us.” Denki clarifies dismissively, looking around and spotting a different table at the corner of the cafeteria, which was far more secluded.

'Perfect.'

“sh*t, you mean Nezu’s representative?!”

Denki nods noncommittally, setting his tray down and taking a seat. Sero takes the one across from him with Kirishima to their right. Mina takes the one at the head of the table.

Denki doesn’t know if they’ve left the seat by him purposefully or not, but he’s grateful nonetheless. Midoriya probably won’t take too kindly to sitting next to a bunch of people he didn’t know.

“Oh yeah, you guys were pretty buddy-buddy,” Mina teases, wiggling her eyebrows. “How’d you get friendly with someone like that? Or is it more than friendship?”

Denki rolls his eyes. “He helped me, like, not die in the entrance exam so I insisted we exchange numbers. I like to think I grew on him.”

“Like fungus,” a quiet voice says, right by Denki’s head. He jerks, nearly falling out of his chair. When he turns his head, he meets Midoriya, his face close enough that Denki can see the very faint scar right by his nose bridge. His eyes are alight with amusem*nt.

“Jesus f*cking christ.” Denki holds a hand to his heart, gently thumping Midoriya's chest in reprimand. “Nearly killed me there, Mido.”

Midoriya shrugs before taking the seat by him. Denki sees him nod his head somewhere behind him before a hesitant, tall figure takes the other seat by Midoriya.

“Well, you’ve all already met.” Denki claps his hands, then asks, “But who’s that?”

“Hitoshi Shinso,” Midoriya answers.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, dude,” Sero greets with a smile. “Where are your lunch trays by the way?”

“Not hungry.”

Midoriya looks to Shinso, who shakes his head.

“And he isn’t either.”

“Is there something wrong with him? Does he not speak?”

“Mina,” Denki scolds. Shinso stiffens, and Midoriya sends Mina a scathing glare. She yelps and pushes her chair back a little, eyes cast downwards.

Midoriya turns to Denki, and whispers in his ear, “We’re going to go outside. Fewer people. I’ll see you after school.”

Denki nods, hiding his disappointment as Midoriya gently nudges Hitoshi’s shoulder and they both walk off and out of the cafeteria. Eyes follow them, whispers too. He knows why. Midoriya is scars, bandages and blood. He’s textbook ‘bad’, with long hair and piercings and a disorderly uniform. People stare at things that stand out to them, even if those very things don't intend to stand out.

“That was…” Sero trails off, “interesting.”

“You seriously made friends with him?” Mina squeaks, “I thought I was about to sh*t myself.”

“Because you asked a rude question,” Denki retorts, doing his best to refrain from rolling his eyes.

Kirishima hugs his arms like he's shivering. “Still man, that look wasn’t even directed at me and I felt like I’d been dunked in a bucket of ice or something. Kinda glad he passed out when I caught him during the entrance exam.”

“You guys just haven’t got to know him yet,” Denki frowns. “He really isn’t that bad.”

“I don’t know if I wanna get to know him.” Mina looks away. “He’s scary.”

He can be, Denki won't deny it. Midoriya's glare is fierce and he looks like he runs hell himself as it's king, but he's so much more.

He helped Denki when he wasn't obligated to. He f*cking saved him.

Hewatches over this little quirkless kid, treats him like a little brother, and boasts about him through texts with Denki on occasion. It's cute, reading through his texts and the occasional video of this black-haired, starry-eyed child Midoriya so clearly loves.

He took in this stranger who was struggling. Denki's met him briefly. If he's remembering correctly, he goes by Dabi. Midoriya sheltered him. He gave him hope and a new life.

He responds to Denki's memes and listens to him rant about his hyperfixations no matter how absurd; he actually listens, engages in conversation and makes him feel heard.

Yeah, he’s a little crude and blunt and, sometimes, really scary.

But he isn't always. He's so much more.

It's a shame people refuse to see it.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“Sorry,” Shinso stutters. They’re outside, seated under a large, old tree with thick flourishing green leaves in the wake of spring.

Izuku looks at him. “Sorry for what?”

“Your friends—”

“Kam is my friend,” Izuku cuts him off, “and I’m the one who said to walk away. What she asked was rude and I didn't like it."

Shinso looks at Izuku like he's a personified mystery. “I-I-I don’t u-understand you.”

Izuku doesn’t have a response to that, so he gives none. Lunch break isn’t too long and the fourth period is starting soon. He doesn’t see 1-A for the rest of the day.

“I c...c...c-can’t speak around crowds o...o-or too many s...s...s-strangers,” Shinso tells him after a lapsing silence, “it’s a thing I’m w-working on.”

He doesn’t elaborate; doesn’t need to. Izuku thinks he’s like him, in some way. Anxious to speak, biting your tongue in fear of someone ripping it out with their bare hands and laughing in your face as you choke on your blood. Or maybe he’s different, maybe he’s worse, maybe his tongue’s already been cut off and he’s learning to speak around it;despite it.

“W...w-why are your teeth like that, by the way?” Shinso leans on his arms. “You s...s-s-said you didn’t have a q-quirk but they're, like, uncharacteristically sharp.”

“I had them filed,” Izuku answers honestly. (A subconscious part of him smiles. Shinso treats his quirk—his lack of quirk—like nothing. He likes that.)

“You had them f...f-filed?!”

Izuku nods, licking his manufactured canines. “My teeth are now sensitive to the cold.” He’d had them filed to just before the nerve, thinned out the protective layers to drill them into points sharps enough to draw blood. To tear flesh.

“Why would you d-do that?”

“My lover likes it rough,” Izuku responds, straight-faced.

Shinso stares at him, and Izuku’s expression doesn’t change save for a tiny smirk.

Shinso scoffs, “Funny.”

═════════ ☻ ═════════

At the end of the school day, Izuku heads to Nezu’s office. He greets Shinso goodbye and ignores the way he’s stared at by students and staff alike as he walks down the halls.

He doesn’t knock, the door swings open, and Nezu is waiting, perfect smile and all.

Aizawa is there too.

“Hello, Midoriya!”

Izuku bows and says nothing, taking the empty seat across from Aizawa. He’s offered a cup of tea and shakes his head. The familiar pattern is uncomfortable. Izuku hates familiarity. He hates rigidness and perfection and rules, being someone so impulsive and thick-headed and stubborn and desperate.

“Well, I suppose I should ask, how was your first day?”

‘f*cking sh*t. Someone tried to trip me on the way to fourth. A few of Aizawa’s students kept staring at me when I passed them in the halls, talking about how ‘scary’ I looked. A guy with the stupidest f*cking hairstyle I’ve ever seen tried to start something with me after I embarrassed him for discriminating against a kid with a brainwashing quirk. I then had to eat lunch with said kid outside because my one friend made friends with uncomfortable people. Also, when I went to Aizawa’s class this morning, a kid I knew in f*cking elementary school tried to light my face on fire.

'So, again, really f*cking sh*t.’

“Fine.”

“I saw you walking around with that purple-haired kid from your class. Hitoshi Shinso, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Seems you have trouble fitting in, though. Aizawa told me you left quite the impression in his class that morning.”

“Did I?” Izuku’s tone is dry and bland.

“Why, it’s not every day that a student threatens his classmates with a switchblade.”

Nezu stares pointedly at Midoriya’s pockets, where the tip of the holder peaks through.

“Part of the deal was I get to carry a choice of weapon around, be grateful I didn’t choose a f*cking gun.”

“Guns are illegal.”

Izuku looks at Aizawa. "And?”

When did legality become pressing or relevant? Why does legality matter when the law is only enforced to oppress? No law demands morality, no law promises justice. So who gives a flying rat’s ass about something as impudent as legality?

“Nevermind, nevermind.” Nezu hops onto their desk. “I just came for your initial analysis of Aizawa’s students and then you’re free to leave. Don’t fret, meetings like these won’t be frequent.”

Izuku pulls up the sleeves of his blazer—Aizawa keeps eyeing his bandages, has been since he walked into the classroom that morning—and digs through his near-empty backpack for his single binder. It’s torn and dirty with one of the metal clasps on the inside broken, but it’s what he has. Akatani scribbled a few sketches onto the front and Dabi drew a rudimentary illustration of a dick with hairs, veins and all. Izuku likes it, likes that it’s personal and his.

He hands Nezu nineteen individual papers, all with quick-written, fairly brief profiles of the 1-A students.

“My, when did you have time to prepare these?” Nezu asks, pawing through each paper, eyes darting over the writing and drawings with impressive speed.

“Class.”

Nezu turns their gaze away from the papers and to Izuku, with that same, pretty, perfect, porcelain smile.

“Thank you for this. Aizawa mentioned he’d like to speak with you afterwards, so feel free to talk to him once you leave. You’re both dismissed.”

Izuku gives no reaction to the request, placing back his folder into his bag and walking out, Aizawa at his heel.

He wonders if he’ll slap him or take a ruler to his knuckles until the skin splits. Maybe he’ll yell at him, call him a nuisance, a waste of space. It's most likely because of what he said that morning, calling his methods of ‘teaching’ damning. Despite Izuku's initial impression of him, there's a chance he was far crueller than Iyla and her women, the type of cruelty you see in the bastards those women trick, the ones who walk home to their loving partners and innocent children smelling of vomit, sweat and someone else’s cheap perfume.

They stop at an empty corridor underneath a stairwell. It’s hard for the students still lingering behind to see them.

Izuku shoves his hands into his pockets and leans against the wall, hyper-aware of his footing, attempting nonchalance. His fingers graze the plastic handle of his pocket knife.

‘Could I flick it open without him knowing?’

Noting Aizawa’s frustratingly watchful gaze, Izuku settles on rubbing at his bandages, chafing the skin and irritating the healing wounds. His heart rate slows.

“It’s about what you told me this morning,” Aizawa starts when Izuku says nothing, “I would like to hear your opinion on the matter.”

Izuku’s ‘relaxed'stance falters, his feet turning inwards.

‘Opinion?’

“You said my quirk apprehension test was biased and the harsh consequences for failing would paint me as untrustworthy, even if the consequences were a lie. Above all, I’m a teacher, so trust is a foundation that I need to build. I want to know what you think I should do and what problems you have with what I am already doing.”

“Will you hit me?”

That wipes off the apathetic, inquisitive look on Aizawa’s face.

“I’m sorry?”

“Will you hit me?” Izuku repeats, nonplussed. “If I give my opinion, will I face any actual harsh consequences?”

Aizawa stares at him. Contemplative? Confused? He’s looking for something and Izuku can’t tell what it is, can’t tell if he finds it.

“No,” he finally says, looking away briefly, “no, you won’t face any consequences.”

Izuku tilts his head, unbelieving.

“Will you hit me if I don’t answer?”

“What? Kid, no I—” Aizawa cuts himself off, breathes from his chest, and tries again, “This is a question I’m asking of you directly, you’re not obligated to answer, though it would be appreciated, and I won’t punish you for answering, especially when I asked.”

Izuku still doesn’t believe it. Why should he? Nonetheless, he answers. (He’ll be hit either way.)

“Fine.”

He steels himself.

“Regardless of your intention, the second you told the students the person who failed would be expelled, you inadvertently told them that what they grew up believing was true. That their quirk is what defines them, and their success. You could see it in their behaviour. Students with quirks that were objectively more powerful and versatile were confident in their positions, and students with quirks better suited for more specific operations were about three seconds away from sh*tting themselves. All you really did, at that moment, was confirm to your students that those with ‘stronger’ quirks will always be first.”

And if it was him. Quirkless, frail, pathetic little him...

“You made yourself out to be another victim to the quirkist ideologies that run rampant in our systems. You call it a logical ruse, but that doesn’t change the initial moment of distrust at first impression. If we were to disregard other factors, and solely focus on the impression you left during your quirk apprehension test, students like Kam and Jiro will be far less inclined to come to you for help than, say, students like Yaoyorozu."

And if it was him, every obstacle he lost limbs climbing over wouldn't have mattered. Kids like him will never best kids like Katsuki when stripped to nothing but their raw, intrinsic strengths.

“There’s a difference between strict and unfair. You being known as Yuuei’s hellspawn teacher for your draconian demeanour is fine. You being known as the hellspawn teacher for imposing or encouraging quirkism is different. No matter how trained someone is, students like Hagakure will never surpass students like Todoroki on quirk strength alone.”

He knows because they're students like him, students who cry at night because they dream too big, who sweat as they try and try and fail to keep up.

Aizawa blinks, the only reaction to Izuku’s spiel. Izuku’s tongue feels dry, so used to shutting up, staying quiet, and giving one-word answers.

“Thank you for that, I’ll take into account what you’ve said.”

Aizawa raises a hand to adjust his scarf. Izuku flinches. Aizawa catches it. Of course, he catches it.

“You can leave, kid. Go home and rest.”

Despite his confusion, Izuku bows and walks away.

‘Why didn’t he hit me?’

Shota

☾ ☾ ☾

Izuku Midoriya is dangerous. Different from villains and monsters and people who hurt for the sake of hurting. Different from loan sharks and rich men on pedestals and yakuza leaders. Different from petty thieves and muggers and drunks. His dangerous is different.

He does not value life, adorning the eyes of a killer, the glare of someone who’s been in death’s grasp and grinned.

Shota thinks only two thoughts.

Izuku Midoriya loves Death.

Izuku Midoriya has conquered it.

(What a paradox.)

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“What was that about?” Kaminari asks as they both head to the station. They live in different areas so they take different trains home, but it’s at the same stop, so they walk together.

“Nezu just wanted profiles on your classmates,” Izuku answers, kicking the dirt, eyes darting to the sky, to the grass and the pavement and the cars on the road. It's nice to take it all in, sometimes.

“Ooh, you wrote profiles?! Can I ask what you wrote about me? Unless it’s private. I totally understand if it’s private and you can’t say anything.”

“It’s nothing detailed, I just gave an overview of your quirks from what I saw and read in your files.” He notices Kaminari tense a little, and adds, “Though I was only given access to your quirk registry.” Kaminari relaxes. 'Huh.' “Then I made assumptions about your behaviours based on your interactions with each other. Yours was the easiest to compile since I’ve already known you for the better part of two months.”

“So...what did you say?”

“Energetic, loud and extroverted,” Izuku smirks. “Jumpy, easily frightened, eerily similar to a wild kitten.”

Kaminari gasps in mock-offence, “How dare you?”

“Kittens are adorable,” Izuku rebukes, “I literally paid you the highest compliment.”

Kaminari blushes softly. “Okay...so what else? I’ve been told I can be rather annoying, and a little...umm, scatter-brained? I’m also pretty stupid, and I space out a lot. I know I tend to interrupt people sometimes and I feel really bad about it.”

“Kaminari you aren’t annoying.” Izuku rolls his eyes. “And I’m not going to talk about how you interrupt people in a profile. You're not stupid, either.”

"I don't think most people would agree with you on the last point," Kaminari argues, quickly following it with, "So, is that all you said, then? The cat thing?"

"You know I didn't actually write that you have the mannerisms of a cat on speed, right?"

"You didn't?"

Izuku spares him a dry look and Kaminari sheepishly shrugs his shoulders.

“C’mon, I want to know,” he whines. “What did you say?"

Izuku sighs, slipping off his backpack and rummaging for his binder. Kaminari laughs at the jokes written in black marker on the cover as Izuku flips through the pages, finally landing on Kaminari’s.

He’d made copies, worried that the teachers would burn his work and then blame him for not making it fire-proof; worried that students would soak the papers and bleed the ink and blame him for not making it water-proof, too.

Kaminari Denki

June 29, 20XX

5 '6

Gold eyes.
Dark blonde hair with black, lightning bolt-shaped highlights.

Quirk: Electrification
(Rename? Quirk seems to be more similar to a generator.)

• Burns out the user at overuse.
• Current voltage limit before overuse and incapacitation is estimated at 1 million volts.
• Etches Lichtenberg scars into skin.

Suggestions:

• Have the user dispel small amounts of energy into external outputs. (i.e batteries; generators)
• Have the user learn to dispel currents in smaller outbursts of energy to keep nerves from frying

Characteristics:

• Extroverted; sociable.
• Easily distracted; unfocused.
• Anxious; jumpy.
• Energetic. (Likely influenced by quirk.)

Observation Notes (Characteristics):

• Kaminari has an affinity for the humanities and arts but struggles in STEM subjects. (Consider devising a personalised study plan more focused on repetition, patterns and creating relationships between concepts and everyday life.) Will probably work better in practical applications than standardised testing.
• Kaminari tends to fidget a lot and has difficulty keeping still. Permitting the use of fidget toys to keep stimulated is heavily suggested.
• Kaminari reacts violently to his environment; he might suffer from sensory issues and constant episodes of overstimulation. Should be allowed to step out of a room and into a dark, quiet space during episodes.
• At his current level, Kaminari should not over-exert himself when practising his quirk or try and breach his limits. Long-term drawbacks of electricity-based quirks have statically proven to be near-fatal. This can change once Kaminari is able to reach his current maximum limit (1 million volts) without incapacitation. *Need to observe him on the field and in training to for further evaluation.
• Seems to work better in group settings.
• Quirk is always active

Observation Notes (Appearance):

• Eyes glow when quirk is in use.
• Hair stands on ends due to a continuous release of static. Clothes tend to not touch skin when nervous and static increases.
• Lichtenberg scars pink when quirk is in use; burn red when burnt-out.

Personal Observations/Subjective Notes:

• Very kind and accommodating to others.
• Does not take things seriously; tends to turn subjects into jokes even if the subjects are serious. Sees himself as comic relief. (Might feel a sense of responsibility for that role or was sought after as a kid to help relieve tension in a group.)
• Is loud and boisterous; cheery. Optimistic? (Tries to be.)
• Feels comfortable to be around and comes off as easy to trust. (Note: Would make for a good double agent/spy if deceptive skills can be worked on.)
• Easy to read.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“Bro, this is…” Kaminari gently closes the binder and hands it back to Izuku, eyes glittering. “How’d you guess I get overstimulated and have sensory issues? I don’t think I’ve ever had an episode around you.”

“Because it happens to me,” Izuku replies, “and you struggle with anxiety. I do too.”

“Huh.”

Izuku looks at Kaminari, whose eyebrows are furrowed.

“Is it unexpected?”

“You just seem really calm, I guess.”

Izuku gives no reply, and so Kaminari asks, “You think I’m trustworthy?”

Izuku turns on his heel so he’s walking backwards, mindful of running into bystanders.

“You know I’m quirkless, and yet you didn’t tell any of your classmates. Right?”

Kaminari shakes his head. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t shank me when I told you I was quirkless, you helped me earlier with Katsuki and during the entrance exam when I hit the concrete. You’ve already made friends with quite a few of your classmates, and not once since I’ve met you have you ever been mean or lied outwardly. You’ve given me no reason to not trust you.”

“So you trust me?”

Izuku thinks about it. He doesn’t trust, he doesn’t give or take; he survives. He thinks he could tell Kaminari a secret, and he thinks Kaminari would keep it. But trust is more than that.

Izuku's careless with his life, with himself. He's a monster, and so he’s worth nothing, worth better dead. He'd take a bullet for a villain for the sake of feeling himself bleed out on the sidewalk.

Izuku doesn’t trust.

Yet he thinks he wouldn’t take the bullet if Kaminari asked him not to.

“I think I do.”

Kaminari smiles, not the wide, goofy smile he wears so easily, but a smaller, gentler one.

Izuku doesn’t trust; he survives. They cannot coincide.

They reach the train station. Kaminari’s train is only a minute away.

“Hey Mido?” he questions.

Izuku tilts his head to show he’s listening.

“Call me Denki.”

Denki.

Izuku doesn’t trust, but he thinks he can tell Kaminari a secret, and that Kaminari would keep.

“Call me Izuku.”

The train comes, and the doors open.

“See you tomorrow, Izuku.”

Izuku.

“Tomorrow, Denki.”

Izuku doesn’t trust; he’d take a bullet for a stranger if it meant bleeding out on the grey pavement he walks on.

Izuku doesn’t trust, but he wouldn’t take those bullets if Kaminari asked him not to.

(It's a quiet revelation, one that he buries in his lungs, caged by his broken ribs and heart of black blood. He'd live for him.

How terrifying.)

═════════ ☻ ═════════

“I’m leaving,” Izuku tells Dabi, slipping on a hoodie. The people around this neighbourhood, from the homeless men to the local prostitutes, know him by aliases and nicknames. They know him more intimately by his scars and the knives slipped into the holsters strapped around his thighs. Some even know the co*ck of his gun, a Glock 19 he bled for. Those people seldom remember his face over the intense fear of a bullet whirring passed them and grazing their cheek.

He snags the packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

Dabi gives him a look.

“You’re addicted.”

“I’m not," Izuku denies, flicking open a flame, "I can stop and you know that damn well."

“Why don’t you?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

Dabi’s eyes trail to his legs, the lines that peak past the hem of his skirt.

'You're addicted.'

Izuku hears it even if he doesn't say it aloud, again. He doesn't refute it, can't. Izuku may not be a slave to every addiction but this vice has gripped his wrist so tight the bruises left there are like permanent tattoos on his skin.

This addiction is one of his few truths.

And what did it matter? He was alive, no.

Besides, it is her his skin, her his blades, her his hands, her his blood.

If Izuku is a mass of decay who needs to bleed, let him bleed.

(Like mother like son, no? Is that not another desperate chase he refuses to let go of? To bleed like she bled, to cry like she cried, to lose it all in an instant and survive a corpse.

To die, three times and four times and six times over, again and again?)

“I’m leaving,” he says again, dignifying no response.

Dabi huffs, “You got your phone on you?”

His phone is ancient, quite literally, old and broken and fished out from the local dump by Trash Beach. He waves it at Dabi.

“Stay safe.”

“Suck a dick.”

Himiko

꒷꒦꒷ ꒷꒦꒷ ꒷꒦꒷

Himiko is hungry. Crouched behind an alleyway dumpster, arms wrapped around her stomach because it cramps, she’s so f*cking hungry it hurts.

She hadn’t eaten anything in five days. The local butcher gave her a slab of rare-cooked meat that she couldn't help but devour, and she’d felt so guilty afterwards she’d knelt over the dumpster and thrown it all back up. God, she’s so hungry. Her knuckles are scabbed and her stomach is bloated and her cheeks are flushed red. She's so f*cking hungry she can’t eat.

But trying to satiate hunger without food is a difficult feat, and Toga's taken to her favourite method of doing so as of late.

The alleyways are always the best at night.

People are stupid, reckless and violent. The local clubs are full of drunks who are just ‘angry at the world’, and when they’re kicked out for harassing the guests and shattering the glasses, they’re still so full of chicken-sh*t rage. There’s nothing more promising to her gluttony than stupid, angry and intoxicated men looking for a fight.

And when they do, eventually, take their anger out on each other, it’s always sloppy and weak and pathetic to watch. They’re disoriented and sweaty and tired; delusional. They trip and fall and scrape their knees and break each other’s noses, always smelling, so faintly, of blood. It's such a sweet, rich, full aroma. It's so seductive all Himiko can think about is bathing it, drenching her hair and staining her skin. It makes her wet with want, makes her knees buckle with lust.

It's worth every moment she spends crouched in those alleyways, every moment she's subjecting herself to danger.

Himiko was always told blood smelt of rust and iron. To her, though, it smells like flowers. It smells like something she should lather in. She finds herself peeking behind dumpsters just for that oh, so soft smell. She's aware it's borderline masoch*stic, like dangling fruit in front of a starving child but forbidding them to taste. Her instincts scream at her to ravage, a lion deprived of its prey for too long. Himiko knows better than to listen to those primal instincts.

Himiko is not vile; only vile creatures give in to their savage urges. Normal people, good people, do not crave the syrupy texture of blood; they are not fascinated with the prettiness of its red or the way it looks on others spilling from their gaping wounds. Villains are those who thirst to lick the red off others' skin, to cut them open for more, more, more.

Himiko can’t be evil, shouldn't be.

And should she ever blasphemously give in to the temptation, she will cleanse herself of that evil with her reddened knuckles and burning throat.

Today is different. Rather than the angry drunkards who taint the smell of blood, she comes across two sober people.

They're fighting.

A girl with long green hair in a dirty brown skirt and a worn yellow hoodie holds her fists up against a much older-looking, taller man with wisping grey hair and a multicoloured beard. The man is lanky, with knobby knees and sharp elbows and hollow cheeks. The girl is leaner than him, still thin but with muscles in her calves and confidence in her leer.

“f*ck off,” the girl barks, falling into a boxing stance. She has a funny voice, deeper than Himiko anticipated, a little rough but young.

“You should’ve known better than to show your face again after the sh*t you pulled, Pretty.”

'Pretty? Is that her name?'

“What sh*t?”

“You think I wouldn't notice missing an entire bottle of Sake?”

Pretty raises an eyebrow. “‘Sorry you can’t take care of your sh*t, f*ckface, but that wasn’t me.”

“Just like last time wasn’t you, right?” the man chuckles bitterly. “You’re dead.”

Without warning, the man lunges forward, an agile, long leg striking out and aiming a kick for Pretty’s abdomen. Pretty steps back, missing the heel of the man’s boot by a couple of centimetres. There's no moment to recuperate or reorient herself, as the man strikes again, this time with his elbow. It lightly grazes Pretty's chin as she bends backwards, falling into a bridge. Himiko almost claps when she kicks upwards, right at the man's throat, amazed. He chokes, losing his footing as Pretty effortlessly uses the momentum to right herself straight.

"Ah, I really wanted to keep things clean, you geezer. You can ask around, I don't steal around my area."

Through a round of coughs, the man retorts, "You think I believe those high and mighty words, skan*? You should've been put down the second you got here."

Pretty casually slips a hand in the pocket of her hoodie, smirking sardonically but otherwise remaining quiet.

The man, egged on, tries to strike again. He's sloppier than the first time, impulsive as opposed to calculated.

Himiko sees the blade before he does, the rust reflecting in the artificial orange of the flickering street lights above them. When the man aims for another kick, Pretty is anticipating it. The knife slices through the man’s calf, soaking the material of his loose-fitting pants and tearing through the fabric.

The man screams. He trips, finding his balance at the last second. The blood starts pooling under him and Himiko inhales deeply, her cramps subsiding into more of a dull ache. She feels her legs quiver and cheeks go red, eyes squinting into slits and body aching with anticipation. It's been too long since she's been around so...much...blood.

“Jesus f*cking Christ!”

Pretty isn’t satisfied. She pounces, digging the knife into the same wound and twisting. Himiko can hear the squelch of flesh being torn as the man continues to scream, falling on his ass. He tries to pull away and it only digs the knife in further, his voice cracking and splitting, his throat already raw. Still, he screams and pleads like the heavens will hear him and grant him mercy. Himiko doesn't think he's a religious man.

“You should’ve f*cked off,” Pretty smiles, crazed. It’s a familiar smile, the same one she wears when she comes across dead birds and drinks their blood. The same smile she wears when she forgoes obedience and drinks, licks and laps. (Before the disgust, hate and guilt eat away at the split-second euphoria, and she’s throwing it all up again.) There’s blood on Pretty’s sleeves, splattered on her hoodie, and flecked on the skin of her leg. She glances at it with as much care as she has for the man bleeding before her.

The knife pulls out with another sickening squelch. Pretty stands up, staring down at the man and deliberately stomping into the pooling blood. It flecks into the man's open mouth. Pretty chuckles mirthfully as he gags on it.

Jealousy's never looked so green on Himiko.

“Go.”

The man can’t get up, so he hauls himself away on the back of his hands, a thick trail of blood dragging behind him. Pretty waits until he’s turned the corner, out of Himiko’s line of sight, to walk away.

'Blood.'

Himiko can't shake the itch, it's crawling up her arms and around her legs, trailing down her spine. Her eyes dilate, the smell making her head spin, dizzy with ravenous hunger.

Her knees give out, the pain of starvation turning her into sludge. She crawls, scrapes her skin, sits in the blood and lets it soak into her stockings and skirt. The puddle is large, thick and so, so much. She pulls back the sleeve of her sweater, feeling the rough texture of the alleyway floor as she flattens her palm into the puddle. It's deep enough that the blood inches past her hand and through the space in her fingers. Nothing but crimson drips down her wrist and to her elbow, drowning the material of her sweater when she lifts her arm to the sky to marvel at it. It’s a shade of red so dark it could be mistaken for black under the moonlight.

Her tongue darts out, mindless, licking up her middle finger.

'Oh. Oh. Oh gods, oh mercy, oh Satan.'

Now a neanderthal in both mind and body, she gives in.

She cuts her tongue on the asphalt when she leans into the puddle, licking and lapping, her caving stomach asking for more and more and more, insatiable and greedy. Like a proper starved bitch, she licks what she can off her hands and arms and wipes off the blood on her knees, pricks her thumbs where they press into the fangs of her teeth. It coats her lower face, the tip of her nose, dripping down her chin, collarbone and the curve of her breast.

She's sick. She's deranged. She needs to be locked up, put away with her urges, away from the sensual allure of blood.

She giggles as she licks from her elbow to her palm, and smiles as she sucks on her fingers. Her expression is maddening, blissful. (It's of a weak girl with ribs to count satiating starvation so terrible it eats away her hunger.)

When there's nothing left to lap and suck at, she stands up. She stares at her skirt; at her stockings and shoes. She brings a hand to her face and wipes the blood off her nose.

‘Disgusting.’

The feeling of rancour and revulsion slaps her with the familiarity of a pale hand adorning an opal ring.

┏━━━━━━━━ ꒷꒦꒷ ━━━━━━━━┓

‘I birthed something inhuman, something wrong.’

═════════ ꒷꒦꒷═════════

‘How distasteful, how horrid, how monstrous.’

═════════ ꒷꒦꒷═════════

‘That is not my daughter, I refuse to claim that villain as my blood.’

═════════ ꒷꒦꒷═════════

‘What is that? What are you doing? Spit it out, throw it back up.’

═════════ ꒷꒦꒷═════════

‘See these scars on your knuckles, they’re a reminder. Every time you do this...this atrocious thing, you fix it. You fix it no matter how bad it hurts. That is your punishment Himiko, your punishment for being born.’

┗━━━━━━━━ ꒷꒦꒷ ━━━━━━━━┛

Himiko’s legs take her to the nearest dumpster like clockwork. It’s too tall for her—she’s only 5 ’0—so she stands atop boxes full of broken bottles and leftover food like a makeshift stool. It’s gross, yes, but Himiko is a million times more disgusting.

She keels over, the lid of the dumpster pressing against her ribs. The smell is rancid, but it makes it easier to gag so she doesn’t hold her breath.

She takes her fingers to her mouth. The more she does it the harder it gets, the less she eats the harder it gets, and the realisation that it’ll never get easier makes her cry. She cuts the roof of her mouth where her knuckles are pressed, feeling the familiar sting. Her stomach heaves but she doesn’t pull her fingers out, spitting out the phlegm and saliva until the familiar burn is crawling its way up her throat. She pulls her fingers back to vomit, and she does it again and again until the only thing she heaves is air.

She falls against one of the boxes, her energy depleted by the second, her insides burning. She doesn’t know if she throws up the blood she drinks or the blood in her veins. She’s thirsty again.

The sound of footsteps alerts her, but she’s far too weak to do more than turn her head.

‘It’s Pretty.’

Pretty walks over to her, frowning.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” Himiko’s voice is hoarse, rough from the tears in her throat and the cuts on her knuckles.

“Why did you make yourself throw up?”

“Oh!” Himiko smiles lazily. “You saw me? Did you see me do that too?” She points to the blood in the alleyway. It looks like another aftermath of a fight, to anyone else, but Himiko knows better. Pretty does too, it seems.

“I did." Pretty’s frown deepens, and this close Himiko can see the gleam of piercings and scars on her face. Some of them are healed over cuts, others old and thick.

Her head is spinning again, and she drops her hand because it feels a little too heavy.

“So you know why I did it! Only evil people crave blood.”

She brings her knees to her chest. “Thank you for coming, Pretty. I’m going to sleep now.”

She faints.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku just wanted his lighter.

He swears he just wanted his lighter.

Chapter 9: their heartbeat; louder than the sirens.

Chapter Text

Tomura

✖ ✖ ✖

Tomura’s skin is irritated; bleeding, scabbed over and stinging unpleasantly.

He drags his nails down his neck, his collarbones and arms and everywhere. It's all so irritating.

The article in front of him is laid bare, headline in bold, black letters.

‘ALL MIGHT: NEW TEACHER AT YUUEI!’

Kurogiri is behind the counter, wiping methodically at a single glass cup. They play the role of bartender flawlessly, so flawlessly they could trick deities. Tomura knows they're no more than a broken puppet on strings. They're mist, a mode of transport, a slave at his beck and call. Tomura never felt particularly proud about how willingly Kurogiri obeys his command, though. It makes him feel very young, knowing the only reason they listened to him is because they do not know anything else.

“He’s a teacher?” he questions quietly.

His nails, long and sharp and brittle, scratch harder and harder. Dead skin dusts the air like snow.

“He’s a f*cking teacher!” he repeats, hysterical. Mad. He scratches harder and harder, numb to wounds he digs into.

Harder.

“Who does he think he is?!”

Tomura glances at Kuroigiri and back at the paper, back and forth and back and forth as his temper rises and rises and his nails continue to scratch.

He laughs, a loud and croaky noise so pitiful his ear drums thrum to bleed.

“Young master,” Kurogiri says placing down the glass and fetching yet another. They’re untouched, save for the cup by Tomura himself. Kurogiri wipes them like they’ve been sitting in mud. "Please, do not scratch."

Tomura drops his hands. His nails are black and yellow, the nail of his ring finger torn off entirely. Skin and blood are caked under them, and when he trails the flat of his finger against the incessant itch, it comes back coated in crimson.

Folding his arms across his lap, Tomura directs all his attention at his butler. Even with Father on his face, Kurogiri meets his eyes. Truly, they are but a mindless zombie, stripped of everything that once made them alive. Again, it gives Tomura no feelings of comfort. Kurogiri will never betray them because they can't, not because they value Tomura or Master's word.

Tomura rereads the headlines five times before an idea comes to mind.

He smirks, feeling his lips bleed at the strain of movement.

“Say, what do you think will happen when the all-knowing ‘Symbols of Peace’ is finally snuffed out by villains?”

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku’s tired. Not the everlasting, indescribable fatigue that he’s grown apathetic to, but drained.

Himiko Toga is quite the...character.

last night

┏━━━━━━━━ ⧖ ━━━━━━━━┓

Touya

𖤓𖤓𖤓

Touya knows Izuku isn’t merciful.

He comes home trailing bloody footprints, sporting a wicked smile, and smelling like rot and decay. It's a smell worse than death. Not a literal smell that makes you turn your nose. Rather, the smell that trails after him is like smelling tension, or tasting hatred, sharp and bitter senses that are impossible to escape, that no amount of sugar or perfume can hide.

Touya thinks Death probably smells better. Death is gracious; it can smell like love for, despite being unforgiving and relentless and permanent, Death prioritises mercy. Izuku doesn't, will never. He carries a stench of rot and decay because he chooses to sink his fingers underneath people's skin and peel it off but leave them breathing, whereas Death would cut off their heads and take away that pain.

That being said, he is,however, kind.

Knowing of him, it's unfathomable. The people of their neighbourhood who haven't spoken to Izuku would probably laugh if Touya told them the first word he'd use to describe Izuku was kind. Yet, to Touya, who's lived with him for over a year, it's impossible to think of him otherwise. Touya believes that, in any and every universe, even where the sun sets west and the skies are always green, Izuku is kind.

That's why when he walks in with a tiny blonde girl held in a bridal carry, soaked in blood and bile, he doesn't question him.

Izuku is kind.

A towel with dye stains is laid on the couch, and the girl is placed on top.

“What the f*ck happened?” Touya asks, none-too-subtly scanning the girl for injuries.

“Got into a fight with Scruffy from the liquor store and gave him a few good gashes.” He rubs his blade, coated in dry blood, on his sleeve. A fruitless effort seeing as how the sleeve is stiff with blood too.

“He bled a sh*t ton and ran away. I dropped my lighter during the fight though. When I went to get it back, Crazy over here was licking the blood right off the alleyway floor. There was, like, a large puddle, and she was kneeling it in.”

Touya steps away from the girl.

“And you brought her here?!”

“I've seen and dealt with way worse than some tiny ass girl with a blood kink. I was going to leave her to her mercies, she seemed to be enjoying herself and I wasn't in any mood to interrupt. I would've just waited until she licked it all up and left. But then the chick walked over to the dumpster and vomited it up. Hand down her throat and all.

“Her legs gave out after and she looked on the verge of collapse. When I went up and asked her why she did that, she said, and I f*cking quote, ‘only evil people crave blood’ before passing out from, what I'm going to assume, is hunger.”

“Oh damn.”

“Yeah.” Izuku glowers. “She's probably not just some whack job who likes licking asphalt. I mean, look at her, the girl looks starved. And when I picked her up, she was lighter than my mum, and Inko weighed about as much as a damp blanket before she kicked it."

"sh*t, you think she was controlled or something? I mean, drinking blood is a little out there," Touya comments, deliberately glossing over the mention of Izuku's mother. He rarely talks about her, and when he does, it's always emotive. Usually sad, sometimes bitter other times in mourning. All Touya knows is that Izuku went homeless after she died, and has been living in their neighbourhood and squatting at their place, since.

"I'm guessing it's her quirk. A lust for blood isn't something kids my age just...have without some type of predisposition, like coercion or cult sh*t, or..."

"...a quirk drawback," Touya finishes the train of thought.

Izuku hums, walking over to the kitchen counter and filling a glass of water.

"Check her knuckles."

Touya does. Her hands rested delicately atop her chest, caked in as much blood as the rest of her. Still, her expression is serene. With a grimace, he gently flakes off the crusted blood. Her knuckles are horribly scabbed and scarred, the skin still irritated, pulled and torn. They aren't the knuckles of a fighter, though. The scars aren't as brutal as the ones Izuku bears. Still, her hands are rougher and bloodier than they should be. It's disheartening.

“That’s years of damage. Shot in the dark is that Crazy has some kinda bulimia. Anorexia too, probably. You don't get gaunt like that just starving off blood."

“Could just be homeless,” Touya points out.

“That's why I said probably. We just gotta wake her up to ask."

“And how are we going to do that? If it weren't for the rise and fall of her chest I'd guess she was dead.”

“Easy.” Izuku takes a sip of his water. “I’ll call Kumiko.”

Touya’s thoughts come to a screeching halt.

Izuku’s looking at him, directly. (It’d taken so long, so f*cking long to get him to meet his eyes.)

“Won’t she wake up before then?” Touya groans, aware and uncaring of how childish it sounds.

“Maybe,” Izuku agrees, “but it’s always best to be safe. This girl has been forcing herself to throw up for years, her scars are aged. She probably has unhealed tears in her throat that she’d never been conscious of because she throws up blood. Cuts on the roof of her mouth too, weak teeth—"

"I get it,” Touya moans, casting the girl a look. She looks like the perfect picture of a depraved artist.

“Good.” Izuku rolls his eyes. “Anyway, it’s your fault she’s so aggravated with your whole f*cking existence.”

“Literally how?!”

“When she was taking care of you last February, you irritated your stitches, refused to take care of yourself, and yelled at her every visit.”

“Because she visited so goddamn often. Anyone would be f*cking bothered!”

Izuku gives him an unimpressed look.

“Jesus f*ck, fine. Just call her already.”

Himiko

꒷꒦꒷ ꒷꒦꒷ ꒷꒦꒷

“She’s finally waking up,” an unfamiliar voice says. Himiko blinks. The ceiling that greets her is made of old tiles, spider-web cracks running along the sides.

Her stomach isn’t hurting.

She looks down. She’s lying in a cot, the twin of a hospital bed but smaller, dingier and stained.

Her stomach isn't screaming.

“Wha—” she gags, throat dry. She shifts and winces, finally taking notice of the IV in her arm. Her eyes follow it to a bag of thick, red, dark...blood. It's being pumped into her.

She yelps, pulling her arm in an attempt to yank it out. A scarred hand wraps itself around her wrist, leaning into her to keep her steady. She writhes uselessly.

“Don’t,” they order.

“It’s wrong,” she counters, the response rolling off her tongue. (Practised and perfect.) Her voice grates her ears. The person holding her down uses their free hand to tilt a glass to her lips. She swallows obediently, parched. She repeats, "It's wrong."

“No, it isn’t,” the unfamiliar voice interjects. A feminine face with severe features and hair up to her ears in a blunt cut walks into Toga's line of vision. Her curvy figure is hugged by a white lab coat and a nice, maroon blouse, unfitting in this shabby, mockery of a clinic. “You’re suffering from severe nutrient deficiency and your body has rejected all other nutrient bags. Blood works the best.”

“Then let my body reject it,” Toga argues.

“That would kill you,” the woman sighs. “Now wait one second while I take out this IV.”

It's then Himiko notices a second IV protruding from the veins in her hands. It's connected to a second bag of blood,

She stops fidgeting, finding reprieve in having at least one of these bags out of her system.

“Good.”

She nods to the person on Himiko's left, the one who grabbed her wrist earlier and held her down. Himiko turns her head, hiccuping in surprise when recognises the girl whom she stumbled upon before passing out. Under the brighter, yellowing lights of the room, her scars and piercings are far starker. When Himiko's eyes drift down to take in the rest of her, she notes the tens (maybe hundreds) of scars that litter her thighs, stopping at her knee.

'Woah, holy f*ck.'

“That’s Izuku,” the woman says, noting Himiko's focus, “he caught you before you passed out, do you remember that?”

‘He?’

Himiko nods.

“First, can I know your name?”

“Where am I?” Himiko asks, disregarding the question.

Someone else snorts. Himiko whips her head to a dude in a beanie and black, no-sleeve zip-up, tattoos crawling up their neck and down an arm. They’re resting on the couch, head turned to the ceiling, eyes fluttered closed.

“Ah yes, that’s Dabi,” the woman frowns, “he’s Izuku’s roommate. Please, don’t mind him.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Dabi peels open an eye. They’re a vibrant turquoise, reminding Himiko of the first flicker of a ferocious, kindling fire. Izuku's eyes are bright too, large, blank pools of toxic waste. She imagines souls trapped behind them, raging and screaming and begging to be let out. They look like the kind of people with demons who'd go against God.

“Anyways.” The woman bows and introduces herself, “I’m Kumiko, a local doctor who works around these neighbourhoods. You were taken to me after passing out from starvation and severe malnutrition.”

'Oh.'

“Now, how should I address you?”

“Himiko!” Himiko smiles. “Himiko Toga!”

“Well, Himiko, could you please explain to me exactly what you remember happening before you passed out? As far as you can remember.”

"Well, I was hungry. Actually, I'm kinda always hungry, except for now, which is kinda weird. I'm usually so hungry it, like, hurts, a lot, but right now I'm not in any pain. Weird right? Anyway, so like, at the time, I was hungry, like, starving hungry. And, umm...so, when I'm hungry, I usually look around for people fighting. Usually, they're drunks who have been kicked out of bars. They're super sloppy and smell, but...but they're clumsy. And...umm...they...well when they..."

"Himiko, dear," Kumiko's gentle voice coaxes her. She comes up to take her hand. She hadn't noticed that they'd wrapped her knuckles snugly; it's uncomfortable. "We just want to hear what happened. I promise, whatever you're going to tell me won't hold a candlelight to the sh*t those two have done in the years that I've known them." She nods to Dabi and Izuku, the former offering a sleazy look and the latter a crooked grin. "I swear their rap sheets could fill up a dictionary, so please, continue."

"O-Okay," Himiko starts nervously, finding comfort in gently squeezing Kumiko's fingers, "so, when they're clumsy, sometimes they bleed. Usually not much, just scraping their skin or a bloody nose. But, but the smell, the smell makes it hurt a little less." She brightens up a little, knowing her next words were good ones. "See, instead of drinking the blood, I only smell it, if I can help myself. So it makes me less...less evil."

Kumiko's lips thin, but she remains silent. Everyone does. They gently wait for Himiko to continue.

She ignores the swell in her heart at the lack of disgust in their expressions, the confusion and hope that floods her all at once.

“It was different this time. Instead of two drunkards, I saw her—ah, I mean him,” she says, gesturing to Izuku.

“Her?” Dabi questions, fixing his posture and paying closer attention to Himiko.

“I thought he was a girl,” Himiko clarifies with a shrug, "it was really dark, and Izuku has like, super feminine eyes and was wearing a skirt."

"It's fine, I don't care. So please, on with it."

"Oh. Alright! Anyways, I came across you and that man with the rainbow beard. I immediately knew you were sober because you didn't smell like wet lemons and rotten eggs. I have a very sensitive sense of smell, but it's different from other people's. Like, to me, blood smells like roses," she explains, registering the confusion. "Also, you were both steady when you fought. It was so f*cking cool!" she gushes, remembering the bridge and upper kick, the merciless stabbing and the wicked smirk. "I didn't expect the knife, but it just made it all the more interesting. And when you stabbed him..." she trails off, feeling the heat spread to her cheeks and thighs and lower stomach. She uses the hand not held in Kumiko's to pull up the hem of her dirty sweater, a bright, blooming smile stretching her cheeks and slitting her eyes.

"Oh, it was so much. So, so much. I was so hungry I couldn't even walk, and the puddle was sloshing. I couldn't help myself, I needed to drink it. To taste it. Ugh, it made my head spin so nicely." She feels saliva build in her mouth and swallows. "It was so, so good."

And then, in an instant, the lust and bliss are swapped for guilt and disgust. She lets go of her sweater, of Kumiko's hand, floundering as she recites, "I didn't mean to, I swear. I was just so hungry. I didn't mean to, I swear, I was just so, so hungry."

"So, to confirm, you drank it?" Kumiko asks, clinical but warm.

Himiko nods, feeling her eyes glaze over, gaze sliding to the bandages on her fingers. She picks at them, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

'Mummy would slap me for these.'

"I'm so sorry. I felt so, so bad after. I sinned, I sinned all over again," she wails, wiping her eyes aggressively. "I sinned, but I swear I fixed it! I swear I repented." She looks up at them desperately, lips splitting into a wide, crazed smile. "I repented I promise! I did, I did. I wasn't all bad. I expelled it all, I did I swear I did."

Kumiko's look of cool, gentle professionalism melts away to one of muted anger. Himiko flinches and continues to swear, "I expelled it. I repented it. I did it all the way I was taught. I even have proof. I did it. Izuku saw it." She turns to him with that same smile. Izuku looks taken aback, expression falling mute. "Didn't you? Didn't you see it?"

"Himiko," Kumiko draws her back. Himiko turns to hear, tears coming to a stop, expression far happier knowing her repent was a good thing. "Could you explain to me? Your repent?"

"Didn't Izuku tell you?"

"I would like to hear it from you, Toga."

"No no, call me Himiko again," Himiko insists, haphazardly taking off her bandages. Izuku moves to stop her and Kumiko holds up her hand, stopping him. Himiko continues, dropping them carelessly in her lap. Her knuckles have been cleaned and treated, but they're still raw and red. She still has her scars, proud scars that are proof of her goodness. "So, see, this is what I did. This is the proof." She shows off her hands the way someone would show off an award. "My Mummy says these are like my rewards and records. They're a reminder of what to do if I ever sinned, and they're the trophies I wear to prove I am not a villain."

Dabi curses under his breath.

"What's your quirk, Crazy?" he asks brusquely, jaw clenched.

"It's Himiko, not Crazy," Himiko huffs, before answering, "and my quirk is like transformation. I turn into people, even their clothes! But...umm...I'm not allowed to use it really, because it only works if I drink their blood."

"Have you ever been taken to a quirk counsellor?"

"Quirk counsellor?" Himiko giggles, finding the idea preposterous. "No, no, no. Mummy and Daddy can't tarnish their names like that. If I went to a quirk counsellor, people would know they birthed a devil child."

"The f*ck is wrong with your parents?" Dabi swears, standing up and moving to the kitchen. He's, quite aggressively, brewing himself a cup of tea.

Himiko gives him a funny look, only to note that Kumiko and Izuku look distasted too. They're all angry...but...but not at her.

'They're angry at Mummy and Daddy?'

Kumiko sighs, standing up and walking over to her clipboard, scribbling a bunch of words.

"Fix her bandages," she orders Izuku, who does so without question. Himiko lets him, too confused to protest.

"Himiko, your lust for blood is a fundamental part of your quirk," Kumiko informs her, retaking her seat, "your body feeds off of blood, literally. It is a necessary part of your nutrition the way Vitamin D is."

"I don't get it."

"You need to consume it to stay alive."

"But normal, good people don't crave it, Kumiko-sama. They don't dream of cutting people open to lick into their wounds." Himiko's cheeks heat up like a schoolgirl talking about her crush. "They don't think about how...how pretty someone would look covered in blood." She looks up at Izuku, who's done with her bandages. "People like you, Izuku. You looked so...so pretty just covered in all that blood."

She licks her lips.

⚬⚬⚬

A resounding slap sounded in the room. Himiko's head whipped to the side. It throbs.

"Never say those dirty, disgusting thoughts ever again you demon!" Mummy yells.

Himiko cradles her cheeks, tears stinging her eyes.

She's slapped again.

"If I ever hear you saying anything so nonsensical ever again, you will get far worse than a measly slap."

She's slapped again.

"Do you understand?! You say something like that, hit yourself until you bleed! Make sure you never even think like that ever again!"

She's slapped again.

"You truly are a devil re-incarnate! Bad child! Bad, bad, bad!"

⚬⚬⚬

"Bad Himiko! Bad, bad, bad child!" Himiko scolds herself, slapping a hand over her mouth. "I have to punish myself for saying that!"

She raises a free arm to slap herself when Izuku reaches over to grab her wrist. Again.

"Himiko, do you have any plans to cut Izuku open?" Kumiko asks.

Himiko shakes her head.

"Unless you actively think about it, is the thought of draining any of our blood crossing your mind?"

Himiko shakes her head.

"Do you only feel that way when you're starving?"

Himiko nods.

"You're fine, dear. Even the most saint-like people go crazy when they're starved. Yes, you lust for blood, but so long as you feed and supply yourself regularly, you won't feel pressured to hurt anyone. So, don't punish yourself."

"But—"

"No slapping yourself," Izuku demands.

Himiko, a little frightened by his authoritative tone, nods feebly. Izuku gently lets go of her, sticking close and still a little weary. She eyes his thighs and the word 'hypocrite' comes to mind.

“I’ll take her,” Izuku says to Kumiko after a passing silence.Dabi nods and Kumiko smiles, tight-lipped but genuine all the same.

“Take me where? I ran away from my Mummy and Daddy to not get beat, I don’t want to be beaten again!” she panics, confused and feeling betrayed.

'I thought they were good people?!'

“You’re going to live with us, Pipsqueak,” Dabi clarifies, walking over with his cup of tea. It's still steaming when he takes a sip.

“Live with you?!”

“Yeah.”

"I can live with you?!" she brightens, panic washed away.

"You're mood changes fast as lightning, goddamn."

Himiko shrugs, happy. "I want to live with you!"

Kumiko hums satisfactorily.

“Very well. I’ll be putting her on a particular diet plan that incorporates what she needs. It’ll be a bit more pay than usual," she directs the last part at Izuku, who shrugs indifferently.

'Pay?'

“Himiko.” Kumiko's eyes meet her solemnly. “From what I understand, you have bulimia and anorexia nervosa.”

“Sorry?”

“You restrict your diet severely, and then whenever you do eat, which I’m going to assume is always some form of bingeing, you make yourself throw up. You do it with normal foods too, don’t you?” Though it’s a question, she says it like a statement.

Himiko nods.

Mummy taught her.

⚬⚬⚬

“If you aren’t hungry, that means you must’ve fed yourself!” Mummy slaps her. “Throw it up right now, Himiko!”

Himiko cries as she’s bent over the toilet, fingers shoved into her throat. Her mother’s nails are long. They scratch. It makes it hurt more.

“You always have to rectify your mistakes, my sweet Himiko. Stay hungry, don’t become a monster,” she orders over the sound of Himiko gagging. "You hear me, sweet child. Repent. Repent or your evil. Make sure you get rid of all the evil inside of you, throw it all up. It's a good thing. It's good."

Himiko learned.

Don’t eat. Don’t eat until you feel like you're dying. Until your body moves without your consent, and your stomach hurts not because of hunger but because it’s so full.

And take your fingers down your throat and rectify and repent.

⚬⚬⚬

Kumiko makes it sound bad.

Bad, bad, bad Himiko. But…but Daddy and Mummy told her she was supposed to do that. That it was supposed to hurt.

“You’ll have to watch her after she eats. Make sure she takes what she can. Don’t force-feed her but do not let her starve herself. It’ll take a while until she can work her way up to normal portions for someone of her size. How old are you, Himiko?”

“16! I turn 17 in August!”

"Have you started your menstrual cycle?"

"My what?"

"Your period. When you bleed from your vagin*."

"Oh!" She overheard her old classmates talk about that in middle school before, but they ran away when she tried to ask them about it. She shakes her head.

“I’ll up the portions a little. She’s underdeveloped and underweight. It doesn't surprise me that she’s never had a period, seeing as quirks tend to manifest before the age of 4 and her parents might have been starving her since,” she says the last part bitterly.

"No, they started when I was 10, I think. When I ate a bird," Himiko clarifies. She doesn't understand the bitterness. Her parents were trying to keep her from falling into depravity and losing herself to the evilness of her quirk. They were making sure she never strayed too far to repent and made sure she always repented.

"That doesn't make it better, Crazy."

Himiko pouts, folding her arms across her chest.

Kumiko continues, “She isn’t allowed to go to the bathroom on her own three hours after any meal. It’ll take a while to warm her up to drinking blood, so I’m going to attach a feeding tube.”

“No blood!” Himiko refuses, “That makes me bad. I can't be bad. I can't repent all the time, it hurts a lot and it isn't easy." She whines, "No, no, no blood. None at all. I thought you didn't want me to repent. You sounded mad when I told you I threw up! But if I'm fed blood, I'd have to do it all the time to keep from being bad!"

“It doesn't make you bad," Dabi scoffs, "and you're not repenting for jack sh*t either. You're going to keep it in your system, not on the floor."

Himiko wants to protest again, but Dabi cuts her off.

“Think of it as a thank you to Izuku. He’s paying for all of this.”

“You’re rich?” Himiko tilts her head. “But you look my age? Is it your family? Is your family rich? But, you're dirty too. Rich families don’t keep dirty children."

Dabi coughs out a laugh.

"Harsh, Tiny."

Izuku presses his lips thinly.

“No, I have a job. It’s…not safe, but it pays.”

"Oh."

The familiar slime of guilt crawls up Himiko's throat. She gags, swallowing the urge to throw up. Is this another mistake to rectify? A sin to repent for?

“Dabi’s right, by the way." Izuku leans back on his heel, staring off to the side. “If you feel bad, repay me by using the feeding tube.”

Himiko hiccups.

‘They want me to drink blood? Don’t they think it makes me decrepit? Satanic?’

“Okay,” she responds with a quiet smile.

Repayment. Repayment makes her good. They make her good.

“Be patient with her,” Kumiko threatens the two boys. “Recovery is a long process."

Touya

𖤓𖤓𖤓

Touya takes Himiko—she insists they call her by her first name—home without Izuku, who said it would be easier for him to handle the payment as soon as possible, seeing as he’s attending school regularly now.

She complains of the feeding tube and eyes the bags of blood with hunger and distress. Touya makes a point to stand in front of it, trying to draw away her attention. Her mood bounces off the surface of the sidewalk, a stamp on her shoulder for the world. When they make it to Izuku's home, she squeals in delight at its size and cringes away from the overgrown roots. Touya offers her Izuku's clothes and lays a raggedy blanket on the couch as she showers.

'Maybe I should ask Izuku about the TV? Or WiFi? Internet cafés and libraries can only do so much.'

"Done!" Himiko swings open the bathroom door, skipping with her bloodied clothes in hand. "What do I do with these?"

"That bucket over there is a hamper, just toss it in."

She skips around, and Touya takes a minute to take in her appearance. She looks better, clean, her hair falling in wet, stringy strands around her face as opposed to lumped and matted with dirt and blood. She's still terribly gaunt, skin too pale and so, incredibly small. Touya's always thought of himself as an average height, but Izuku and Himiko make him feel giant.

"When is Izuku going to get here?"

"I never know, but soon, hopefully," Touya answers, heading over to the kitchen. “Do you think you’ll be able to stomach something tonight, Tiny?”

“I’m not that small.” Himiko pouts.

“You’re like, 4’11.”

“5’0,” she corrects smugly.

“Fine, 5'0. Short. Now, think you can stomach some food?” He’s pouring himself cereal, cheap, bland and a little sugary. Not much, but after hearing some of the sh*t the little blonde girl had to go through, he isn’t that hungry.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. We can try, and if something happens, I’ll just throw it—”

“No throwing it up,” Touya cuts her off, “you heard Ms. Pretty in Purple; you have multiple tears in your throat and stomach, really bad scarring too. You’re already sensitive to food from the years of starvation, throwing up and your quirk. Keeping it down on its own will be something you’ll find difficulty with, never mind that f*cked up mindset.”

She flinches at his words, and Touya sighs. He isn't built for this. For comfort.

“Sorry, I’m not good with empathy or sympathy or words or whatever," he apologises lamely, adding, "but you need to eat Himiko. Without throwing up.”

“Then...then can I try taking a few bites from your cereal? Just really small ones.”

Touya nods, taking out two spoons and taking a seat on the couch, Himiko pressing herself against him as he eats.

“Hey,” she says, watching as he takes another bite.

“What?”

“Why does Izu-kun have so many scars?”

Touya’s spoon hovers in the air, mid-bite. She says it so casually, like her words are weightless. But you talk about the weather with an amiable smile. Himiko's eyes are cast down, lips thinned.

“He's quirkless, people don't like that. I mean, we both understand how f*cked the system is, right? Imagine being at the bottom of the food chain." Himiko winces. "His job doesn't help. You heard him, it isn't safe. I don't know what it is, he refuses to tell me, but sometimes he comes back seriously f*cked. And then the whole, we kinda live in the slums of Musutafu. His fight with the man with the glitter beard ain't his first."

“Okay.” She fiddles with her bottom lip. Touya offers a few bites of cereal, and Himiko swallows them with a sour look. Still, she swallows them.

The silence tastes bitter.

“What about his other scars?”

The air feels thick.

The proof of Izuku's sickness is written into his skin, paint brushes of fine blades and fingers, drawing line after line after line. He is the mimic of a broken doll, with skin of paper shredded to nothing. All at his own doing, at the demand of his own misery.

He knew she was bound to ask. After all, Touya did too. He had to.

⚬⚬⚬

"Dry your hair properly you f*ck! Do you want to get a cold?"

Izuku's reply is as usual.

"Only idiots get colds."

So is Touya's following demand.

"Then get the f*ck over here and give me the goddamn towel."

Izuku does, paddling over, the sound of his footsteps lighter than that of the water, dripping down his curls and onto the floor. Touya pulls off his zip-up and drapes it over Izuku's shoulders as the boy comfortably takes a seat on the floor between his legs.

Touya dries Izuku's hair gently, silence blanketing the room, occasionally broken by the unrest of their neighbourhood.

Touya's been here for three months now, and he's falling into comfortable routines. Izuku's his roommate. He demands nothing but clean dishes and silence and has introduced Touya to the local vendors, druggies and whor*s. Touya does more, nonetheless. Not out of obligation—he'd been told he owed Izuku nothing and it's in his favour to not question it—but concern. Concern, for when Izuku comes home from 'work' sporting injuries physicians would faint at the sight of. Concern, for when Izuku forgets to eat like sustenance was another chore he'd left at the end of his 'to do' list. Concern, for when Izuku leaves at 2 am and comes back at 5, unharmed but with eyes so empty Touya's fearful he's gone at the person he's greeting is a ghost.

Concern, for the lines he keeps cutting into his thighs and forearms and hips. The ones Dabi chooses to dress as he bores his eyes into older wounds, self-inflicted and otherwise. Cuts so deep the blood stains the tile as it drips, and cuts so shallow they barely bleed. He mauls himself and Touya's mouth dries at every new, stark wound. He once found a blade tucked in between a book, blood crusted along its edge. It was so flimsy, in his hands, something he could bend and break effortlessly.

'How could this...this thing be so destructive? If I burn it, will he stop?

'Can he?'

It's a better day, Touya notes as his eyes trail to the band of Izuku's shorts, where the lines run up to the dip in his waist and down to above his knee. His arms are healing from his latest job, so the skin is free of anything fresh.

"Izuku?"

Touya's heartbeat climbs and climbs until it's stuck in his throat. He coughs but it does not clear.

"Yeah?"

Touya's hand skillfully wrap Izuku's hair in the towel, gently pulling it up.

"Why do you cut yourself?"

⚬⚬⚬

Izuku did not answer.

Touya puts down the spoon, lowering his head. Himiko's eyes stay on him, patient.

"I don't know," he admits, not masking his shame, "I tried to ask, once, but he shut down. Didn't answer. I don't know if he's punishing himself or if he needs to feel hurt or...or if it's a thing with seeing the scars or what. I don't know." Even quieter, he says, "I don't know if I want to."

"You're there for him though, no?"

'What a gentle question.'

There for him? How couldn't he be?

Izuku gave him life. He showed him what it meant to abandon hopelessness and embrace a different beginning. He insulted his pride and called him pathetic for his anger, called him pitiful for loathing crying babies and a system he did nothing but aid and abide by. He gently combed his fingers through Touya's hair and whispered an impossible fantasy that sounded like Cinderella's hell, reminding Touya of the achievable and the impossible. He drew a stick figure with a wide, wide smile on Touya's lower calf after Touya teased him about his manic smiles and received a far more delicate one when Touya showed off the tattoo he made of it two days later.

"I try to be. I— I try my best and do whatever I can. He saved me just like he's trying to save you, Pipsqueak. The least I can do is be a sh*tty shoulder to lay his head on when he has a bad day, don't you think?"

Himiko smiles brightly, knocking further into Touya's side.

"We'll be there for him together!" she exclaims brightly.

Touya smiles, wrapping an arm around her and ruffling her hair.

"Together, Crazy. Now let's try a few more bites."

She dims.

"Ugh..."

┗━━━━━━━━ ⧖ ━━━━━━━━┛

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“Ah, it’s so big!” Himiko giggles, twirling around. She insisted she drop Izuku off, adamant about seeing Yuuei up close. Izuku didn’t mind so long as Dabi tagged along. Still tragically underweight and malnourished, Himiko needs to be watched. Besides, despite her cheery demeanour, she's, understandably, still a little cautious around Izuku and Dabi, so the thought of running away might cross her mind too.

Izuku's not too keen on leaving sick people for the dogs.

Dabi, though uninclined, came, keeping to a beanie and glasses to keep a low profile. Izuku refrains from telling him that his hoodie does nothing to hide the tattoos on his neck and the scars on his face and that he'd draw attention regardless.

“Why are there so many people?” Dabi mutters.

Izuku shrugs on his blazer, gritting his teeth at the flashing cameras and many microphones being thrust into students' faces.

“Reporters. All Might is working for the heroics department, these vultures must’ve caught wind of it.”

“I really wanted to drop you off at the gate,” Himiko frowns, folding her arms across her chest with a pout.

“Next time, Himiko,” Izuku promises, gently ruffling her hair. She liked it, apparently, and said it made her feel small but safe. Himiko, aware of Izuku's aversion to most touch after nearly losing a finger the night before, gently and obviously reaches for his shoulder, patting it with a triumphant smile.

"I'll hold you to it."

"Should've told her you'd do it for an extra meal."

Izuku rolls his eyes at Dabi, dismissing the comment.

He turns to scan the students still lingering by and spots Kaminari, metres away from the paparazzi. He's having a conversation with the redhead from the first day, Kirishima. Izuku's yet to be acquainted with anyone, having spent all of yesterday adjusting to high school and sticking with 1-C. Unfortunately, as of today, Izuku is to spend every homeroom with 1-A. Denki spots him in an instant, waving his arms like a windmill to catch Izuku's attention. Himiko giggles.

"Is that the blonde boyfriend?" she asks Dabi.

Izuku whips back around with a glare, poking his snickering housemate in the stomach.

"He isn't my boyfriend, sh*thead. Don't spread that BS." He then directs to Himiko, "That's Denki. He's my friend."

"Not boyfriend."

"No," he groans, "don't listen to Dabi. He burnt away most of his brain cells a few years ago."

"Oi!"

"Anyways, I have to go. I'll see you guys at home. And Himiko, do not skip your meals, alright>"

She nods dutifully. Satisfied, Izuku bids them goodbye.

"Bye, Zuku-kun!"

"Later dollface."

When Izuku swings around, he finds Denki is already jogging over, Kirishima at his left.

“Hey, Izu!” Denki slings an arm over Izuku’s shoulders. Izuku’s grown accustomed to Kaminari’s touch and has even come to expect it. It’s that comfortable familiarity that keeps him from flinching.

“Hi.” He wraps his arm around Denki’s waist, before turning to Kirishima, who’s staring at them with his eyebrows drawn in questioning. “Hello.”

Kirishima looks away from his arm to his face and grins toothily. His teeth are gnarly.

“Hi, man. Sorry for the sh*tty impression on the first day. What Mina said was kinda out of line.”

“She should apologise to Shinso."

"Yeah." Kirishima's smile turns nervous. Denki—Izuku's saviour when it comes to stilted conversation—butts in.

“Who was that?" he asks, nodding to where Himiko was. She and Dabi have already turned the corner and are out of sight.

“My roommates.”

“I only recognised Dabi, what about the tiny one?"

"You have roommates?!"

“I met Himiko yesterday," Izuku explains bluntly, and then to Kirishima, "Yeah. We live together."

"What ab—"

“We should probably get through if we wanna head to class,” Denki cuts Kirishima off, giving him a look that Izuku felt too tired to make sense of, "but they’ve been here all morning.” Denki buries his face into his palms. “While Kiri and I were waiting for you, we were kinda hoping they’d just f*ck off or something.”

“Just ignore them.”

Izuku holds out his hand and intertwines his fingers with Denki, who smiles at the motion. It's almost romantic. Kirishima hiccups at the gesture, his cheeks colouring a gentle rose.

Izuku, however, only sees Denki. He feels the way his fingers twitch and knows he needs something to ground him. He offers to be an anchor, insulation to keep Denki from sparking out in a crowd of unknown faces; to keep him from losing himself in an abundance of unknown voices. The feeling of people brushing against him every which way keeps Izuku's heart in his throat and his posture tense. In a breath, Izuku's fingers squeeze Denki's and the role of anchor dances between them.

“You three! Are you students of All Might?” A lady in a smart coat and slicked-back ponytail shoves her microphone in Denki’s face. It takes all of Izuku's dwindling patience not to flip her over and slit her wrist. “How are his classes? Does he teach you well—”

Denki starts to shake as his grip on Izuku’s hand tightens. Kirishima notices it too, hurrying to calm the reporters whilst knocking them away. The grip on Izuku’s hand tightens and tightens like claws are trying to dig their way to his bone. Izuku's free hand twitches to reach for his switchblade too many times to count. Still, the reporters have made no move to f*cking leave them be.

Someone's microphone grazes the skin of Izuku's lip. He snaps.

“Everyone move the ever-loving f*ck away before I shove your mics so far up your asses you’ll taste the f*cking foam for weeks.”

It’s a poor choice of wording, but it’s startling and does the job. The people so adamant about assaulting them finally f*cking step back. Denki's hold on Izuku's hand eases.

Izuku pulls Denki through, Kirishima at their backs. Aizawa is seen walking past the school doors and to the gates.

“All Might is off duty,” he tells the unwanted horde of monkeys, “and you’re interfering with the students, please vacate the premises instantly.”

A reporter chooses to heed the warning and steps forward anyway, only for a large, metal gate to slam down, effectively putting a barrier between Yuuei and the outside.

“Are you okay, Denki?” Izuku asks. Denki's answer is a strained smile, his eyes pinched. Izuku gently squeezes his hand the way Dabi does for him when his injuries are too painful. Denki squeezes back.

“Walk him to class,” Izuku tells Kirishima, “I’m going to head to mine, but I’ll be there during homeroom.”

Kirishima nods, gently taking Denki by the shoulders and holding him close.

Izuku decides right then that he likes Kirishima.

Shota

☾ ☾ ☾

Shota orders Bakugo to the side just before homeroom starts.

Since Shota's class follows homeroom, Midoriya will be spending both their homeroom and first period going over the footage he'd received of their battle trials the previous day during their heroics class. Shota's still seething over it. He'd never given Yagi clearance for the battle trial. It was a stupid choice for a first-day activity and hurt the students. Yagi's argument of it being useful to gouge out how skilled they were was weak in the face of its cons, and there were hundreds of other much safer ways to do so that wouldn't endanger the students or hurt their pride.

‘f*cking moron.’

Counting to five, Shota reorients his thinking to the matter at hand.

He’d put this off since Midoriya hadn’t been in any of their classes yesterday, but there was a clear history between the two. Bakugo looked at Midoriya with something more akin to fear and betrayal. As opposed to an old friend or enemy, it was almost as if Midoriya was his very own poltergeist come to life. Midoriya looked at Bakugo like his very presence could promise eternal misery, with the sort of vacancy and familiarity that spelt a pretence for Bakugo's actions, like he was predisposed to the violence and outwardly rage. Shota didn't think he'd seen someone completely disengaged and dissociate from a scenario so quickly and obviously, before.

(Wherever they knew each other was an apocalypse of crimson rain and black clouds. A past that they’ll forever be immersed in no matter how old they grow so long as they refuse to trim the growing weeds.)

“Yes?” Bakugo raises an eyebrow, perfectly arched.

That’s another thing Shota noticed. Bakugo’s clean, trimmed hair and nails and white teeth. But his tie is loose and his shirt is untucked and his pants sag. Everything unkempt about him is temporary.

“I’m here to talk about Midoriya.”

The reaction is instant. Bakugo’s posture straightens and his hands clench into his fists at his side. His jaw tightens and his eyes narrow.

“What about him?”

“You knew him.” Shota’s tone is firm and confident. He doesn’t let Bakugo interrupt before continuing, “The relationships my students have with each other, past or current, are none of my business so long as it doesn’t interfere with their school.” 'So long as it doesn’t hurt them.'

Something irrecoverably vulnerable paints Bakugo’s features mellow.

“Where did you even find him, Sensei?”

'Find him?'

“What do you mean?”

The look is gone.

“It’s nothing," he scowls, " 'slong as he doesn’t get in my way, I don’t care. We went to elementary school together, that's it."

'It isn't’

It’s not even the first week and Shota already feels like he’s roaming aimlessly in search of answers to questions he doesn’t have. There’s so much he doesn’t understand.

He'll have to look into this further later on, then.

“Very well. Please, remember my threat concerning attacking students unprovoked. Midoriya will be coming along to today’s lesson and all my classes, including homeroom, here on after. I will not have a repeat of the first day.”

“Yes, Sensei.”

“Good. You’re dismissed.”

Katsuki

✷ ✷ ✷

‘Where did you find him?’

He left; he became untraceable and unknown in the blink of an eye. Nothing more than an eviction notice on his apartment door, and the angry hollering of Mitsuki as she demanded the deities to give her an answer.

The Midoriyas hadn’t been over in years. They only stopped by because his mother had heard gossip that Inko hadn’t been to work in months.

Katsuki remembers her tears. He remembers his wrist stinging as he read the sign over and over again. Remembers his mother slapping his hand. He remembers glaring at the fresh cuff marks on their way home.

He was gone. Izuku Deku was gone.

‘Where did you find him?’

'How'd you bring him back to life?'

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“Firstly, I’m going to have Midoriya come by and critique your performances during the Battle Trials yesterday.”

Aizawa nods to Izuku, who walks up with a stack of papers, his hair sitting on his head in a disaster of a bun, courtesy of Himiko.

“You did well,” Izuku addresses them wholly after handing them their evaluation sheets. “I want to especially point to Yaoyorozu and Iida, who showed to be the best strategists among all of you. They were quick on their feet and utilised what little they knew of their opponents to create a plan that would give them the best chance of winning.”

Yaoyorozu and Iida blush at the compliment, the former shielding her eyes when students turn to stare at her appreciatively while the latter bows in thanks.

“However, I also want to point to the powerhouses in this class. In this case, Todoroki, Katsuki and Denki.” He regards them calculatingly. “I wrote it on your sheets, but Katsuki’s far too instinctual in his approach. Even as a villain, something as dangerous as breaking down the infrastructure to get to your opponents with a nuclear weapon being held in the building would, in any other situation, lead to more than your death, only.This wasn’t a replica of a suicide bombing.

"Similarly, Todoroki, what you did was quick, but stupid.” He ignores the mild look sent to him by the ice-and-fire wielder. “Certain explosives react to even the slightest change in temperature, be aware of that and your teammate next time you want to ice over an entire building holding a nuclear bomb. Shoji wasn't there as an accessory."

'Even if the display was rather beautiful.'

"Finally, Denki.” Izuku flattens his lips in a straight line, and Denki sheepishly rubs the back of his neck despite Izuku not saying anything.

“Your quirk, perhaps aside from Tokoyami’s, holds some of the strongest raw power here. Your complete lack of control is jeopardising both you and those around you. I’m going to have you meet with Aizawa later on to complete an entire training regime that focuses solely on your quirk, while the rest of the students hone themselves.”

Denki looks down, ashamed. Izuku doesn’t like it.

He sighs, “I’m done. Detailed evals are with Aizawa."

“Come pick them up after class. Midoriya, you can head back.” Aizawa gestures for him to take a seat, and Izuku chooses to crouch by Denki’s desk, blatantly ignoring the scathing look sent his way by the black-haired man.

“Now, we need to pick a class president. You have until the end of homeroom, please do not disturb me until you’ve come to a decision.”

As he worms his way back into his sleeping bag, Izuku turns to Denki, who’s already looking at him. The class erupts in yells of ‘choose me’ and ‘I'll do it’, but Izuku keeps his eyes on Denki, whose lips are curled in a slight frown.

“You’re not stupid,” Izuku says, “but you are behind, and you need to fix that. Your quirk is dangerous, and it hurts you.”

“It does not—” Denki starts but Izuku cuts him off by standing up and flipping over his arms, pulling up the sleeves of his uniform and showing off the Lichtenberg scars running along his skin.

“It hurts you. All quirks have drawbacks, and the stronger the quirk, the worse the drawback. Because your quirk is strong and dangerous, it was probably difficult to practise with. You’re not less for needing these lessons. I’m going to recommend Tokoyami do the same.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Denki smiles.

“Thanks, Izu.”

“For what?”

Before Kaminari can answer, Iida stops right in front of them, handing them a single piece of paper.

“Right the name of who you think would be best for Class President, no voting for yourself, of course,” he orders, before walking off to the next person.

“Who should I put?”

Izuku shrugs.

He thinks Yaoyorozu would be the best choice.

Hitoshi

⛧ ⛧ ⛧

Hitoshi decides having a friend is weird.

Or maybe it's the friend that's weird? Because Izuku Midoriya really is one weird person. Not only is he Hitoshi’s friend by choice, he’s just generally rather odd.

He speaks a lot, but it’s in short tones and short vowels, word vomit followed by long periods of damning silence that Hitoshi doesn’t know what to make of.

When Hitoshi is around too many people, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth and the fear of swallowing poison making it hard to breathe, Midoriya doesn’t grow frustrated or question it. He lets Hitoshi be, mulling in the silence with him or filling it up with words of his own until Hitoshi can find his voice and try again.

He’s considerate and dense. Not in a way that was unobservant or ignorant, but in his perception of complexity. He’s quick with his words, dripping with sarcasm and edge, sounding like the epitome of teenage angst, but he rarely hints at anything. He’s blunt; doesn’t care for puzzles and metaphorical anecdotes. Not for lack of intelligence, but for the safety of definite understanding.

He’s everything Hitoshi believed futile.

It’s only been three days, but Hitoshi considers him a friend. So, when Midoriya asks him if he’s alright sitting in the cafeteria, he says yes, trusting that Midoriya will help him if it becomes too much. It’s naïve, but Hitoshi has always been spineless when faced with kindness.

Kaminari, the one person Midoriya seems to be fond of in 1-A, saves them a seat with his friends, this time only the redhead and the one with the mullet.

“Sero, they/them. Kirishima, he/him, and you know Denki,” Midoriya whispers just before they approach the table.

“So you guys are back!” Sero waves at them as they take a seat. “Still no food?”

“Still not hungry.” Midoriya leans on his elbows. “And neither is Shin. Right?”

Hitoshi nods. He can’t bring himself to speak. It’s hard and it hurts, right now.

“That’s fine, you guys are eating when you get home, right?” Kirishima questions, politely.

Hitoshi nods. His dads agreed that if Hitoshi couldn't bring himself to eat at school, and they’d know, he’d have to eat at home. To stay healthy and nourished and all that.

Midoriya doesn’t respond. Kaminari sends him a scathing look.

“You are eating when you get home, right?” His tone is threatening. Midoriya looks away, feigning nonchalance.

“Izuku.”

Midoriya huffs.

“I have a new roommate, there are some things I have to prioritise.”

‘A new roommate?’

“Eating isn’t a priority?” Kaminari raises his eyebrows incredulously.

“Me eating isn’t a priority,” Midoriya clarifies, “my roommate needs...help,” he words vaguely, “It’s taken a lot out of my pocket. I offered her a stay, so I can’t just...not provide.”

He says it all casually, like it is normal to starve yourself for the sake of a roommate you take care of at 15.

Hitoshi wants to say something, but he can't speak with the weight in his throat.

Luckily, other people say it for him.

“Don’t your parents provide?” Sero raises an eyebrow. “Not eating isn’t healthy.”

“I have dinner.”

“Not eating regular meals isn’t healthy,” Sero restates bluntly.

“Eat some of my food,” Kaminari insists, shoving his plate of bento at Midoriya.

“No.”

“Eat some of my food or so God helps me I will tell Dabi.”

Hitoshi wonders who that is.

Midoriya glares at him, but relents, taking the chopsticks and taking small bites. Kaminari nods, satisfied and reaches over for an extra pair of chopsticks to share.

Well, Hitoshi supposes it doesn't matter much if Midoriya's weird.

'He's a good person who befriends good people.'

Hitoshi's eyes linger on Kaminari's satisfied grin.

'Cute, too.'

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

The blaring of the alarm is sudden and frightening.

‘Security Level Three Has Been Breached.’

Sirens.

‘Students, Please Promptly Evacuate.’

Izuku’s fight or flight kicks in. Quick on his feet, he grabs the two people nearest to him—Denki and Shinso—and drags them out of the cafeteria. He doesn’t follow the evacuation procedure, the sound of the alarm paralysing his sense of reason. He thinks Denki is saying something. He doesn't know. The students are far too rowdy for a school composed of the best of the best, and Izuku shoves them out of the way harshly, stepping on their toes and elbowing their sides.

The other door leads to the halls. There are a few wandering students all headed to the emergency exits, frightened. Izuku wonders how he must look, dragging his only friends by their wrists in the wrong direction. He finds a desolate space near the stairwell, facing a large window, and tucks himself into the corner. He pulls Denki and Shinso on either side of him, letting go of their hands to tuck his face in between his knees.

For a moment, the ringing was of the shrill sound of an ambulance; the feeling of his mother’s wrist, cold in his hands; the smell of antiseptic, blood, alcohol and loss.

“It’s the intruder alarm,” Denki says, scooting closer and fully pressing himself against Izuku. He’s shaking too. “It’s probably nothing.”

Shinso gets up. Izuku’s arm latches onto his shirt, much to his embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he apologises, letting go. Shinso shakes his head reassuringly and points at the window.

“L...l...l...l-let m...m-me check.”

Ah.

“It’s j...j-just the p...p...pr-press,” he says quietly, moving to sit back down. “Sh...sh-should be over soon.”

“Loud noises startle me,” Denki says, wrapping an arm around Izuku, fingers gently skimming Shinso’s shoulder. Shinso responds to the light graze by shuffling closer, pressing against Izuku. Denki's fingers reach over to curl into the fabric of his blazer, and together they stay huddled as they calm down.

Izuku relishes their touch. In the way they’re warm when his mother wasn’t; the way he can rest his palm against their chest and hear the beat of their heart because they’re alive and breathing and there.

They don't move for a few minutes, as the chaos dies down and Iida's distinctive voice instructs people back to their tables and classrooms echoes down the hallway, telling the students that it’s the press and paparazzi, the teachers coming to his aid. Izuku, Denki and Shinso remain pressed against each other, holding each other like they've been friends for eternities.

Izuku knows it's odd, to like them this much. To latch onto their safety and comfort knowing how cruel people are. How quick they can be to hurt you. He knows they've barely known each other, that Denki and Shinso have only officially met today. It doesn't matter, doesn't really cross his mind.

He likes them. That's enough. He likes them enough to kill them if they'd ask, to stay alive for them if they begged. It's f*cked, it's too fast, it should be wrong.

Izuku doesn't think so, though.

Like this, right now, he doesn't think he's ever felt quite safe.

═════════ ☻ ═════════

Aizawa’s office desk is dull in comparison to the others in the lounge. Plain grey with a single, purple cat plush attached to the pencil holder and a steaming cup of coffee in a bright yellow mug. Izuku finds it fitting.

“Hello, Aizawa,” he greets politely, eyes roaming around the teacher’s lounge. Present Mic is there too. Izuku returns his thumbs up with a nod.

“Hello.” Aizawa looks through a stack of papers, pulling out and handing Izuku a note. “I was meant to give this to you during lunch, before the press thing.”

“That was so not cool.” Present Mic makes an over-exaggerated frown. “Totes messed up the vibes. Whoever destroyed the gate was so out of whack, yo.”

‘You sound like a wanna-be rapper from the late twentieth century. God help my ears and sanity.'

Aizawa sighs, looking seconds away from banging his head against the wall. He tells Present Mic, “Don’t talk like that."

He looks back to Izuku, who’s folding the paper and slipping it into the pocket of his backpack.

“That’s a permission slip for a school trip at the end of the week with 1-A. You’re required to go as Nezu’s representative, it’ll be a good way to get a better read on their quirks and how they work in rescue situations. Just have your father sign it.”

“Alright. Is that all?”

Aizawa hesitates, before decidedly asking.

“Why are your arms always covered in bandages?”

Izuku stares at his arms. He’d taken off his blazer as the day grew to a close and it became a little too hot. On full display, his bandages look tattered and worn. He’d need to replace them soon.

“I have scars and I’m not comfortable putting them on display,” he says. “People weren’t all that kind to me as a kid, Aizawa. You’ve seen my face.” He gestures to it lazily. It’s a half-truth. People are mean, they do scar him. He has lightning bolts that match Denki’s on his right arm, scrapes on his biceps, and burns on his shoulders.

But he doesn't treat himself kindly either. Those are the scars he hides.

Aizawa’s sceptical, but asks no more questions, nodding and waving Izuku off.

“Remember, the permission slip by tomorrow, please.”

“Oh, right. Will an electronic signature work? My father's on a business trip.”

“An electronic signature is fine." Aizawa looks at the door. “You're dismissed.”

Izuku doesn’t give him a farewell in reply, walking off in lazy strides.

He wonders, for a second, how Aizawa would react to his kindness.

Probably poorly.

Shota

☾ ☾ ☾

Shota sighs when Midoriya leaves the room.

“Think he was lying about the bandages?” Hizashi asks, moving over to give his shoulders a squeeze.

“I don’t know." Shota rolls his neck. “I can’t tell with him. He reminds me of Hitoshi when he first moved in, but colder. More stoic, detached.”

“We’ll keep an eye out for him.”

Shota nods, more to himself, thoughts preoccupied.

Something about Izuku is unnerving and unclear. It wields an intense feeling of something Shota's yet to place.

He’ll be life-altering.

If only Shota knew if it’d be as a villain or a hero.

Chapter 10: and the beast rages.

Chapter Text

Hitoshi

⛧ ⛧ ⛧

There’s something wrong.

Hitoshi doesn't have much pride or self-worth. He's working on it, but the self-deprecating hate and pure loathing he harbours towards himself are difficult to shake. He is better, infinitely better than he had been 2 years ago, but sometimes the self-hate chokes him. Sometimes, all he can hear is the sound of their wailing followed by the image of their weak, shattering smile and he's so full of disgust that he's convinced that, no matter how much he works on himself or the good deeds he does, he'll always be worth less than dirty.

So, he doesn't have much pride. That being said, the very little about him that he has confidence in, he feels very strongly about.

One of those things is his gut feelings.

Hitoshi has always been instinctual. It went further than upbringing and environment. The way his stomach coils, his fastening heartbeat, the sweat that beads down his neck. Maybe it’s an attribute of his quirk, maybe it’s just talent, but Hitoshi’s intuition is seldom off. Bad days always feel like bad days, when the sky is unnaturally clear and the grass artificially green.

“Hi, Shin,” Midoriya greets dully. It’s the start of the day, and he’s headed off to 1-A right after attendance. They have a field trip, and though Midoriya isn’t technically a hero student—much to Hitoshi's ever-growing curiosity—he’s to attend with them.

Hitoshi picks his head up.

“Hey.”

Midoriya looks normal, same dull eyes, bandaged arms, loose neck-tie and half-up half-down hairstyle. His backpack is as near empty as ever, his freckles stark, the bags under his eyes a deep purple. Nothing out of place.

Hitoshi tenses, the nauseous feeling of ‘wrong’ hitting him full throttle.

Midoriya sits on his desk and stares down at him, noting how his eyes widen. “You good?”

Hitoshi blinks, swallows what he swears is acid, and nods.

“Sorry, just thought of something.”

Before Midoriya can call him out on his bullsh*t—truly a f*cking frightening talent, being so shrewd—someone shoves Midoriya, knocking his knee against the leg of the desk.

“Sit properly, freak,” they scowl.

Midoriya and Hitoshi hadn’t been given a moment of peace despite it being the first week of their school year. It’s better, no one yells at him for talking, the teachers are kind, and his dads are a safe space. Midoriya says it's better for him too; students don’t swing at him with make-shift shanks, and they don’t corner him in alleyways to punch him senseless. It also seems that the students don't believe he's quirkless. Hitoshi had overhead 2 students speculating about what Midoriya's quirk actually was, and when he'd told Midoriya, the boy seemed pretty indifferent.

'At least no rumours will spread,' Midoriya had shrugged, and that was that. That doesn't absolve him from being picked on, though.

It's better, though, even if betteris a limbo in purgatory for people like them.

“Watch it,” Midoriya snarls right back, hand already gunning for his uniform pocket. The student’s eyes widen, and they step back.

“I’ll f*cking tell!”

“They have cameras set up everywhere.” The familiar, grey plastic handle shouldn't look so harmless being waved around with nonchalance. Midoriya shouldn't look so small with it in his hands. It's frighteningly deceptive. “I’m only defending myself after being provoked. And unlike you, I don’t care about a f*cking expulsion.”

The student stumbles back even further, almost missing his seat entirely. By the deities’ mercy, Midoriya doesn’t follow.

Instead, he pulls out his chair and sits the wrong way, legs spread around the back, elbows on Hitoshi’s desk, facing him directly with his chin cupped in his palm.

“They’re easier to scare here,” Midoriya comments offhandedly, sparing a glance around the room. “Back at my old school, it usually took a few demonstrations.”

Sometimes Hitoshi forgets that Midoriya’s a bloody picture, a torn canvas wet with black, grey and red paint. It slips his mind that Midoriya's pretty is lethal, that he'd be the kind of painting that would sell for millions. Midoriya behaves so normally sometimes, that he forgets.

Then he does sh*t like this, says sh*t like that, and Hitoshi’s brutally reminded that Midoriya’s anything but normal.

Hitoshi adds, “They also don’t beat me up for existing, so like, improvement.”

It’s a pitiful conversation and yet they make it sound like plain banter.

“I guess. Helps that they think I'm some mysterious figure with some god-tier quirk.” Midoriya slips the plastic handle back into his pocket. “So...what was it that set you on edge, earlier?”

Would it kill him to be less canny?

“Really, it’s nothing.”

Except it’s something, he just doesn’t know what.

“Okay.” The conversation comes to a close.

That's another thing Hitoshi quickly came to know of Midoriya. He doesn’t pry. He’s inquisitive, sure, but he doesn’t force his way into the know.

Hitoshi thinks he meddles, though. He thinks that Midoriya would intervene and interfere no matter how grimy and gross and personal if he thought he had to; if he thought it’d be perilous to leave it alone. Still, if he can help it, he doesn’t pry.

Hizashi comes in then, all happy and bright and well, and attendance is called.

Hitoshi ignores the way his ribs feel like they’re squeezing his lungs as Midoriya leaves.

Everything will not be okay.

Shoto

❅ ❅ ❅

Shoto sits, on his own, at the back of the bus.

They’re on their way to their field trip destination, location undisclosed. Most of the students are gathered by each other, talking animatedly. Friends and fun. Shoto aches for it with a sort of numbing pulsation that he’s learnt to ignore.

He’s drowsy, focusing on the chatter to keep himself from dozing off. The students are poking fun at the loud blonde that grates on his nerves, Katsuki Bakugo. Shoto hates that he’s memorised their names, not to know them or befriend them, but to pedestal them in his head. He hates the part of him that sees them as obstacles, as things, and not just… people. Getting to know them—to humanise them—is a luxury he can’t afford, a luxury he’s so desperately convinced he doesn’t need.

Shoto tunes in on a conversation between the mutant girl with wide eyes and Nezu’s representative. He isn't often with them, the representative, but when he is, Shoto’s always overcome with unexplained intensity. It's unlike with his father, where the intensity is married to hate and scorn, but intensity nonetheless. It's irksome that he cannot originate the emotion, not that he'd ever been emotionally intelligent. It is unsurprising that someone as ambiguous as he would strike Shoto, though.

Izuku Midoriya is someone who declined enrollment into the heroics department despite placing 6th in the entrance exam. He’s good friends with Kaminari and knew Bakugo before Yuuei. The latter was a rather interesting conclusion that Shoto had come to, evidenced by the look of devastating recognition on Bakugo’s face when his name was announced on the first day of school. He’s strong. Not obviously, with bricked muscles or a menacing build, but in the way he stands, scars on display, muscles tensed, feet far apart; the way he speaks, cut-throat words, demanding tone. He’s no leader or teammate. He’s a rogue.

“Midoriya, there’s something I wanted to ask.”

Midoriya turns to Asui, attentive.

“What is your quirk? You haven’t revealed it to us.”

No, he hasn’t. Oddly enough, Shoto doesn't think it'd matter too much. Midoriya's presence is intimidating on its own.

The chatter quiets down, as students wait for the answer. Bakugo’s eyes turn to slits where he glares at Midoriya; Kaminari stiffens at his side. Midoriya yawns into his hand, looking off and thumping his head against Kaminari’s shoulder, koala hugging his arm and cuddling into his side.

“It’s not important.”

Shoto would argue that it is, but Midoriya's been an exception to a lot of Shoto's beliefs since he'd first introduced himself.

Asui doesn’t ask further, nodding and turning back to her conversation with Tokoyami, the boy with a bird’s head. The chatter starts up again, though Shoto’s attention doesn’t divert from the green-haired enigma. Midoriya nuzzles his head into Kaminari’s shoulder, eyelids drooping.

“Are you tired?” Kaminari asks, bringing up his free hand to run through Midoriya’s curls. Midoriya nods, and Kaminari gently nestles at his curls with his nose, smiling before pulling away.

'Perhaps Kaminari is more than a good friend?’

Shoto always saw lust and love and longing as unattainable comforts. He’d mull over finding love in his life if he had any want for it. But his parents loved, upon a time of grey clouds and gleaming stars, and he'd seen it turn to ash in a second.Still, if only he could help that slight part of him green with envy.

When it’s obvious that Midoriya isn’t going to elaborate, the few straggling eyes turn away.

Despite Midoriya's obvious tiredness, Kirishima asks another question.

“What’s with those bandages too, by the way? It’s probably uncomfortable wearing them all the time, man.”

Midoriya gives Kirishima a disinterested look.

“Not really. Let me sleep.”

Any room for conversation is shut down.

Perhaps Shoto should let himself sleep too then.

He’s tired.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

The USJ is large.

That’s the first thing Izuku takes notice of. Everything in Yuuei is large, large and expensive, built from wallets with bottomless pits that Izuku dreams about stealing. To live in lavish and luxury of blood money sounds so peaceful.He’s no upstanding citizen, and the world runs on money as it runs on quirks as it runs on hate.

“Amazing! It’s the USJ!”

“Flood wrecks, landslides, fires, this is a place I created for practical training,” a new voice cuts through the praise. “It simulates all kinds of accidents and disasters that you all could face as future heroes, the Unforeseen Simulation Joint.”

“Ah, it’s Space Hero Thirteen!” Uraraka gushes. “They’re so kind! One of the top rescue heroes who’s phenomenal when helping with disaster relief! I’ve always looked up to them.”

That makes sense, considering he knows Uraraka plans on becoming a rescue hero.

“Where’s All Might? Shouldn’t he be here?” Izuku hears Aizawa ask.

“It seems he ran out of time, hero-ing during his commute this morning.” The rescue hero holds up three fingers.

Right, the pathetic stick man Izuku was itching to shove off the side of the building the day he met him. (The day he really understood how useless the world was, how useless people were, how evil ran rampant, like the blood in your veins.)

“Irrational,” Aizawa grits.

Izuku agrees. Surely All Might knew of today’s exercise. There are always other people around, and heroes so star-worthy who bear the weight of such intense responsibility should be aware of their limits. All Might isn’t. It’s ridiculous how he pretends he is God, pretends he is capable of keeping everyone alive and pretends it is his duty, his only purpose. Gods are known to be infallible—All Might is only human.

By luck, he had yet to run into the hero, only tailing 1-A during Aizawa’s lessons. He supposes it’s better, with him knowing All Might’s secret and all, surely that would’ve caused a mild commotion at best.

Aizawa pinches the bridge of his knows and draws out a long breath. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. Let’s get started.”

Thirteen nods and faces the class. “Before we begin, there’s just one thing or two...or three...or four…”

They go on to explain the way quirks are dangerous. They say that quirks can kill, that their quirk can kill, mutilate and hurt and harm. Izuku understands with vehemence, thinking of the little lightning bolts on his arm, the cuts on his face and the burns on his shoulders and chest. He understands that quirks can harm; he knows that all quirks can harm.

“It is not the quirk that hurts, it is the wielder.”

Of course, it is always the wielder. A quirk is a limb; a mutation; a booster with its limits. A cruel person will utilise such a tool with the same cruelty of their character, and a saint will use it for good.

It is always the wielder...until it’s not. Until it’s the inbred prejudice; until it is the quirk. The face, the name, the smile, and the actions that the person takes are all matterless. Villainous quirks are villainous until they are not. Uselessness is uselessness until it isn’t. The heart of a saint cannot shake the veil of Satan that society has draped over them, no matter the actions they take or their honest intentions. The world writes a million self-made proficies of the worst tyrants that come to rise and then absolve themselves of the blame by hiding the blood on their palms behind their backs and smearing it on the faces of the villains they made.

Guilty until proven innocent.

It is the quirk before it is the user.

“This lesson will be a new start! Let’s go studying how to wield quirks for the sake of human life!”

‘Human life? Does it really hold that much value in their eyes?’

Izuku doesn’t think so. Humans and heroes and villains, they’re all the same.

“Your quirks do not work empathetically to hurt others,” they continue.

It's only that some people are told they are predestined for greatness and their stories are relayed as such.

“Please leave this exercise having fully understood that your quirks exist not to hurt people, but to help them.”

And others are told they are predestined for villainy and nothing they can do will rewrite those pages.

═════════ ☻ ═════════

Quirks work to hurt others.

Hell, the idea of ‘quirked’ in itself is detrimental.

Detrimental enough that kids like Izuku are left hurting long before they should ever learn the concept of hurt; that kids like Hitoshi are left lost and lonely for the audacity of being born; that kids like Dabi and Shoto are bred into a life of pain and hierarchy and ‘being the best’; that kids like Katsuki are pushed wrong, wrong, wrong—snarling and foaming at the mouth and being praised for being immoral; that kids like Denki are hurting and dying at the mercy of a power they never wanted.

Quirks work to hurt everyone. No matter the wielder, the environment, or the circ*mstance.

Quirks will always hurt.

But heroes have always been liars.

═════════ ☻ ═════════

Aizawa pulls out his notebook. “Alright, first things first...”

'It smells like dust.'

Izuku notices it first, carrying the air, overwhelming. His eyes find the disturbance right after, a slight ripple in the centre of the plaza, right by the fountain. A slit of something distorts the colours and images.

“Aizawa,” he warns, but it’s already too late. Something black and purple rips through, swirling up more and more dust. It's large.

Portals. The one at the centre of the plaza is the biggest, but Izuku can tell there are others too, splitting open the sky for people to fall through, making themselves at home in the different simulation joints. There are many, many people.

He’s seen some of these faces, in back alleyways, mugging men with weak bones and threatening pretty women in short skirts. He’s seen some of these faces when he’s earning a new paycheck, wicked but weak.

Pawns. They’re all pawns.

Before them is a man, either terribly young or terribly old, covered in hands, dirt-ridden with shaggy pale hair and loose black clothing.

“Huddle together and don’t move!” Aizawa shouts, “Thirteen, protect the students!”

“What’s going on?” Kirishima bites his lip. “Is this a part of the training exercise?”

A few students move forward to get a closer look.

“Don’t move!” Aizawa turns to them for only a second. “Villains!”

Villains.

The students scramble back, terror dawning on confusion as more and more people step through the portals.

“Eraserhead and Thirteen,” the void of swirling purple and black, the portal, says through no mouth, “according to the teacher’s curriculum we procured yesterday, All Might was supposed to be here.”

“Yesterday,” Izuku whispers, “they must’ve been the people who infiltrated the Yuuei building.”

“f*cking sh*t,” Denki curses.

“Where is he?” Handjob’s voice sounds like nails dragging on a chalkboard, violent and restless, demanding destruction in just a few syllables. “We went through all this trouble and rustled up so many to bring along. You can’t tell me, All Might, the 'Symbol of Peace', isn’t here…” Though his voice isn’t loud, it’s distinct.

It’s frightening.

Izuku can feel it, the thumping of his heart, his blood rushing, the way his toes curl. A smile threatens to break on his lips, and he has to bite his tongue. He can feel the upcoming fight in the way his skin prickles. His body is nagging at him to chase. It feels like a need. It is a terrible want.

Handjob suddenly screams, “I wonder if he’ll show up if we kill the kids!”

“f*cking sh*t,” Denki reiterates, wrapping a hand around Izuku’s elbow and hugging him closer.

“Villains!” Mineta dazes, frantic. “No f*cking way!”

“What kinda honest to god f*cking idiotic villains think that waltzing into a hero home base is okay?!”

“Don’t we have intruder alarm sensors?” Yaoyorozu looks to Thirteen.

“We do, of course, but—”

“Do you honestly think they infiltrated the rest of the school?” Todoroki cuts them off, expression steely. “They most probably have someone amongst them who’s intercepting the signal. Think about it.” He turns around, to face the hoard of hell that waits for them. “An isolated space away from the school building, at a time when there’s a class scheduled, expecting All Might to be here. They have an objective. This isn’t just some uncoordinated ambush.”

“This was planned,” Izuku mumbles.

“Thirteen, get along with the evacuation procedure, they know how to work around the censors. Kaminari, try contacting the school using your quirk.”

Denki makes an unintelligible noise and starts playing with his headset.

“Sensei! You’re going to fight them alone?” Uraraka fiddles with the pads of her thumbs worriedly.

Erasure is a strong quirk, and Eraserhead is a strong hero.

But the plaza is bustling, full of people thirsty to kill because they can. People like Izuku. Monsters.

But… “Are you sure you can do it, Aizawa?” Izuku looks at him and is met with conviction.

No, not just Eraserhead. Aizawa is strong.

“Heroes always have more than one trick up their sleeve.”

And then he’s flying. For a split second, Izuku marvels. People like Aizawa remind Izuku of coal. Ugly, until they aren't. Potential diamonds, shining despite mountains and mountains of pressure and pain. He fights with finesses, battle strategy, instinct and swift thinking. He’s smart in his captures, has quick reflexes, and knows who to egg on and who to ignore. He’s experienced.

“Enough with the staring, it’s time we start—”

'More dust.'

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that.” Portal sounds sentient when they speak, like a thousand voices being echoed in one continuous drone, words heavy and eloquent. “Let me introduce ourselves. We are The League of Villains.” They speak like an old poet, words not backed by conviction but by clinical order. It's like they’re retelling a story. There is no want in their words, no demand for desire. Robotic.

“I apologise for our presumption, but we were under the impression that the symbol of peace, All Might, was meant to tail this class. See, we came here in order to extinguish him, for lack of better words. Was his presence not demanded? Or perhaps there was a sudden change? Well, be as it may, this is my role.”

He’s expanding, a cloud of purple that hovers and hovers, threatening to blanket them.

In a moment of f*cking stupidity, Katsuki and Kirishima barrel forward, putting them in front of Thirteen. An explosion is set off. Izuku flinches hard.

“Bet you didn’t think we’d do you in before you got the chance!”

Izuku whispers harshly, "Are they f*cking brain-dead?"

Portal is left unscathed.

“That was rather perilous, though it is to be expected, you are hero students of course.”

“Get back!” Thirteen yells, stretching out their hand and uncaping a finger. “It’s no use. All of you should make for the exit and run.”

It's too late. The portal is already there, chipping away at Thirteen’s appearance, quirk turned against them, flakes of white and grey floating around them as the hero is torn apart.

“You will be scattered,” Portal promises, “you will be tortured.” The black mist—it is mist, a little damp, carrying the scent of rainwater and paper and dust— circles them; Izuku feels it grab him, hold him, drown him. “And slain.”

He feels Denki’s grip on him weaken until it’s as if it’s only him, floating, falling, breathing but not quite.

“Every single one.”

═════════ ☻ ═════════

The water is cold, bone numbingly cold. Izuku speculates the possibility that there was a simulation of the pre-quirk movie 'Titanic', with icebergs, a sinking ship and death.

When he opens his eyes, it doesn’t sting—it isn’t saltwater—and he holds his breath and tries to make sense of his bearings.

Portal, their quirk is warping. His cells felt like they were shifting, turning, unfixed in the black void of nothing until he came to again.

They're after All Might’s head.

‘Jesus f*ck.’

“Oho!” A weird sound reaches Izuku's ears, and he spins around to find a mutant creature, with a wide stretched mouth and shark teeth eyeing him hungrily.

“The chum has come!”

'What is he, a lyricist?'

His jaw gapes, wide and wider, revealing more teeth and a long, pink tongue, slits and gills on the inside of his mouth.

“It’s nothing personal.” Sharky’s words are a little garbled by the way his jaw is stretched. “But Sayonara, motherf*cker!”

Izuku stares, unmoving, hand reaching for his switchblade. If all else, he’s taking the damn Shark thing with him. He doesn’t care if he dies, after all. Not to mention that the idea of dying like this—being torn, flesh and bone, bleeding and helpless—it's wicked.

It’s exhilarating.

There’s rippling in the water followed by a stream of bubbles, and two strong legs kick at Sharky’s head, sinking him. A long tongue wraps itself around Izuku’s middle, and he’s thrown up to the surface, hitting the deck of a boat, wincing on impact.

Asui comes right after him, throwing onboard a semi-conscious Mineta. Izuku scowls at his bandages, soaked through and coming undone at the edges. He takes them off, pulling down the sleeves of his P.E. uniform and tossing them in a heaping pile.Mineta splutters awake, flailing around, screaming bloody murder, before a sharp slap to the face with Asui’s tongue shuts him up.

“We’re f*cked.” Izuku pulls off his elastic and haphazardly ties his hair in a low ponytail to keep it out of his face. He runs a tongue along his lip piercings and stares off at the edge of the boat. The villains are all aquatic. Water seems to be their habitat.

Strategic and coordinated.

“There’s no way they could kill All Might!” Mineta exclaims. “Once he arrives, he’ll just go like, ‘plow’ and ‘kaboom’! A-and— and we’ll all be safe, right? Right?!”

“Mineta,” Asui says, “they must’ve figured out some way to kill him, otherwise going through all this trouble just to get flattened would be ridiculous, no?”

“And it’s not like it’s beneath them,” Izuku adds, “they told us we’d be tortured to death. The real f*cking question is if we’re going to be able to hold off until the pros arrive.”

“What?!” Mineta bawls, falling to the floor and wrapping his arms around his knees. “What are we going to do?! We’re going to die!”

“Come down here, you bastards!” one of the villains in the water yells—Sharky, Izuku can tell from the bite in the voice. “Once I’m down with you you’ll be chopped liver!”

“Ah! Holy f*ck! Holy sh*t! What the f*ck! Ah!”

“Mineta shut the f*ck up before I toss you overboard.” Izuku levels him a glare, and Mineta goes quiet, eyes still glistening with unshed tears.

‘Think.’

“What can your quirks do?” Izuku turns to them. “Both of you. I only have a brief idea.”

“I have the attributes of a frog,” Asui tells him, “I can jump fairly high, and my tongue can stretch to over twenty metres in length. I can also regurgitate my stomach, it’s lined with a poisonous mucus, well, more stinging if anything, that I can secrete.”

“Secrete?” Mineta whispers dazedly.

Izuku takes the handle of his knife and slams it against his temple.

“Ow!” Mineta yelps, falling flat and bringing his hands to his head. “That hurt! What the f*ck?!”

“One perverted thing out of you and I’ll use you as bait to get me an Asui across.”

“You—”

“I would. You're worth about as much as a dung beetle to me."

“Please, call me Tsu, Midoriya,” Asui tells him. Izuku’s mildly confused but doesn’t bother questioning it.

'Not the time to be socially inept.’

“Mineta, what can you do?”

Mineta pulls off one of the purple balls on his head and latches it onto the side of the boat.

“They’re very sticky, and depending on my health, they can be impossible to take off for over twenty-four hours. A new one grows in place of the one I pulled out, but if I pull out too many I’ll bleed. Only I’m immune to how sticky they are, I just bounce right off them.”

‘What the ever-loving and living f*ck?’

Silence.

“I told you, didn't I!?” Mineta starts wailing again. “Let’s just wait to be rescued, my quirk isn’t suited for any of this!”

“Mineta I swear to every f*cking god you believe in if you don’t—”

Something slams into the ship.

“Let’s f*cking end this farce, you’re getting annoying!”

The ship tilts. Izuku has to grip the metal railing to keep it from sliding off.

“Holy sh*t,” he whispers.

“He split the ship.” Tsu looks at him, her ever-passive expression now slightly apprehensive. “We’ll die if we hit the water.”

“Uwah!” Mineta haphazardly throws some of the balls on his head into the water. Tsu slaps him across the face with her tongue again, and Izuku looks over the railings to see the villains slowly inching away from the floating balls.

'Oh!’

“They don’t know your quirks.” He looks at them, eyes gleaming. He points to Tsu. “That explains why they put you in the flood zone instead of the configuration zone.”

“Just one minute and the ship will sink, and then we’ll rip you all to shreds,” a different villain cackles gleefully.

“They have the advantage in the water.” Izuku hurries to the front of the ship and pulls off the steering wheel with what upper body strength he has. He grabs his bandages and ties them to the front of the wheel, praying his knot doesn't come undone as he unravels the rest of the bandages and stretches them as far as they can go.

“What are you doing?” Tsu asks.

“Mineta, be useful and attach your balls to these bandages, now.”

The threatening aura Izuku emits has Mineta working faster, forcibly ignoring the way he bleeds as he rips the things off his head at an alarming speed. When the bandage is decently covered, Izuku turns to Tsu.

“The second I throw this in, I want you to jump with Mineta off the ship. Can your legs carry you to do that?”

Tsu nods, but her nervousness grows.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

Izuku pulls out his knife and turns to the water.

“I’m going to have fun.”

Tsuyu

✿ ✿ ✿

Tsuyu watches Midoriya from the end of the lake. She’d jumped, just as he asked, the second he dove straight into the water. He’s fast, not as fast as all the mutants in the water, but faster than some. Most of them were wrapped and caught in the badges in their chase, pulling them stuck to each other and rendering them useless. It’s impressive how quick he was to come up with a solution, utilising their quirks well despite the pressure and time constraints.

‘I wonder if his quirk is an intelligence enhancer? It doesn’t seem to be anything physical or mutative.’

There are only four villains left, but they seem to be the strongest: the one who split the ship in half, the one with a shark’s head, one with water for hair and one with fins on its head and a tail. Izuku’s swimming right after them, but he’s too slow. Shark Head swims like he’s flying, and his jaw snags the bottom of Izuku’s pants, pulling him under.

Mineta whimpers. Instantaneously, the water, once clear and blue, is dyed red. Tsuyu readies herself, ignoring Mineta’s outrage as she bends her legs, hardening her calves. Just as she’s about to push off, Midoriya breaks the surface, wearing a wide, unstable stable. He raises his pocket knife, the weapon seeming far more lethal than it was moments ago. He isn’t unscathed, there are tears on his sleeve and blood dripping down his arm.

Shark Head doesn’t come back up.

“What the f*ck did you do?” the one with water for hair screeches. She stretches out an arm and clenches her fist, Midoriya being pulled towards her at an alarming speed. He does not fail or fight off the pull, nor does he show apprehension or fear. Instead, he angles his knife so the sharper end is facing away from him, and waits.

Water Hair notices a second too late, and the momentum from the pulling of the water sends Midoriya right at her. He laughs, a broken and terrifying laugh, when the knife comes into contact with her face, tearing a gash over her head, the pouring blood blinding her. He doesn’t give her time to recuperate or duck under, lunging again, this time for her shoulder, and ripping through the tendons.

She screeches and sinks.

Something like metal finds its way into Tsuyu’s stomach. She wants to look away, but she can’t.

There’s something vicious there. Something that scares her. Something that keeps her from shying away. She’s seeing it, all in a cacophony of blue and red, the true vile that is Izuku Midoriya.

“He’s insane,” Mineta whispers.

The next two put up a fight, it’s 2-on-1, and Midoriya is snagged and bruised and thrown around. Midoriya should be losing. Jaws clamp around his arm again, something head-butts him in the nose, and the water is now redder than it is blue. Midoriya should be losing. The outcome should be obvious.

He isn't.

Tsuyu doesn't look away. Not when Midoriya brings down that same flimsy knife and starts plucking out the teeth of the villain who split their ship. Not when he uses his own fangs to cut through the thick skin of the mutant with an aquatic tail, gunning right for the fins and slicing through them.

He does it all with a smile, and she doesn’t look away.

The villains slug around the surface, too injured to attack…too scared. No one is dead, probably. Midoriya isn't a murderer, probably. (She isn't sure.)

Midoriya swims as best as he can in their direction, sluggish from his wounds.

“You’re still here,” Midoriya regards them coldly, the glee, joy and fun in his expression gone.

He takes the switchblade and tears off the fabric of his right sleeve, clumsily wrapping it around his forearm one-handed to keep from bleeding out. Carefully, Tsuyu steps forward. Midoriya regards her hesitantly but lets her take the fabric from his hands and tie it properly. His expression morphs into something more akin to confusion.

"Thank you." He tilts his head to her, the most promising gesture of acquaintanceship that she's gotten since they've been introduced. “Now, go back to the entrance."

“Where are you going?” Mineta’s voice wavers.

Midoriya tucks his hair behind his ears. “I’m going to fight.”

“That’s a monster,” Mineta says fearfully when Midoriya walks away.

Tsuyu shakes her head.

Midoriya is vile, is wicked, is evil and sin and bloodlust.

But he is no monster.

“He’s human,” she tells him and then follows Midoriya's direction.

“The entrance is that way!” Mineta points to the top of USJ, where some of her classmates are dealing with the warp villain.

“I’m going to fight too,” she says calmly.

After all, didn’t he notice?

When Midoriya gripped his knife, he was shaking.

He was scared.

He's human.

Denki

❂ ❂ ❂

Denki knows Izuku.

Denki knows Izuku in the same way he knows his reflection, he knows his image and his smile and the way his eyes light up when he pulls at his cheeks.

Sometimes, Denki sees his reflection, and he sees a stranger. Someone too wide, too thin, too tall, too short. Someone with yellow eyes but not his yellow eyes, with the same mop of waves but they're just a little too straight or curly or blonde. Sometimes, Denki doesn’t know what he looks like, the slight freckles on his nose or the scars that run along his skin, creeping up his neck, over his chest, arms and legs.

But sometimes…Denki knows. Denki knows that no imposter’s staring at him. That those are his freckles and scars and eyes and hair.

Denki knows Izuku in the same way he knows his reflection. So, when he’s dropped with Yaoyorozu and Jiro, surrounded by villains, all tall and menacing, after their lives, he knows he has to work fast. (He can't burn out. He can't.)

Izuku’s going for the plaza, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t keep him alive.

Because he knows, with the way Izuku talks and walks and lies through his yellowing teeth, that he isn’t afraid to die.

Denki knows Izuku the same way he knows his reflection. Like a stranger, like the back of his hand. He knows so much, and yet nothing at all.

But he knows Izuku wants to die.

"Yaoyorozu!" he calls. "How fast can you make an insulated tarp and two metal rod conductors?"

Denki will be damned before he’d ever let that happen.

Shota

☾ ☾ ☾

Someone is counting.

Shota can hear it, a quiet mumble.

“22.”

“23.”

“24.”

He can hear it, as his scarf levitates around him and the villains fly into each other, unconscious on the plaza floor.

He finds the voice, the man with hands.

“You the final boss?”

Shota flies toward him at the same time the man does. He’s quick, even faster than Shota. Not powerful but deft. Shota’s eyes burn and sting, but he braves forward and sends an elbow to the man’s gut, sad*stic in the way he smirks when he hears the breath being knocked out of the man.

“We keep moving around so it’s hard to tell, but there are periods of time where your hair goes limp again, and the intervals keep getting shorter.”

Though he can’t see his face, Shota pictures the man grinning, top and bottom teeth yellow because he looks like he sits in his own piss.

‘The counting.’

A knee hits his solar plexus and Shota’s back is hitting the concrete hard. He blinks, and that split second is enough.

The pain is horrifying. It isn’t burning, bruising, or stabbing. It feels like he’s being peeled away, like someone is taking off parts of his skin, little by little, using the smallest, dullest blade. He only feels it for a second, but he wants to scream.

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, Eraserhead,” the villain sings before Shota activates his quirk again and sends a hard punch to his face, shifting the weird hand obstructing his features, catching a glint of ruby-red eyes.

Other villains fly at him again, but they're child’s play, clear amateurs whose experiences in fighting were limited to pub brawls and the occasional alleyway confrontation. Despite the way his elbow bleeds, soaking through his costume and onto the concrete, Shota deals with them easily.

“You’re not made for fights like this,” the hand villain wheezes. “You specialise in short-length sneak attacks, don’t you? Why would you jump into an open battle if your quirk isn’t made for it? To give your students some peace of mind?”

Shota says nothing, keeping his quirk activated, keeping his gaze focused.

“Ah, you’re really cool.” The villain stands up, but he doesn’t lunge. He grins. Shota can’t see it, but he knows he’s grinning, wide and toothy and menacing. Yellow, because he looks like he sits in his own piss.

“By the way." He looks behind Shota. “I’m not the final boss.”

A looming figure. Dark shadows. Promise of pain. Shota turns his head, but the figure is too fast, large and deadly. The thing grabs him by his arms and pins him down like he’s made of nothing but feathers and cotton. Shoto writhes fruitlessly.

“Meet Nomu.” The man gestures like a king to his peasants. “The creature that will destroy All Might.”

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Nomu.

That hulking abomination of a thing...Handjob called it a Nomu.

Izuku hears, somewhere over the weird fogginess that’s muffling what’s happening around him, Handjob praising Aizawa’s quirk before the...the thing—the Nomu—snaps his arm, a clean break that sounds painfully familiar.

“That’s f*cking it,” he mutters, before diverting to Tsu and Mineta, who followed him for some reason. (Had they not seen him act out? Seen the blood in the water? The smile he bared as he tore through them? Had they not seen how f*cking rotten he is?)

“Both of you, stay here, behind these rocks. On the off chance that Handjob sees you, he’ll hurt you.”

Izuku’s tone is demanding. Both students listen, looking at the scene through the little gap between the two largest rocks

Izuku pushes himself out of the water and makes a show of an appearance by taking loud, long steps and breathing a little too hard.

The Nomu takes Aizawa by the neck and slams his head into the concrete, once, twice. It’s following Handjob’s orders of more, more, more.

“Oi!” Izuku yells, cutting off Handjob’s voice, his own like his glinting knife, sharp and unforgiving. Handjob takes his eyes off Aizawa and to Izuku. Despite the hand on his face, Izuku can see his expression as clear as crystals in still water.

“Oh, another f*cking NPC, is it?” Hanjob sounds stereotypical in a way that villains are, the same voice you think of when you hear about the witches they burnt at the stake or the scary men who’ll offer you candy if you get into their big black vans, of the boogie-man that lives under your bed.

‘NPC? Does he think we’re in a simulation or some sh*t?’

Before Izuku can reply—what the f*ck would he even say—Portal warps their way to them. Handjob turns to Portal, and Izuku only pays half a mind to the conversation, keeping his gaze on Nomu and Aizawa. The slightest move and his teacher could die.

“Tomura Shigaraki,” Portal says as a way of greeting.

Tomura Shigaraki.

Izuku whispers the name to himself and prays he doesn’t forget it after everything comes to a close.

“Blackmist,” Handjob—Izuku prefers it to Shigaraki—acknowledges. “Is Thirteen dead then?”

Izuku steadily creeps up to the Nomu. It’s as still as a sculpture with Handjob occupied. It must respond to his commands, then. Be it that authority extends past Handjob is still unknown.

“Incapacitated,” Blackmist—Izuku’s more respect for the entity than the pissy loon who talks in code—informs, “though of the students I could not scatter, one impeded me, and therefore escaped with his life.”

‘Iida,' is Izuku's immediate thought, with engine legs and Turbo™️ speed.

Izuku's grip on his knife slackens, only for a second. He does not let himself bathe in any moment of relief. He’d thought they’d all die; these students were so desperate to learn and live and grow, be it out of spite, out of order, promise, or faith. They want to live. Izuku's death would be meaningful if only because his life was meaningless, for he had no love or life or family.In the end, he craved his death with vice grips and skittish hands, with desperation and loose conviction, with iron rods and thin spider-web strings. Be it in passing, or active thought, Izuku did not mind nor evade death. Their deaths, however, the deaths of the heroes-to-be, of the heroes still there, their deaths would be meaningless. Meaningless, for they’ve many more adventures to live, and ambitions to fulfil.

“Ha!” Handjob’s fingers find his neck, and he scratches like there's an incessant itch that he can’t shake. He scratches and scratches until the skin is red and raw and bloody. “Ha...ha.” He scratches until all he feels is pain. Pain, and nothing else. The warm slick of his blood and the prettiest shades of red on his fingers.

Izuku skims his arms.

“If you weren’t our ticket out of here.” Handjob points a broken, bloodied nail at Blackmist. “I would’ve killed you right here.”

Scratch. (Cut.)

Scratch. (Cut.)

Scratch. (Cut.)

“A dozen pros will be here soon,” Handjob mutters, fingers leaving his neck, “we should probably leave while we can.”

Izuku doesn’t relax. He can tell it isn't over. Maybe it’s the slight edge in Handjob's voice, maybe it’s the faux calm stance or the phrasing of the words, but he can tell. He hates to admit that maybe it's because, if it were him, standing there, pushed only a little too far, angry, vengeful and overflowing with nothing but the need to hurt, he wouldn’t have left.

He positions himself, tucks his elbows into his sides, bends his knees and flicks open his blade. Handjob turns to him, to Shota.

“Actually, before that.”

Izuku has no time to rejoice in his correct assumptions. Handjob is frighteningly fast. In seconds he’s at the pond, where Mineta and Tsu sit still in the water.

“Let’s take the symbol of peace’s pride down a notch.”

His hand doesn’t make it to Tsu’s face before Izuku interferes. He jumps, pushes his legs with every bit of strength he can, and throws his arm forward. It’s nothing but luck (and the skill of a boy who’s long since given up on life) that the knife finds its home in Handjob’s palm.

“sh*t!” Handjob screeches, pulling his hand back. Izuku twists his knife and pulls it out, the force of his sprint knocking him off balance, long enough for Handjob to grab Izuku by the neck using that same bloodied hand, all five fingers gripping Izuku's throat. Izuku waits for something—he saw Aizawa’s elbow, the flash of white bone, the flaking skin, the thin, glass-like cracks stretching across the fabric of his costume and arm—but nothing comes, nothing but the gross feeling of warm sticky blood and the pressure of Handjob's fingers, too loose to hurt.

“Ah.” Shigaraki tilts his head, eyes darting to the left. “You’re a really cool guy, Eraserhead. Nomu, again!”

The Nomu lifts his arms and slams Aizawa’s head into the concrete. He twitches and falls limp. Izuku yanks himself away in the distraction, and Handjob pounces again. He’s fast and agile, sure, but he’s inexperienced. There are openings in Handjob's stance and haste in his attack. Izuku has fought far more dangerous men; men with more precise punches and better-placed kicks.

His knife makes contact with another expanse of skin, collarbone to shoulder, and Shigaraki pulls back again, hissing an angry curse. The tips of his fingers brush below the makeshift bandage Izuku has on his arm, and Izuku jerks to the right; the pain of something peeling away at his skin is blinding.

He starts to feel the acid in his veins, the itch for more. He jumps, up and down, restless and frantic. He can feel every cut, scrape and burn ache with phantom pains. Those cold, cold fingers of Death are trailing along his collarbone, his shoulders, his elbows, tearing at his clothes and leaving him bare and broken and desperate to feel more.

f*ck the teasing. f*ck the too-light touches.

He wants those knife-like fingers to slit his throat open, to watch as he gurgles on his blood. He wants to explode in a firework of colours, dazzling and painful, wonderful and wild.

Adrenaline is another hell of an addiction.

Izuku grins at Handjob, that same smile he loves. All teeth, lips stretched wide, eyes crinkled at the edges, toxic green slits of pure glee. Handjob hesitates, put off by the expression, and Izuku thrusts forward again, nicking at his shoulder.

“I could do this all day!” he beams, loving—lusting—for that promise of death, only inches away.

“Nomu!” Handjob orders. Izuku crouches and rolls away, millimetres from the too-large fist that was about to bash his head in. He jumps up and runs off as the Nomu strikes again. It’s strong, a single punch and Izuku would be out like a light. He can’t help but love it.

He pounces with his knife—looking pathetic in comparison to Nomu—and slashes a long, deep cut right across its chest before bouncing away. The Nomu doesn't blink. Instead, in mere seconds, the skin grows over itself, and the wound is gone.

“Surprised?” Handjob monologues, like he isn’t standing, all pretty, perched, and amused, as Izuku dodges his f*cking monstrous pet left and right. Like he isn't hiding behind his beast. “It has more than enough quirks to kill you, you pesky f*cking brat.”

“Damn, Handjob,” Izuku laughs as he takes his knife and shoves it into the bend of the Nomu’s knee, the monster faltering only slightly from the sudden shift in balance. “So what’s the point of making these monsters so overpowered? Do you have his tongue shove itself into your ass as you use those hands on your face to jerk yourself off? That’s f*cking nasty, but you know, I see it.”

“What?!” Hanjob shrieks, angry angry angry. Izuku loves it.

“Blackmist!” he shouts. Izuku feels the earth under him shift as a portal is opened, the Nomu’s hand coming for his head. He can’t f*cking move.

Is this it then? His death, by the punch of some, brainless, broken freak of nature? A monologuing villain’s puppet? A puppet that's not evil or good, dead or alive, but an abomination deserving the mercy of death? Is this it? Dying with a smile so wide his teeth hurt, bandage free and blood on his hands, scratched and soaked and injured? So f*cking high on adrenaline, on fear, shaking but frozen? Is this it? His death, the death of someone so painfully human?

“Outta the f*cking way!” a voice screams, followed by the bittersweet smell of burnt gas and caramel mingling with the scent of blood, dust and death. The portal keeping Izuku’s feet on the floor dissipates and he can move again. The Nomu’s fists are held mid-air, body swarmed in crystals and ice. The crystals could almost be pretty, if not for the gruesome monstrosity they were keeping in place.

“Izuku!” a different voice, one Izuku recognizes, calls for him. Denki, dishevelled but not brain dead, a little banged up. Izuku takes a look around. Save for him and Aizawa, everyone looks safe. Is alive. (Now, he allows himself a moment of alleviation, of relief. Let's it flood him.)

“Now I’m pissed off!” Handjob screeches.

Blackmist moves, but Katsuki’s hands on their metal plate spark.

“So much as a f*cking inch and I’ll blow your ass up so hard you’ll be piecing yourself together for f*cking weeks.”

“That’s not very heroic,” Kirishima quips, right at Katsuki’s side, arms hardened.

“All Might should be here soon,” Izuku tells them, “Iida escaped.”

“So we just hold them off until then.” Todoroki slides down the mountain of ice he'd created in one smooth motion. Izuku gives himself a moment to admire his gracefulness despite their danger. He must look rabid in comparison.

“Hold us off!?” Handjob repeats, incredulous. “All of you have barely been scraped, All Might isn’t here, and nothing is going as planned!”

Again, he scratches and scratches and scratches. Denki creeps up on Izuku, latches onto his good arm and stares at the bloodied one in mild horror.

“It’s fine,” Izuku reassures, “just a bite wound.”

“Just a bite wound my ass,” Denki counters vehemently but doesn’t press. It isn’t the time.

“This won’t do, no this won’t do,” Hanjob starts muttering, skin like sandpaper, words like a broken record.“This won’t do, this won’t do, this won’t do.”

He startles, dances, skits around everyone and whispers something under his breath.

The ice around the Nomu’s arm breaks, his arm torn off its side, a heaping mass of flesh and bone that mends itself slowly.

“I think I pissed myself,” Denki whispers. The Nomu strikes right for Denki’s head. Izuku barely has time to shove him away so the hand comes on him instead, sending him right into the fountain, splitting the plaster and sinking himself in the water. He blinks away spots and tries to sit up, buckling when he puts the slightest pressure on his arm.

“Izuku!” Denki yells again, already gunning for him.

“Stay—” he doesn’t finish the word before coughing up a mix of phlegm and blood. sh*t, he f*cking bit his tongue.

Another wave of ice is sent at the Nomu, only a little weaker than before, and it gives Denki enough time to reach Izuku and pull him up, cradling him.

“They’re f*cking taking too long!” Katsuki growls, “What’s holding them up?!”

“Perhaps they do not care much for you little children,” Blackmist says under Katsuki, “after all, everyone wants to be a hero nowadays. You’re all far too easy to replace.”

“Don’t listen to that bullsh*t,” Kirishima spits, “it’ll only be—”

The Nomu tears itself out of the ice again, this time lunging for Katsuki. Kirishima is ready, bending at the knees and shoving Katsuki off Blackmist as a gust of wind breaks the pillars right behind him.

Another wave of ice, but it’s so much weaker, and it’s only seconds before the Nomu breaks it.

“Denki, use your quirk to try to contact the school, again. See what’s holding them up.” Izuku brings his better hand, ironically the one that was bit through and mildly disintegrated, to wipe the blood on his lips. "Someone might've already incapacitated the villain who'd been blocking our systems."

Denki shifts his headset, picking up on snippets of conversation he can hear through any phone with a working signal. “All Might, he isn’t there at the moment,” Denki whispers, “something about needing a bit more time. The other heroes are on the way, but they’re having trouble with the door.”

“Dammit!”

He dies, and it's fine. He dies, and it’s fine because it’s him.

But Denki, Katuski, Todoroki, Kirishima, Aizawa, Tsu.

These people...

They should live. God, they deserve to live.

Izuku stares at the Nomu.

‘If I can kill it...if we can kill it, then it’ll be easier. We only need a few minutes.’

“Okay, Denki, I’m going to need your help.” Izuku crouches down and gently pushes Denki off, desensitised to the flaring pain in his broken arm. “I’m going to shove this knife into its head, and then you’re going to grab the metal blade and release as much f*cking electricity as possible.”

“I’m sorry?!”

“Now that’s not nice!” Handjob interrupts them. Todoroki is still sending ice walls at the Nomu, and Katsuki and Kirishima are playing tag with Blackmist, keeping them busy.

'Good.'

“Sorry, I’m not into starting conversations with freaks who have some sort of deranged necrophilic kink,” Izuku calls over, ignoring Denki’s squawk of outrage for egging the villain on.

“He’s going to come at us, we run straight for Nomu.”

“For it?!”

Denki’s scandalised cry is lost to the sound of Handjob’s temper tantrum as he goes for Izuku again. He’s messier this time around, more frustrated than calculated, his impulsivity to harm slowing him down. It’s almost too easy. Izuku lashes out his knife—and god does he love that switchblade—and slices right at the hand on Handjob’s face, pulling it off with surprising ease and tossing it into the pond.

Handjob’s shrieks grow even louder as he runs for it, sloshing in the water, the word ‘father!' echoing in Izuku’s head at the decibel of a banshee. Izuku expected a more drawn-out fight; the peculiar behaviour is intriguing.

'Does he have a hand kink? A Daddy kink?'

Izuku shakes his head.

‘Not the time.’

Satisfied with the surprise distraction, Izuku sprints right for Nomu, who’s barrelling around aimlessly, no order to be carried out as Handjob tries to reign in a semblance of control, still looking for the hand Izuku pulled off his face. Todoroki’s ice is weak enough that Nomu barely has to stretch to break it. The ice-wielder himself looks dizzy and cold, shaking with blue lips.

“Just aim for its feet!” Izuku calls over his shoulder. Todoroki stares at him, nods, and starts for rivers of ice that stretch across Nomu's legs, stronger now that he isn't attempting to create larger glaciers, keeping it rooted in place.

The punches are easier to dodge this way, and Izuku’s reflexes are smart. He monkey crawls up the Nomu’s arm, swinging around as it shakes him off, plunging his switchblade in and out like an anchor to get a better grip. It’s difficult, with one arm broken and wailing in pain and the other bleeding sluggishly through open wounds. It hurts; it hurts and he wants to scream. (He pretends it is the promise of death—the promise of its fingers, touch, and kiss—grits his teeth and finds comfort in the pain.) He reaches the Nomu's brain, exposed and slimy, glowing a faint green and smelling of carcasses and flesh.

With his fangs bared and blood dripping down his lips, Izuku uses his switchblade to stab the brain, once, twice, three, four times, the Nomu screeching and flailing. He goes, again and again, pulling apart brain matter and digging until it's more mush than vessels and nerves and neurons. Something splatters against the side of his cheek; it feels like sludge or slime, blood and flesh; Izuku doesn’t bother wiping it off.

The brain doesn’t mend itself, not like the body. Izuku’s smile widens.

“Denki.”

Denki has more trouble than Izuku climbing the Nomu, but it slows with Izuku’s blade in its head and Todoroki’s ice at its feet. Denki latches onto a shoulder and digs in his nails. Izuku jumps off just as Denki grips the blade, curling his hand into a fist. He yelps when it cuts through his palm.

“Jesus f*cking hell,” Denki moans, "it's sharper than I thought."

"C'mon, Denks!"

What follows is a spectacle Izuku will never forget. It's a bright, white light, lightning bolts that look like they’re dancing with one another, footsteps so mesmerising and impossible to follow. Denki makes no sound, pupils dilating and body spasming. He lets go, and the Nomu falls, charred. Denki falls too, convulsing on the floor.

Izuku runs to him and rests his head in his lap with his hands on Denki's cheeks. Denki mentioned the pain of overusing his quirk, how it hurt to be shrouded in a mass of white, and how it felt like the sun was beating against him. He mentioned how he craved touch because it grounded him, reminded him that the sun was too far, that there was something beyond the white light and hateful rays. Izuku’s infinitely grateful for his absurd pain tolerance, convulsing every so often as he’s electrocuted. Denki needs comfort, he’s done too much.

He looks around. Tsu and Mineta are gone, and so is Aizawa. Todoroki is on his knees at his side, frost curling his breath, climbing his skin, patterns of snowflakes, all pale white and glittering. Katsuki and Kirishima are still at it with Blackmist, explosion after punch, only seconds from being warped away each time.

‘Impressive.’

Handjob steps out of the fountain, the hand Izuku pried off in place, his temper tantrum evident in a way that seemed much more sinister.

“I’ll get you all for this! I’ll f*cking kill you!” he pivots to Izuku. Izuku knows he can’t get up. As the adrenaline seeps through the cracks in his skin, the abundance of pain registers. He moans under his breath, tears welling in his eyes. He aches everywhere, feeling every fracture of his bone and every sluggishly bleeding cut. The electricity jolts his scars, and he can't get up.

The promise of death leaves him. He does not want to die like this.

(It’s not fun like this.)

Miraculously, it is then that the doors burst open and gunshots are fired. Handjob glitches, bullet after bullet hitting his shoulders and legs and knees.

“We’ll best be off then, you heroes sure are worth the name,” Blackmist bids a farewell. Just as Katsuki lunges after them again, a portal opens up, and the two villains are gone.

“I am here!” a voice yells.

“f*ck me,” Izuku whispers.

The world finally melts at his feet, and Izuku's eyes fall shut to the colour yellow.

Chapter 11: clean up my wounds so i can wear my new ones.

Chapter Text

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

⚬⚬⚬

His feet are blistered, footprints bloody. It hurts.

Izuku’s running, the ache in his bones almost pleasant compared to the noise in his ears, the roaring yells and the smell of rancid smoke and booze—the promise of what’s to come if he slows down.

No one cares. No one cares for the little boy with too-long hair, tears streaming down his cheeks and red handprints on his face. No one cares for the ash on his clothes, the way he screams and the way he cries.

No one cares for the man who chases him, tall and large and angry, his words slurred and eyes narrowed to kill.

No one cares because the moon is hung high and the lights in their houses are off. No one cares because it’s 3 in the morning and they’re asleep, comfortable in their homes. No one cares because they don’t know.

And even if they did, would it matter? Would they step up? Izuku's a mistake, a useless piece of sh*t who should just f*cking die.

That’s all Daddy ever says.

Izuku runs, he runs and it feels like his lungs are on fire.

He doesn’t want to die, not yet. He's only 5, he wants to live. He wants to see Mama smile. He wants to go to the park with Kacchan and pretend it doesn’t hurt when explosions are set against his ski or when the rock and rubble are embedded in his knees as he trips and falls trying to keep up. Sometimes life is mean, but he’s only 5. He wants to live. He wants to be a hero.

Izuku’s running, but the footsteps behind him don’t slow down. They’re getting closer, closer and closer, the stench of fire and smoke and booze, all too close.

“You little sh*t!” Daddy yells, loud, loud, loud—yet only Izuku hears. “You better get back here before I show you a real f*cking punishment!”

Izuku doesn’t. Mama didn’t come home tonight because there was a patient at the hospital who was in critical condition, and she’d been given the night and early morning shifts because the other nurse was really sick and couldn’t make it. Mama didn’t come home tonight, so Izuku had no one to hug and hold and hide with when Daddy got home.

Daddy asked for Mama, but Mama wasn’t home. Mama wasn’t home.

“Lying filthy whor*!” Daddy swore when Izuku told him. Little Izuku didn’t know what some of those words meant, but he knew they were wrong and mean. “Bet she’s f*cking someone else, huh? Unfaithful bitch! Not only did she birth me a f*cking defect, but now she thinks she can go around slu*tting it up for other men!”

He took that bottle from the top cabinets that Izuku would only be able to reach once until he was a big, strong adult. That same cabinet Mama would sometimes reach for when Daddy wasn’t home and she thought Izuku was asleep. The one full of drinks that smelt too strong and probably tasted weird too. They always made Mama and Daddy act funny.

He took a bottle followed by a 2nd and 3rd and kept drinking until his cheeks were flushed red and his words came out in too long vowels, slurred and incoherent.

He turned to Izuku after his third bottle. Izuku, who had creeped out of his room at the sound of shattering glass; who had stayed in case Daddy drank a little too much of the apple-juice-coloured liquid that Izuku wasn’t allowed to touch. Little Izuku always tasked himself with putting away the bottles and pulling a blanket over Daddy to keep him from getting cold. Even if Daddy was mean, Izuku loved him. Even if Daddy made him cry and hurt him, Izuku loved him. You're supposed to love your Mama and Daddy, right?

“I bet you’re going to be just like your mother!” he roared, “Pathetic fa*g you are!”

And there was yelling and hitting, and then running.

Presently, Izuku still runs and runs and runs.

He runs and Daddy chases him.

He runs, takes lefts and rights, lost but too afraid to turn back.

He runs, will run, until he can’t hear Daddy anymore. Except Daddy isn’t stopping. Little Izuku keeps running and this time Daddy isn’t stopping.

He takes the wrong turn.

He takes the wrong turn and now there’s a wall and there’s nowhere to go. He turns around, so young and small and scared, but Daddy is already there, teeth bared.

Smoke curls at the corners of his mouth, and flares from his nostrils; his orange eyes turned to slits.

“You’re going to regret that, boy.”

Then it’s flames, pain. It’s broken glass and the smell of garbage and burnt flesh.

And screaming.

So much screaming.

═════════ ☻ ═════════

Izuku wakes up screaming.

The nurses run into his hospital room to see Izuku curled on the floor, knees hugged to his chest, frightened. There are beads of blood where he’d pulled out his IVs forcefully, and the metal poles and liquid bags clattered on the floor. He's entirely oblivious to the cast on his arm and the bandages on the other, holding himself in a cocoon.

‘Run. Run until your little legs can’t run anymore.

'Run, Izuku.’

The smell of antiseptic makes his stomach dip. He holds himself tighter and buries his head in his knees. There's noise that blankets the room and echoes in his head like a gong that's been slammed and he wants to rip his ears off to go deaf. People are whispering, promising him...him something that sounds like static. He doesn't want anything right now but for someone to rip off his ears. He says so; he tells them to take away his hearing before he takes a drill to his brain. The whispers get frantic. He needs to run. More noise: quiet beeping; crying; groaning; shuffling feet. Izuku raises his hands to his ears and struggles because one of his elbows refuses to bend. Stop with the noise. Make it go quiet. "Make it go quiet!"

‘Mama isn’t here anymore. What's the point of having to listen to a world where she no longer walks? What is this noise?'

A hand touches his shoulder. He throws it off and pushes himself against the wall.

'Out!

'Out!

“Out!”

Noise: His voice. He's yelling. He isn't sure at who. He can't see; his eyes are shut. He doesn't want to see either. Maybe they should gouge out his eyes too. Cut off his ears and then gouge out his eyes and then rip off his nose because it smells like antiseptic and blood and...and charring flesh. (The burn stretches across his skin, and Izuku is a canvas with the memory of his father a scar that will never go away. His mother is paler than the hospital walls and turning blue, and Izuku has that image of her seared into his eyes forever. This is what he hears, he sees, he smells, and he wants it all gone.)

"Everyone out! Out! Out! Out!”

‘Run little Izuku.

'Run.’

Shota

☾ ☾ ☾

“What’s going on?” Shota asks, standing up and ignoring the way his bones creak from underuse. He’s dressed in bandages head to toe save for slits around his eyes and mouth.

Hizashi, who must’ve fallen asleep, startles awake.

There’s screaming.

“Hey, hey.” Hizashi stands up, puts his hands on Shota’s shoulders, and coaxes him to bed. “Why don’t you lay down? I’ll check it out.”

There’s screaming, and it’s coming from the room right after Shota’s, the ones reserved for those in the USJ incident. He hadn’t been able to check the rooms, but he’d been debriefed about who was in the hospital.

Shoto Todoroki and Denki Kaminari from quirk overuse; Thirteen, who’d been severely incapacitated; Izuku Midoriya, from extensive injuries.

He doesn’t wait for Hizashi, restless as the screaming continues. He shuffles off the bed and leaves his room. The voice is loud, frantic and clearly frightened.

Most importantly, it belongs to one of his students. One of his students is screaming their head off, terrified. A student who'd been injured because Shota hadn't been competent enough to keep them safe, overwhelmed by something he, up until that point, would swear was something that only belonged in fiction. Because Shota failed.

He follows the voice to a small hospital room, overcrowded with one-too-many nurses, 2 doctors, and Hizashi, all crowding the frantic patient who isn't taking kindly to their please.

Raising his voice, Shota demands in his most authoritative tone, "Everyone, back down!"

Everyone, save for the patient, hears him, heads whipping around in surprise.

“Eraserhead, you should still be resting—”

“Shut up,” he snaps at the doctor, limping forward.

Izuku Midoriya. He’s not surprised.

He’s yelling the word 'Out!' in a mantra, too lost in his delusions to make sense of what, where and who he is with. He’s pulling at his bandages, head buried in his knees, rocking back and forth and bleeding from his reopening wounds.

“Leave the room,” Shota orders. “You’re overwhelming him. It’s not helping.”

“He’s aggravating his injuries—”

“Was I not clear?” he cuts the same doctor off. “Leave or I’ll have you fined and detained for disregarding a hero's order!”

Reluctantly, everyone but Hizashi leaves. Midoriya’s screamings quiet, now whispers of the same word. He doesn't stop rocking back and forth, hugging himself, still petrified.

“Sho, I told you I’d deal with it,” Hizashi sighs, keeping his tone low to keep from triggering Midoriya further. “You shouldn’t be out of bed yet.”

Before Shota can dismiss his worry, the door slams open. 2 strangers completely bypass Hizashi and him, solely focused on Midoriya.

“Who are you?” Shota asks. They don’t spare him so much as a glance. Shota doesn't think he's had to deal with such blatant audacity in years.

The taller of the 2—a man with tattoos wrapped around his neck and scars across his face—is the 1st to approach Midoriya. His hands are up, palms forward; pacifying. The tiny one—a young-looking girl in very loose clothing with pallor skin who was clearly severely underweight—does not follow the man's lead, sticking to the side and rocking on her heels. She has a feeding tube up her nose that she plays with as she waits.

"Zu." The man's voice is misleadingly gentle. Midoriya, who'd been unresponsive up until this moment, goes quiet and still. It's the only reason Shota hasn't dragged the strangers out of the room yet. "Zu, can you hear me?"

No answer.

The man tries a different approach.

"Alright. If you can hear me, tap your fingers twice against your arm."

Midoriya does.

"Who are they?" Hizashi asks quietly. Shota doesn't have an answer, keeping his eyes on the interaction in case it goes astray.

"At least Midoriya's responsive."

Shota's response is a curt, "Keep your guard up."

He's being judgemental, he knows, but the people who barged in remind him too much of the children who live on the streets: the coy kids with slippery fingers who have no problems taking if it keeps them ahead or alive; the drug dealers he busts at the break of dawn; the addicts foaming at the mouths by dusk. They look dangerous. Shota remains weary despite Midoriya reacting positively to their presence.

"Can I touch you? Twice for yes. Three times for no."

Again, twice.

Carefully, the man splays a palm on Izuku’s shoulder. He has scars there too, creeping into his long sleeve. He takes a seat by Midoriya, slowly. Midoriya flinches, but the man is undeterred. He wraps an arm around Midoriya’s shoulders and pulls him in. Midoriya lifts his head only to bury it in the man’s chest.

The man looks to the girl, who’s still rocking on her heels, and nods his head. The girl smiles, teeth fanged like Midoriya’s, and skips over, plopping herself at Midoriya’s other side. She places her head on his shoulder and taps her fingers against his legs rhythmlessly.

Hizashi clears his throat.

The man finally looks up, turquoise eyes guarded as he assesses Shota and Hizashi. It's the first he's acknowledged them. He holds Izuku a little tighter.

“Do you need help?” he asks. “Or a f*cking tomb?” he adds, eyeing Shota’s mummy-like appearance.

“Who are you?” Shota repeats, now that he has their attention. The girl looks up, still drumming Midoriya’s thigh, attention split between the conversation and the blank ceiling.

“Emergency Contact," the man answers, flashing a rueful smile. “Now, f*cking leave. Tell the doctors to not come in until I let them ‘lest they trigger another goddamn episode." Midoriya's emergency contact purses his lips. "Damn idiots. Don’t you guys read student files?”

Shota frowns, confused. “Student files?”

“Idiots,” the man doubles down. “Izu’s file is sparse, sure, but I made sure to put in that his dumbass shouldn’t ever wake up in any f*cking hospital room ‘slong as I’m not around.”

“We weren’t informed,” Shota says, but it sounds dry on his tongue. "The teachers don't usually ready the entire student files, only the principal."

"Bullsh*t excuse."

Shota doesn't deny it. He agrees.

Hizashi clears his throat, again.

“What?” The man looks at him.

“Could you tell us your names?" He says it with a smile, but his tone doesn't give room for refusal. "We also need the nurses to reattach the IVs. Not only is he bleeding, but he needs to keep his vitals in order so he doesn't fall back on his recovery."

The man takes a few seconds to respond, uncaring for the underlying threat in Hizashi's words.

"One nurse can put the IVs back in but that doesn't happen until he's properly calmed down. I'm not risking throwing him back into his panicked state. Pipsqueak and I stay present at all times; no exceptions until he's coherent enough to make his own decisions about who he lets in. Most are 1 doctor at a time in the room, and I'm debriefed on everything about what's going on at the moment and what had happened to him.

"If at any moment I feel he's unsafe, or he has another panic attack that severe because of your medical team, I'm discharging him immediately and taking him to a local doctor by our neighbourhood. She healed up by scars real pretty."

"That's pretty?" Shota mumbles under his breath, astonished.

The man hears it and smiles ruefully.

"You should've seen how I looked before her. Would've made you sick to your stomach."

Yes. Shota's observations were right. Regardless of how comfortable Midoriya is or the fact that he's who Midoriya put down as his emergency contact, the man is dangerous.

Shota asks, "Are you his guardian, then?"

"Damn, do I look that old?"

No, but it's a question Shota has to ask regardless. All families are different, after all. Shota and Hizashi are too young to have a 15-year-old son, but they do.

"But no, I'm not," the man explains. "I'm just the emergency contact. His dad is rarely in town, always on business and is, like, never home. We take care of each other, though. 'S why I'm here."

"Her?" Shota points to the twitchy girl, who's taken to braiding Midoriya's hair.

"When I said we," the man clarifies, voice an edge, "I meant all of us. That's all you need to know. The rest isn't your problem."

Hizashi interjects, "It's protocol— "

"I don't give a sh*t. She's with me, I'm the emergency contact, and she has close relations with he patient. That's all you need to know. Try prying into us any further and I'm taking him to our doctor."

"We have the authority to arrest you," Shota threatens. "We're pros."

"And?" The man smirks. "You think I've never looked down a pro,"the word is spat out with hostility, "who was threatening to arrest me without any real jurisdiction."

Shota sighs. This is going nowhere, and Midoriya is calming down in the man’s presence. Hizashi notices it too, his shoulders falling as the fight leaves him.

“Alright. I’ll inform the staff, but I’m going to need your names”

The man leans his hand back and strokes small circles on Midoriya’s shoulders. “Pipsqueak is Toga. Call me Dabi.”

'An alias?'

“Very well."

Touya

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

"They sounded like they cared about him," Himiko points out when the 2 heroes leave the room.

"Sure," Touya agrees with a shrug. "But as far as I'm concerned, no one but us gets near him when he's like this. They try and I'll burn their fingertips off."

Himiko nods, satisfied with Touya's answer. She’s vibrating, more so than usual. It puts Touya on edge.

He asks, “When was the last time you ate?”

Himiko looks away, guilty.

“Himiko,” Touya says sternly.

“Two days ago,” she confesses in a whisper. Touya's mouth hardens. It takes will to keep from berating her loudly. Izuku’s still calming down, occasionally whispering a word or 2 under his breath. Touya can't afford to startle him, at the moment.

“Himiko the feeding tube is meant for blood,” Touya reminds her, “but I can talk with Kumiko and Izuku, they won’t mind using it for proper foods too. You can’t rely solely on blood, especially since we’ve yet to introduce you to the amount your body needs to start healing properly.”

Himiko looks away, ashamed. “It’s hard.”

Touya stretches out his arm, and Himiko lets go of Izuku’s hair and cuddles closer to him, close enough that Touya can lay a hand on her shoulder.

"I won't say I understand because I don't. And, you know, 2 days is still progress. You've only started recovery a week ago." The reassurances feel funny on Touya's tongue. He says them intrinsically, but it still doesn't feel right. Touya was meant to be a brother, he was meant to comfort, guide, and tease. He was meant to but he isn't; he couldn't be. They feel foreign on his tongue, now; feel warped and broken and sharp-edged, but intrinsic nonetheless. Like the universe was giving him a second chance at redemption.

He doesn't want to run away.

“But you need to eat more.” Touya bites his lip, furrowing his brows. “You’ve been eating with Izu and me every day, how’d you get away with it?”

Himiko lifts her hand, fingers much paler, bony and veiny, and places them atop Touya’s, looking away again.

“Cut up the food, stuffed them in my cheeks, never swallowed.”

'sh*t. We weren't careful enough.

'...I wasn't careful enough.'

She stands up suddenly, startling Touya, but luckily enough not Izuku.

“Himiko’s been bad. Himiko’s been bad and needs to be punished. Bad, bad, bad,” she mumbles, taking a hand and slapping her cheek hard. Touya doesn’t move, because Izuku’s still there, and he’s still shivering.

“Himiko, no,” he says, but she doesn’t hear him, doesn’t listen, slapping herself again and again and again.

5 times, 5 times until there are tears in her eyes and a smile so wide Touya thinks her face ought to rip in half.

“There!” She sits back down, right by them, and starts braiding Izuku’s hair again. “Himiko’s been punished. Bad, bad Himiko.”

It’s silent. Touya thinks Himiko's cheeks are too pink, and he wishes he had more arms, wishes he was heard, wishes Himiko was never hurt, never believed she was made to hurt and therefore should only hurt. He stretches his arm and gently grips her sleeve. Himiko freezes, looking up at him with a falling smile. Touya cannot offer one of his own, though he wishes he could. He wishes for a lot. He hasn't had this many wishes in years.

"Don't do that again," Touya orders, does not wish. "You aren't bad, Himiko. You don't deserve to be punished."

"I'm sorry." Her eyes well, her lips pulled in a wobbly smile that feels far less forced than it did moments ago. "I feel bad and I don't know what to do when I'm not punished for it."

Touya's gaze drops, her words a punch to his lungs.

"Just come to me, or Izu. We'll talk with you and hold you. Okay?"

Himiko nods, a small movement, wipes her tears with the sleeve of the sweater she took from Touya, and continues with the last of Izuku's braid as if nothing happened.

Himiko finishes with Izuku’s braid when Izuku is calm enough to have properly come to his senses.

He still keeps himself curled into Touya’s side, but he turns to Himiko, eyes zeroing in on her reddening cheeks, handprints and all. He reaches out and trails the reddened skin with his fingers. Himiko leans into the touch.

“We’re scared,” he says softly, pulling away.

It's silent. Touya dreams of different futures and alternate timelines. He dreams of one where Himiko heard him the first time and dreams of another where he can safely move to grab her wrist. He dreams of one where their priorities feel much more mundane, and their responsibilities tonnes and tonnes less heavy. They are only dreams. He hasn't had this many dreams in years.

"Maybe." (It's difficult to say yes or no. But maybe...)

It's silent. Touya hopes for a better life. He hopes for a life where he can walk the streets publicly with Izuku holding one hand and Toga the other, the latter clean of his cuts and the former plump and well. He hopes for prosperity, growth and change. He hasn't had this many hopes in years.

He wishes, dreams, and hopes. He hopes, with a whole heart, like he is a child, sitting in his garden, hands clasped together in desperation.

Adults must accept reality—all its sh*tty torment and raining bullets—and must bleed to death.

Only children are privileged enough to feel alive.

Shoto

❅ ❅ ❅

“There was screaming,” is what Shoto tells the nurse when she comes to check his vitals. He’d spent the night and was meant to be discharged within the hour. Kaminari is at his side, hand wrapped in bandages, asleep, chest rising and falling rhythmically.

The nurse stops in her movements, eyes downcast in pity.

“A patient woke up and went into a panicked frenzy. It’s been dealt with,” the nurse tells him.

“What patient?”

“Confidentiality,” the nurse reminds him, singing. She lifts Shoto’s shirt and presses the stethoscope against his beating heart. It's cold.

“It’s a classmate of mine,” Shoto rebukes, “it has to be, for me to hear it. 4 rooms down if I'm stretching it. This wing is reserved for the USJ victims. I know.”

The nurse sighs.

“Still.”

“It’s Izuku Midoriya, isn’t it?”

The nurse doesn’t answer, but she straightens, and her eyes widen. It isn't much of a shock. Honestly, Shoto wouldn't have believed her even if she'd said anyone else. (He’d seen it all, in red, in crimson, in blood. Izuku Midoriya.)

“Your vitals seem to be fine,” the nurse informs him in place of an answer, “you’re discharged in an hour. The doctor will come to see you one last time before your sister picks you up.”

The door swings closed and Shoto’s left to his bearings.

“What’s wrong with Izuku?”

Shoto jumps. Kaminari, whom he presumed was still asleep, is staring at him, wrinkles at the corner of his lips where he frowns.

“I thought you were asleep,” Shoto murmurs. Kaminari sits up and stretches, arms over his head. There are scars there, crawling up his neck too—Lichtenberg markings, dark pink, white, and brown. Shoto lived his whole life isolated from everyone, under the belief that so few people bore scars and scars. The heroes he saw were veterans who'd taken to glamour and quirks that made them look pretty, and Shoto was left with an impression that he must be something vile to them with the scars he wore that his father had been too late to hide.

He's wrong. 1-A had students with scars as stark as his and they were not ugly. They were not gross. (Shoto's the exception, it seems. A monster.)

“I was. Until the nurse came in.” He slides out of the bed, pulling at his costume and wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“Ugh, I need to change.”

“You refused to wear the hospital gown,” Shoto reminds him. “And where are you going?”

Kaminari gives him a dull look. “To Izuku, duh.”

“We aren’t meant to leave the beds.”

“Yeah, yeah," Kaminari waves off, staring at the bandages wrapped around his palm. “He saved us and lost a sh*t ton of blood while doing it. I first met him in the entrance exam where he also passed out after helping me." Kaminari smiles, but it's a little sad. "He freaked out after waking up in RG's clinic. Completely forgot where he was. I wasn't sure why, but now you're telling me he woke up again, in a proper hospital, yelling so loud it carried over."

“We aren’t sure it was him," Shoto points out, filing the information of Midoriya having saved Kaminari in his head to examine later.

Despite what happened, despite how he fought for them, something about the word 'save' didn't fit the image Todoroki had of Midoriya in his head. (He'd seen it all, in red, crimson, in blood.)

“You saw him at the fight, even briefly, right?” Kaminari doesn’t wait for a response. “That was him.”

The wide smile, manic eyes. The agility of a killer, the strength of a murderer. The assault of what was inhuman by something inhuman. (Of course, it was him.)

Midoriya truly is something he's never seen before. He makes Shoto think that maybe the skies will one-day rain blood and not water. Not acid, not poison, not purity, but blood—the blood of victims and predators. He thinks that Midoriya would smile in the chaos as it washes the streets. A force of reckoning.

“I’m coming too.”

Kaminari furrows his eyebrows.

“You don’t have to.”

“But I will.”

He needs to know...gods, he needs to know. He needs to know why Yuuei would ever let someone so anarchist in their course, and how they justified cultivating and growing this horror. Someone who makes Shoto think that the sun will never rise. Something to fear, to praise.

The embodiment of rebellion.

A massacre in the making.

═════════ ❅ ═════════

Shoto doesn't know it yet, but there, in his heart, wrapped around his arteries and pumping out of his aorta, is a slowly kindling, growing desire.

Its roots have been planted.

Shoto, who thought rebellion came in the form of blizzards and hail storms.

Who knows it can come in the form of infernos and wild-fires.

Shoto, who, for the first time, is seeing the true embodiment of it in a boy who would bring forth catastrophe.

God, he wants it.

Wants that.

Him.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

There’s a knock on Izuku’s door.

After much coaxing, reassurance and Dabi never letting go of his hand, Izuku reluctantly laid back down on the hospital bed and let a nurse with a kind smile and hair as green as his had reinserted the IVs and checked his vitals. The doctor came, gave a report, and Izuku was told he could be discharged by the end of the night with the promise of Recovery Girl’s healing.

She’d come twice the night before, while Izuku was asleep, but had never administered a proper session due to his fatigue. Izuku had to fight off the urge to look for a scalpel and re-draw the lines on his thighs and arms after seeing them closed up and healed, dark brown and white scars that blended in with his tan skin and freckles. Dabi could tell, because he'd refused to leave Izuku alone. Not that Izuku didn't understand.

(It didn't make it any less frustrating, though. Izuku's only resolve was that he knew his blades were waiting for him back home.)

The people who knock don't wait for a reply. Izuku sees Dabi stand up to yell at them, only to go quiet when Denki's familiar head of dark-blonde hair peaks through.

He asses the room for any medical staff, and when it's clear, jogs over brightly.

"Izu!" he cheers, taking Izuku's free hand and squeezing his fingers despite the brace. They'd broken the cast after Izuku's meltdown after Izuku promised he wouldn't jostle the arm too hard.

Izuku squeezes his hand back, and Denki leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek. Himiko wiggles her eyebrows and Izuku gives her a warning glare to keep quiet. Denki, picking up on it, only turns Izuku's cheek to press another kiss to it. A faint blush dusts Izuku's face; he's still growing used to the more frequent moments of affection. Izuku gently punches Denki's arms but pulls him closer.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Denki sighs, pulling up a chair to Izuku’s right. “Apparently you were screaming? I got worried and came to see you immediately when I heard.” He turns to Himiko and Dabi and grins. “Nice to see you again, Dabi. And you must be Izuku’s other roommate. I’m Denki, his one and only!” Denki introduces with a smirk.

Izuku'd elbow him if his arms were functioning. "Shut the f*ck up," he opts to say instead.

“Hi!” Himiko greets back, just as enthusiastically. “I’m Himiko Toga! Call me Himiko! Or Toga! I don’t mind. Isn’t Izu-kun so nice?! To me, at least. He isn’t nice to other people, but it’s fine because they’re all assholes!”

Denki chuckles, “Yeah, he is nice. I was worried that he’d gotten too injured.”

Izuku shrugs dismissively. “It would’ve been fine.” (To have almost tasted Death, only so close. It’s poisonous—his want, his need, his addiction.)

“Nice to see you too, Pikachu.” Dabi reaches over and ruffles his hair.

“Oh yeah! Todoroki wanted to come to see you too, can I let him in?” Denki asks, still by Izuku’s side.

It’s Dabi who reacts. It’s slight, almost imperceptible, but Izuku’s known the fire-wielder for over a year. His breath stutters, the chair squeaking when he jolts his leg. It's as if he's been shocked into silence.

Taking pity, Izuku tells him, “If you need the bathroom, you can take a break.” Dabi meets his expectant gaze with a confused one, before the look dawns, slowly, into realisation. He mutters a 'thank you' for only Izuku to hear and walks off to the bathroom within Izuku’s private room, something reserved for the prioritised and privileged heroes and heroes in training.

“He can come,” he then tells Denki, who looks indifferent to the interaction. Toga shuffles into Dabi’s seat and turns Izuku's head to the left so she can redo the braids in his hair.

Gently, the door is pushed open, and, almost shyly, Todoroki walks through.

He takes a glance at Izuku’s arm, the brace and bandages, the little pieces of gauze on his cheeks and collar bones.

“Hello, Todoroki,” Izuku greets. “I’m assuming you and Denki stayed the night because of quirk burn-out.”

Todoroki nods, stoically, and says nothing.

Izuku waits, patiently, for him to say something.

“Are you being trialled for the hero course?”

'Perceptive.'

“Sort of? Not quite, though.”

Todoroki tilts his head.

“Then why?”

“Why?”

“Why are you tailing the hero course?”

It’s blunt. Not malicious but curious, like being pried open with the blade of a butter knife.

“They think I have potential.” The words hurt Izuku's tongue. “They think heroism is worth something.”

“Worth what?”

“Living?” Izuku’s reply is unsure. Is it living? There’s a part of him that thinks they’re trying to show him that he’s worth it, worth living for. But is that proving to him the value of living?

He doesn't think so.

"Or, I guess, that being seen as a hero is worth something."

Yeah, that made more sense.

They were trying to show him that there was merit to adopting the hero title. That, even if he couldn't find it in himself to live for his worth, he could for the worth of being something to somebody. Something as incredible as a hero.

Todoroki doesn't have much of a reaction, and that's how the conversation comes to an end.

(For now.

Todoroki will later lament what was said. He's been the victim of a hero's cruelty. His own father. One of the best of the best. The title of 'hero' is one he thinks of with disdain, and Midoriya is somebody who is so very far away from Shoto's idea of what heroes are. It feels like a defamation of Midoriya's character to grace him with such an ugly marker, a stain on the beast Shoto had seen at the USJ.

Izuku will later think about the look in Todoroki's eyes when they spoke. Heat. Desperation. The first makings of it, there, burning. So pretty.)

“Recover well then," Shoto bids. "Thank you for protecting us.”

“You have nothing to thank.”

Todoroki nods once and walks off.

“That was f*cking weird as hell,” Denki says.

Izuku hums.

It was.

═════════ ☻ ═════════

Denki stays for another 10 minutes before a nurse comes in and ushers him out. He leaves after Izuku reassures him that he’ll inform him of any life-threatening changes.

“Recovery Girl will be here soon,” the nurse tells him, “I’d say one session from her and all those scrapes and bruises will be healed fine. Can’t promise there won’t be any scars, though.”

Izuku shrugs dismissively, and the nurse sends him one more smile before exiting.

The sound of a door being creaked open tells him Dabi’s done hiding.

“What was that?” Izuku asks before Himiko can move to give Dabi his seat back and take hers at the foot of Izuku’s hospital bed.

“What was what?”

Izuku’s unimpressed. He keeps his gaze, not inquisitive, not even demanding. But he wants an answer; something. He can speculate all he wants, has been for a while. It isn't a hypothesis that's too difficult to come to, though it is rather far-fetched. The dyed hair, blue eyes, fire quirk...but Izuku doesn't like to entertain uncertainty. A few context clues and a talent for observation and analysis did not mean definite conclusions, and Izuku likes Dabi too much to treat him like an experiment.

Himiko presses her lips together and makes an obnoxious sound.

“C’mon now, Dabi,” she deadpans as deadpan someone as hyper as Himiko can get. “Even I know that was weird. It was like you were afraid of the pretty Todoroki boy. You know, like I’m afraid of food, and eating, and not throwing up after eating!”

She states them proudly, three fingers raised. Izuku isn't sure if he should find it amusing or disheartening.

'Both, then.'

“It’s nothing,” Dabi tries, but Izuku doesn’t let up, and Himiko looks as curious as ever.

“I never ask for answers,” Izuku says, “because sh*t isn’t my business. But that is my classmate who put you on edge and nearly drove you to a goddamn panic attack. Don’t bullsh*t me, Bee.”

Touya

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

Touya’s heart thrums far too loud. Izuku’s words cut clear as glass.

They don’t need to know. It's all the past, it doesn't matter.

He isn't that person, anymore. Not with them. They know Dabi, not Touya.

Touya was the brother to the kids with turquoise and grey eyes, the ones with white and red hair, the ones who dressed in flames or ice. Not them, but the kids who he left behind in anger and fear. The kids he'd cursed for daring to be alive only to scream to heaven and hell for when he'd stopped existing to them. The kids he should've sworn to protect but couldn't bring himself to before it was too late.

He isn't that person anymore, though. He isn't that brother anymore.

And he doesn't want to remember them.

Let them and their memory disappear for his ease and theirs.

It's a vain want.

He isn't that person anymore, but they'll never truly disappear. The brother he once was will always be alive, even if he'd tried to burn off his skin and asphyxiate him to death. He can only pretend that they don't, and can only pretend for so long.

Even if he says he isn't that person anymore.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he finally says.

“Okay,” Izuku responds. “We won’t talk about it, today."

'Today.'

It doesn't matter. They don't need to know. They know Dabi, not Touya.

(They know both.

He'll be Touya forever.

No matter what.)

Chiyo

⊕ ⊕ ⊕

“Hello, Sonny.” Chiyo hobbles into the room with a smile. “I hope you rested well.”

Midoriya and his emergency contact greet her politely, the latter’s gaze brimming with hesitance and distrust.

“I have a private matter I would like to discuss with Midoriya over here,” Chiyo says, pointing at Midoriya with her cane, “if you’d be so kind as to leave me in the room with him for only a few minutes.”

The emergency contact—Dabi, Aizawa informed her—straightens, ready to cuss her out.

Izuku shakes his head.

“Himi-chan, Bee, you can wait out the door.”

Dabi seems to want to argue but ultimately doesn’t at Izuku's request. Instead, he takes the buzzing ball of energy that is Toga girl and steps out.

He gives Chiyo a warning look. 'Hurt him, I hurt you.'

When the door swings shut, her ever-pleasant smile falls. Chiyo had been there when Midoriya was brought in on a stretcher; when they tore his shirt off to treat the fleshy wounds. She’d seen the scars, the plentiful injuries, the Lichtenberg markings, the massive burn scar. Those were healed over, however—past traumas. (Ones that made her still in horror. A 16-year-old boy with the scars of Frankenstein.) What made her frown were the red and brown lines that were far too clean to be the consequence of being cut by rubble and broken glass.

“Midoriya, I’m sure they informed you that I was there to heal you the first time. You had just enough energy for me to help keep you from bleeding out.” She takes a few steps by the bed. Midoriya doesn’t hold her gaze; he stares at her hairclip, a silver butterfly she’d been gifted by one of her first patients decades before.

“I was also there when they had to tear off your clothes to see for any further injury. Now, in their haste, the medics had categorised every wound as a result of the fight.” Her tone is hinting, and she can tell by the way Midoriya’s eyes shift to her visors that he knows where she’s going.

“As a student of Yuuei, you have patient confidentiality,” she adds, “but that is only applicable if I’m certain that the student isn’t a harm to himself or others.”

Midoriya levels her a look of boredom.

“I haven’t an idea what you're talking about.”

“I saw the cuts, boy. They were too precise to be from that battle, and they weren’t fresh enough either, though some were recent. I’d say as much as the night before.”

“Again, I haven’t an idea what you’re talking about. All my wounds were a result of a gruesome battle with some inhuman thing that was 5 times my height and a lunatic with a quirk that could decay skin. I was thrown into a fountain and bitten by shark teeth. Any of my wounds could’ve been a result of the shrapnel, broken debris or f*cking Jaws. No matter how ‘precise’ you deem them. I'd also suffered from electrocution before I passed out, I felt it, and that also could've worsened any wounds or infringed smaller ones. You were not there, Recovery Girl. Your conclusions are hearsay."

Chiyo's lips thin.

“I am no fool.”

“Neither am I.” Midoriya is over the conversation, that much is clear. “Patient confidentiality means this stays between you and me until you have proof that I am at harm to myself or others. Currently, that proof lies in nothing but wounds I got from a fight with a beast, and scars I’ve collected for being quirkless. I’ve got burn scars and deep knife wounds amongst the smaller ones. Are you going to claim I did them myself, too? You were privy to none of it.”

Chiyo is far from dull, but Midoriya is too sharp; too keen; is frightening and lost and dangerous. Lethal with his tongue, with his knives and hands and smile. An inkling of doubt wraps around her suspicions like fast-growing vines.

But this is not a battle she could win.

“Very well.” Chiyo relents, not one to fight losing battles. "Just know that one more speculation and I will be telling the higher-ups. We can get you help.”

Midoriya leans forward and Chiyo places a kiss on his cheek, the bruises and wounds fading to the same scarred and freckled skin.

“I don’t need any help.”

Yes, Midoriya is wicked, truly wicked.

But he is only a child.

And Chiyo can’t help but think he’s wailing.

Hitoshi

⛧ ⛧ ⛧

Hitoshi is only able to visit his Shota the day after the battle. Classes are cancelled and there is a scandal revolving around Yuuei. Still, Hizashi is adamant that Hitoshi stay home until midday after Recovery Girl finishes her healing session with Shota in fear of triggering him. Though Hitoshi was promised that his dad was fine, he was made aware that his injuries were extensive and that it'd be better for him to wait until some of the bandages were off.

Hitoshi, reluctantly, waited. He still did have nightmares. (Pale skin, blue veins, grey hair matted with blood.)

The second his Pops gives him the okay, Hitoshi sprints out of the house with his hoodie pulled up and a mask covering his lower face to protect his identity. He's in a rush, barges into the hospital and demands he sees his father, hastily thanking the receptionist as he half-jogs, half-speed walks to the designated room.

Distracted and a little frantic, he doesn’t notice the figure, standing slightly shorter than him with 2 sandwiches in hand, in front of him until he’s knocking into them, tripping and nearly falling over if not for the rigorous balance training he'd been put through.

“Woah, kid.” The figure, a man with tattoos, piercings and bright blue eyes, raises his arms. “Calm down before you crash into someone. Else.”

Hitoshi blushes. “Sorry, I’m in a hurry.”

“Ah, the USJ, huh? So who’re you here for? Students or teachers? I’ll guess teachers since Zu’s the only student who hasn’t been discharged yet.”

‘Zu?’

“Izuku Midoriya?”

The man’s eyes widen.

“sh*t, you know him? You aren’t here for him if you’re surprised he's here.”

“What happened to him?”

The man shrugs, but the nonchalance is too off-putting to be comforting.

“He just got beat up a little. Well, a little more than a little, but the little sh*t is always getting injured anyway." Hitoshi's unease doesn't lessen. The man sighs, dropping his shoulders. "Anyway, you go visit who you came here for. I’m assuming you’re a student, right?”

Hitoshi nods.

“Then you’ll see him at school. He doesn’t do well with visitors anyways.”

The man walks off right after. Hitoshi ignores the small part of itching to follow.

Shota is more important right now. He has no reason not to trust the man. He’ll see Izuku at school.

He hates the part of him that wonders what would’ve happened if he hadn’t ignored his gut feelings that morning. He tells himself it isn’t his fault, that he had no way of knowing and that intuition was just that. Intuition.

He walks to Shota’s room at a slightly slower pace.

There are no bashed-in heads or seeped-through bloody bandages. Everyone is alright. It’s alright.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“sh*t, I thought they’d never let me out,” Izuku groans, flopping onto the couch.

Himiko giggles, “You were beat up pretty bad, apparently. I bet you looked really pretty covered in all that blood. Wait. No. Bad. Bad, bad, Himiko.”

Dabi grabs her wrist before she can slap herself.

“No punishing yourself," he reminds her sternly. "You do not need to be punished for having thoughts. Even if they are a little batsh*t."

Himiko breathes in deeply and nods, dropping her hands. She twists her fingers to dissipate the urge.

“I say we celebrate.”

Izuku stands up and heads for the fridge, pulling out cans and bottles. He reaches for the cabinets, on his toes, and grabs a large bottle of something strong and brown.

Dabi grimaces. “You sure you should be doing that? You just recovered.”

“All the more reason, love.” He takes the glasses and pours three drinks, ratio to person.

Dabi still looks apprehensive.

“C’mon, Bee. Let’s have some fun.”

Himiko nods. “And we’re all together!”

“Fine.” The grimace is gone for a grin. “But not too much for our dearest Pipsqueak. She hasn’t been eating well and she’s f*cking tiny.”

Himiko pouts but doesn't argue.

Izuku smiles; they raise their glasses,

“To the f*ck ups.”

Chapter 12: i run and run, reality chasing my tail.

Chapter Text

Tomura

✖ ✖ ✖

New scars. Tomura hates his scars.

He hates his scars with every fragile part of him. Still, he scratches. He hates his scars but he still scratches because the itch bothers him infinitely more and refuses to die. Into his skin, he'll scratch in new, angry, red, swelling lines deep enough and hard enough that his skin looks like broken debris. But he's grown used to those scars; he has learnt to accept them so long as the itch remains.

These scars are different. These new ones are different.

One runs across his palm, stitched with black thread, and another trails across his collarbone, healing pink in colour. There are the four holes, too, still fleshy and crudely bandaged under his clothes.

He has never grown accustomed to them for the sake of. They're useless marrings on his skin.

“Failure, failure, failure,” he mutters incessantly. According to Kuroigiri, they sedated him after the failure of a mission. Unstable, he'd been. Erratic, clawing at his skin, at his eyes, his wounds.

God, the stain of his name. And those...those kids.

He’ll kill them.

He’ll kill them.

.mɘʜƚ ||iʞ ||’ɘH

He swears, he swears, he f*cking swears...

“I'LL KILL THEM!”

The bar is silent. Kuroigiri watches as Tomura yells at the screen, cleaning the same glass over and over. Methodical.

“I’ll kill them," he promises to the warp gate, “I swear I’ll kill them! Those kids and that green-haired brat, especially. I’ll turn him to dust!”

Kuorigiri hums.

“Your master would like to talk to you.” Kuroigiri gestures to the screen. Tomura narrows his eyes at the blinking red light. He does not straighten, does not ‘compose’ himself. Never for his master.

His master is to see him crumble, he is to be stripped raw, bare-skinned and vulnerable. He will not lie to his master and pretend to be made of tungsten and iron. Tomura was as sturdy as a feather in a hurricane, as dexterous as a man in a full cast. His master is privy to this, must be. (Do not think about why, Tomura. Do not ask yourself why it is that he asks you to melt down for his eyes. Do not be curious about how demanding he is to strip you until your naked skin and rotten bones. Do. Not.)

“Sensei,” he greets the screen, a raw ache in his throat, “we were defeated. Humiliated. They shot me in my arms and legs. It was those kids who defeated my Nomu! The ‘Symbol of Peace’ never made it in time.”

The screen hums, flickering white and grey, and his master’s voice filters through, sounding too technical, too monotone.

“It wasn’t a complete failure.” Sensei’s voice is composed, words enunciated and pronounced. “It proved my theory.”

Tomura’s expression sours. “Theory? All Might never got to play with my Nomu!”

“Exactly.” Tomura straightens at the sureness in his master’s voice. “He never arrived and we have confirmation that they were called. If All Might truly was as indestructible as he used to be, then he would've been there within seconds.”

Oh. How it snaps, arms falling limp like a marionette cut off its strings. Contempt, pride, gratefulness. Oh.

“I see you’ve caught on.”

Tomura nods, barely moving his head, fingers itching the skin of his wrist.

“Now then, let’s discuss the foreseeable future, Tomura.”

“Of course, Sensei.”

Shota

☾ ☾ ☾

Shota stares at the file accessed with his teacher’s code. He’d spent his days off following the USJ incident reviewing each student's information, though sticking to his belief that the 'Previous Education' section wasn't any of his concern. He remembers how his teachers before Yuuei had been unfair in their assessment of him and had spared no mercy in their notes and recommendations, blatantly lying about Shota to satisfy their biases. Hitoshi's old teachers too, had been abhorrent in their reviews of him when he and Hizashi took him in and had demanded he change schools. He'd found his own observation to be more accurate and did not want his impression of the students to be skewed as a result of some bigot's opinion.

It had been a mistake, though, to apply the same logic to the entire form.

Student Information Form

Student's Information

Gender: Other

Last Name: Midoriya First Name: Izuku Middle Name: N/A

Quirk: N/A Birthday: 15/07/20XX

Home Phone: 010 XXX XXXX

Address: XXX XXXX St. Postal Code: XXX-XXX

Does this student have any diagnosed learning disabilities? No.

If so, specify:N/A

Country of Birth: Japan Citizenship: Musutafu, Japan

(First) Guardian Information

Relationship to student: Father

Last Name: Midoriya First Name: Hisashi Middle Name: N/A

Birthday: XX/XX/20XX

Mobile Phone: +81 XXX XXXX

Address (if different from student):

(Second) Guardian InformationN/A

Relationship to student:

Last Name: First Name: Middle Name:

Birthday:

Mobile Phone:

Address (if different from student):

Emergency Contact

Name: Dabi

Mobile Phone: +81 XXX-XXXX

Health Records

Primary Doctor: Dr. Kyudai Garaki Last Visit: 15/07/20XX

Required Vaccinations: DTaP/Tdap ✔ Hepatitis B ✔ Hepatitis A ✔

MMR ✔ JEV ✔ Polio ✔

Does this student have any diagnosed medical conditions?No.

If so, specify: N/A

Additional Notes

Under no circ*mstance should Izuku be put into a hospital room or clinic while unaware if his Emergency Contact (Dabi) is not with him as Izuku has trauma associated with hospitals. He is sensitive to sudden loud noises and should not be approached or touched if panicked. Take him to a secluded room if he's having a panic attack.

Shota re-reads Midoriya's Additional Notes section and swears under his breath.

It was a big oversight on his part not to have read this, before.

A lot of this information was vital and called for further investigation on some students. Why was it that someone like Shoto Todoroki has such an oblique medical file that makes no mention of the freezer burn scar on the left side of his face? Denki Kaminari has a very extensive list which meant Shota had to be more attentive to him. He hadn't known that Katsuki Bakugo was hard of hearing and would eventually need cochlear implants, or that Momo Yaoyorozu was required to meet a minimum calorie and fat intake that far exceeded that of the average person due to the nature of her quirk.

He only has himself to blame.

Shotapinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

“Is everything alright, honey?” Hizashi asks, handing him a small cup of coffee with 3 spoons of sugar and a bit of cream.

“I should’ve read these earlier,” Shot mutters bitterly, taking a sip.

Hizashi makes a noise of sympathy. "All of us should have, but we can't take back what we did. All we can do is move forward and rectify our mistakes."

Shota knows this, of course. He really does. But it makes everything no easier.

His fault. It's his fault. He should do better.

(He's no more than a lousy, good-for-nothing, thief. A villain. A failure.

He should do better.)

A gentle kiss is pressed to his cheek.

“Now come on and rest. You’ll need it if you plan on showing up to school tomorrow.”

“Of course I will. Those kids still have a lot of things going for them. I can’t afford a sick day.”

“Oh, I know.” Hizashi rolls his eyes. “At least head to bed.”

Ah, Shota is tired.

‘Just this once, I'll clock in at a decent time.’

“Alright.”

Hizashi smiles brightly.

“Thank you, dear.”

Katsuki

✷ ✷ ✷

Izuku Midoriya was not meant to be found. To Katsuki, he was dead. It was the only way he could find peace in his sudden disappearance. Izuku and Inko Midoriya were dead. They died before the start of middle school, and Katsuki wasn’t to see them ever again. He'd shed his tears, burnt his wrists, set the trees on fire, and burst his eardrums. He mourned.

Deku. Is. Dead.

Katsuki came to terms with it. He had to move forward, to keep going, and to do that, Katsuki had to believe Izuku Midoriya was dead.

And the dead are not meant to be found. They are not meant to be revived. They should stay, wherever they were buried, six feet under the ground and resting.

Not Deku, though. Deku came back to life, wrenched opened his coffin and took another breath when Katsuki was under the impression that his heart had stopped.

Katsuki doesn't know what to make of it. It's overwhelming, like too much of everything crashing down on him all at once. When he first saw Deku, whenever he sees him, instead of something human, he's a figure of rotting flesh and loose, hanging skin. A person with a mangled jaw and cartoonish blood pouring sluggishly out from gaping wounds; skin tinged green and freckles turned black. When Deku bares his teeth, they're sickening brown and yellow. When he sees Deku, he sees decay; a corpse who's crawled his way out of his grave.

A̡̠̽͐̉_̮͍͍͌ͧ̒ zͨom̷̷̷͖͚̮̮̝̩̪̫̠̬̥͉̞̠̜͚̣̥̌͆͛ͥ̋̅ͧ́ͣ̆ͮ̀̾̋̇̓͋̊̔̎̚͘͟͡ͅb̵̨̭̮̐̄̀̑͢͝i̛̩͎̩͓̭͔͔͈̥̣͉̖ͮ̈́͂̃̌͂͛̓́ͪ̇͘͘͠͠͡e̴̵͈͕̲̖̜̥̭̖̓̽̾̈ͧͣ̽̌̓͟͢͟͞_͉͌ͦ̓ͦ̓͜.̵̢̠̮̟͓͖̼̮̝͍͕̻͓ͤͩ͑̔̔̄̄̅̈́̀̀ͥ́ͮ͑̀̃̿̃ͤ͘̚̕

Katsuki doesn't know how to react to it. He's never been a calm person or been skilled at compartmentalizing and sorting through his thoughts.

Rather, Katsuki tended to source all his feelings and bury them under heaps and loads of anger. Staring at Deku and seeing a corpse instead of the boy from his childhood made him angry. It wasn't anger that festered quietly, as Katsuki's anger never did. He lashed out the moment he knew, with certainty, that Deku was alive again.

But, like how Deku is not the same, his anger is not received the same either. Where, as a kid, he'd be ignored or encouraged, this time around, the threat of expulsion loomed over his shoulder, grounding the untouchable (him), and placing him among the common people (them). It's an ugly reminder that they draw the same blood and share the same veins. It's a reminder that Deku, to them, is no zombie but a boy who hurts like them.

(Not to Katsuki, though. To Katsuki, he was a f*cking carcass whose blood was black.)

The USJ is an incident startling enough that Katsuki is almost grateful for it, as it forces his attention away from Deku. His instincts heighten, his fists battle-honed and ready for fighting. He has no time for a thought-out strategy or to feel things out as he strikes forward.

Honestly, for someone as brutish as him, it feels like his territory.

That is, of course, until his eyes find Deku, and it is only for a second. Deku, one arm dripping with blood, hair soaked and looking like something straight out of a horror film. (Rotting flesh, loose hanging skin, yellow and brown teeth.) Deku, who moves like there were tiles on the ground guiding him, arms forward and ready for the strike, dodging, ducking, lashing out and falling back in a rhythm that Katsuki could not follow. He's laughing, smile pulled so far up Katsuki could've sworn it was cut into his cheeks, as he fought like a madman.

His eyes looked like gemstones.

It was f*cking terrifying.

There was something haunting about the way Izuku ran with glee at the manchild whose quirk could turn him to dust by mere touch, about the way he taunted him like daring him to reach further. Izuku looked like he was anticipating the man breaking his limbs if it meant he could get his hands to wrap around Izuku's neck. God, and the...the monster that almost turned Katsuki to splatter. Izuku looked it down like it wasn't over 7 feet tall.

He wasn’t fighting to live, he was fighting to die. Again.

(This time, he'd leave a corpse behind to mourn, too.)

Katsuki had spent the 3 days they had off and the weekend that followed in a familiar forest, ears ringing with splinters in his skin and his palms like sandpaper to touch. He spends it wondering...agonising...

Was Deku...was he ever really found? Did he really crawl out of his grave or did someone dig him out?

He doesn't find the answer to his question. Not in the broken and burnt bark, not in the callouses on his skin or the cuff marks burnt into his wrist.

Come Monday, kicking the classroom door open with the sole of his shoe and his well-worn snarl, Katsuki's mind is still restless.

Deku isn't there. Though, considering how f*cked both he and Aizawa were, it makes sense. After all, Deku's only there if their hobo teacher was, and they both were halfway dead by the time the ambulance arrived.Except the door slides open after the rest of the students wandered in, and clad in an abundance of bandages, his f*cking homeroom teacher does walk in.

Aizawa scans the desks, blatantly ignoring Dunce Face’s comment regarding his health and Four Eyes’ insistence that he stay on bed rest lest he isn’t healed enough. If he was here, would Deku be too? As Katsuki's memory serves him, their teacher was more injured than Deku had been, though not by much.

'Speak of Satan and he shall f*cking appear.'

The door is pushed open, and the slouching figure of Deku stumbles through, dragging his feet across the floor.

“There you are. Take a seat behind Bakugo; you’ll be spending the next 2 hours here as we go over some crucial aspects regarding Yuuei as well as the USJ aftermath procedures.”

Deku looks like sh*t, with hair falling over his eyes, his tie forgone and the buttons of his shirt askew. His footsteps are sloppy, skin lightly flushed, bandages looser and dingier than usual.

He keels over into his seat and flops onto the desk, head hitting the wood as it lolls forward.

“sh*t man.” Soy Sauce Face winces when Deku lifts his head to prod his forehead before slumping again. “You doing good?”

Katsuki none-too-discreetly shifts so he has a better view of Deku.

It looks like the USJ really rocked his sh*t. (That smile, those fangs, the ice in Katsuki's veins and the feeling of helplessness pulling his nails from his hands and leaving him to scream in his tornado of self-loathing and hate, hate, hate.)

“‘M fine,” Deku half slurs, words muffled by the blazer he’d shrugged off and used as a makeshift pillow.

“You sure, man?” Soy Sauce Face’s grimace worsens when Deku attempts to sit upright only to face splat again. “You look out of it.”

Deku makes an incoherent noise, so Soy Sauce Face turns away, though their eyes drift to Deku every few seconds, focused on the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

With Deku being far more silent—not asleep, his breathing is too erratic—Katsuki takes a minute to compose himself.

He’s adjusting his horrible posture, glancing back at Aizawa who’d been writing something on the board, when he smells it.

It’s faint, lingering, and he's only so familiar with the smell because his old hag liked to spend midnights on Fridays with her friends. 'Girls' Night' or whatever. Sometimes Katsuki would pass by the kitchen and living room when his mum hosted, which was often, only to wrinkle his nose distastefully and decide that snacks were overrated anyway.

Alcohol.

'What the f*ck?’

Turning around, Katsuki sees Deku, propped on one elbow now, staring dazedly at the sky. If he squints and leans over, the flush on his cheeks looks a little too red, his pupils too small and his expression too lax. If it weren't for the smell, Katsuki would've thought he was sleep-deprived and had come down with something.

He's intoxicated.

“Bakugo, face the front,” Aizawa’s curt tone orders.

Katsuki whips his head, on his tongue a demand that Aizawa take a closer look at Deku and see what Katsuki does, smell what Katsuki smells.

Surely, Deku will be suspended or expelled. He's a minor. He's at school.

Useless. f*cking. Deku. (Not his Deku, anymore. A corpse, now.)

Aizawa raises an eyebrow.

Katsuki fists his hands and looks away.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Katsuki's seen what Deku looks like, out there. Craving death as a deadman.

He'd shed tears for a burial without a body. Cried over a pile of rocks and a gravestone without a proper name.

And before him was someone who'd crawled out of a grave Katsuki never knew existed.

'...'

Deku stares forward listlessly.

Katsuki's afraid that, should they bury him with his body, someone might really dig him out and stitch him alive a second time. A second Frankenstein.

Katsuki doesn't think he can take it, again.

(He knows, he won't.)

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Time is inconsequential.

To someone who sees life as purposeless and boring and weighted, time is inconsequential. Time passes, and the days turn, and you grow old, and you grow weak. Time is inconsequential because it holds no significance besides turning months into years into nonexistent forevers.

Time is inconsequential. Life is inconsequential.

So, Izuku leaves the hospital and celebrates with a night of heavy drinking. Izuku leaves the hospital and spends the mornings wrapped under his blankets, drawing into his skin with thin blades and a heavy heart. Izuku crawls out of his bed when the sun's asleep and then he drinks again. Again, and again, morning and night blur into too-long days or too-long nights. It doesn't matter. Time is inconsequential. Life is inconsequential.

He wants to forget the blinding white light and the weight of Denki in his lap, cold but limp. His body and wounds were flaring in pain as Denki's body continued to buzz and burn, electricity still dancing around them in currents. He doesn't want to dwell on it, to think about how excruciating it had been for him to just hold Denki close, and how much worse it must be for the boy in question when he cares and loves him so.

So, he drinks, he cuts, and lets the days blur together into a passing of time that feels like nothing to him. (He doesn't dare think about how if it hurt him to even for a second wonder how much pain Denki is in all the time, how it might hurt those who claim to love him to know he hurts too. That he chooses to hurt.)

Time is inconsequential.

Life is inconsequential.

Monday rolls around and Izuku’s blood is still warm, his skin still slick with sweat. Dabi tells him to take an absent day because the alcohol hasn’t left his system and he’d slept (read: passed out) for less than an hour. Himiko tells him he smells funny, his bandages are dirty and he looks all messy. Izuku tells them to f*ck off because life doesn't matter anyway, his stomach's been churning for 3 days straight, his head is splitting in half and the smell of alcohol is making him gag.

He shows up, the tiles bending and shifting under his feet. He staggers into his seat, wincing when his head slams first into the desk, worsening his headache. Sero asks him if something is wrong and Katsuki eyes him wearily, but Izuku heeds them nothing, turning his blazer into a pillow in case he face-splats again.

“I see some of you are still worried about my state.” Aizawa gives everyone a blank look, shushing the students' concerns. "Understand that I would not have been allowed to teach without permittance, so quit fretting, there are other things to worry about.”

He points to the board. “Firstly, psychological evaluations. Normally, Yuuei teachers do not read the student files to prevent teaching with a premature bias. Nezu is the one who looks over them briefly, before allowing you to take part in the entrance exam, and then after we've admitted you, they comb through the whole of your files. We, your teachers, are privy to the very basics of your information—name, quirk, age and address."

He glances at Izuku then. Underneath the bandages, there are wrinkles by Aizawa's eyebrows and a frown of worry.

“However, after a recent incident, it was brought to my attention that that method of doing things was not only wrong but potentially harmful. So, over the weekend, each of your teachers spent time looking thoroughly through your profiles, only glossing over any previous academic records. Nezu went to go over them again entirely, in case we missed anything crucial, as well."

Izuku wonders what his file read.

Homeless. Worthless. Quirkless. Suicidal Monster.

Knowing that Dabi wrote it, it probably mentions his crippling fear disdain of hospital rooms. (White walls, potent smells, disinfectant, blood-soaked sheets, overflowing water—pink pink pink.)

“It was a serious flaw on our part as your teachers and for that, I formally apologise,” he bows, asking for forgiveness. “To avoid any future potential triggering situations, each of you is required to see Hound Dog for a session anytime within the week—he’s available up until 6—for a proper evaluation.”

“Hound Dog?” Sero whispers, a little scared.

"He’s specialised and qualified," Aizawa reassures. "Understand that this session is mandatory and anyone who does not attend will face repercussions."

Lazily, Izuku raises his hand.

“Yes, Midoriya?”

“D’n wanna go,” he mumbles, bringing his fingers to his temples to ease the growing ache, “not my fault Yuuei didn’t read my files before adoptin’ me ‘nto this class.”

He already knows he’s f*cked in the head.

“You don’t have a choice.” Aizawa’s tone is strict and unrelenting. Izuku’s far too delirious to fight back. He grunts.

'I just won’t attend.'

“Anyways.” Aizawa looks away from the board. “I’m here to remind you that the battle has yet to end for you all.”

From behind Izuku, Mineta makes a noise of distress, squealing his little pig head off about villains, piercing voice eliciting a sudden, sharp pain in Izuku's head. He swears under his breath, wincing and pressing his fingers to his temple to help soothe the hurt. He turns in his seat and squints his eyes to slits.

“Shut up or I’ll show you something a hell of a lot worse than a few f*cking villains.”

Mineta’s jaw clicks shut.

“The Yuuei Festival is approaching,” Aizawa continues, ignoring the interaction.

A weird chorus of ‘holy sh*t this school is actually a school’ is sung in unison, and Izuku bites back a groan.

‘The prissy festival, huh?’

Ochaco

❀ ❀ ❀

Ochaco listens as students voice their concerns over holding a festival after what happened.

She can still remember the desperation in her voice as she urged Iida to persevere and find help. To run. How the doors wouldn't budge as the pros did everything they could, indents in the metal that otherwise would not budge, only giving when All Might finally (finally!) launched it off with one punch.

But by then it was already too late, and the hulking monster was on the floor, the man with too many hands gunning right for Midoriya and Kaminari. Then there were gunshots.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Blood and bullets and screaming and the spider web cracks in the broken ceiling... (Bang. Bang. Bang.)

Bang.

Bang.

BANG.

“The Sports Festival is one of the most important events in all of Japan, similar to how the Olympics was years ago before the population started dwindling with the evolution of quirks.”

“It’s for scouting purposes,” Yaoyorozu states, adjusting her ponytail and sending a sharp glance at Mineta, who'd been the most vocal with his concerns. “We’ll be watched.”

“Exactly, and time is limited. Being scouted by a pro could be what makes it or breaks it for you students,” Aizawa reminds them, voice growing dim with seriousness. His tone sets Ochaco on edge. Her sensei is flippant but authorising, and he’s found a way to keep them tamed, to keep them quiet. It sets her on edge because she doesn’t fight it.

“This is an annual chance that only happens three times in your life. If you wish to be a hero, this isn’t a chance you can overlook.”

“What about me?” Midoriya’s voice is quiet, drawing out his vowels.

“The Sports Festival is a place for other students to show their talents as well,” Aizawa tells him, “and if a student gives a good enough impression or if they win, they’ll have the opportunity to move courses.”

Ochaco stares as Midoriya huffs, the air blowing away at some of the strands of hair curtaining his features, and repeats, “So what’s in it for me?”

Aizawa rebuffs, expectant of the reply, “Prove yourself.”

His words catch Midoriya’s attention, who leans backwards instead of forwards. With his hair hanging away from his face, Ochaco can see that his skin is tinged pink, forehead coated with a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes look greener too, less of his pupils taking up space in his iris. He's a riddle of apathy.

Ochaco is nonetheless stricken by his presence. She feels her nails curl into her palms; feels a shift in the wind strong enough to threaten the integrity of the glass windows. Her eyes dart between her teacher and her classmate, a witness to the fight between a man and a monster, though she cannot tell who is who.

“Prove myself?” Midoriya reiterates, almost incredulously, in the same, too-long tone. It's different from his usual clipped vowels; makes Ochaco wonder if he's still a little unwell.

“Yes.”

There’s a knowingness in Aizawa's gaze that picks up tension in the room.

“Like you?” Midoriya raises an eyebrow. “I have nothin’ to prove, ‘Zawa.”

“No?” Aizawa challenges, “Not even that someone like you could beat some of Yuuei’s heroes-to-be?”

Someone like you is a branding. It calls into question who Midoriya is. It reminds Ochaco, again, that they do not know him, not intimately or at all. Midoriya, all unknown, unknown, unknown.

It is not a question of 'if'. Midoriya could beat them. She knows, Jesus and Buddha,Ochaco knows.

No person, sane or otherwise, would pull a knife on someone if they weren't sure it'd meet its mark. Or, at least, Ochaco doesn't think Midoriya would. That, if he did, it is because it's with th intention to die, not from faux arrogance of his success.

Midoriya could kill them.

Midoriya could beat them.

“The look on people’s faces, the outrage, as you show them, first-hand, how wrong they are about you. Don’t you want that?”

'And who is he? What scrap of Midoriya's identity does Aizawa-Sensei know? What is it, that people are so wrong about?'

It strikes Ochaco then, how Aizawa understands Midoriya.

“You could ruin everything they ever believed in. Ruin them.”

Ochaco gasps; other students do too. The words are violent—blood on the walls and street brawls and the sound of gunshots—and unheroic.

But Midoriya is no hero.

Midoriya looks down, and Ochaco catches the end of a smile. Aizawa takes it as confirmation.

“Good then. You all can rest until the period ends. Midoriya is to stay here as well.” Aizawa climbs into his sleeping bag. “Do not disturb me.”

The tension, thick like rushing blood, blinding and deafening and coating them head to toe, washes away to something soothing and warm as Midoriya slumps into his blazer.

Ochaco's classmates begin to boast about talents, suspense and anxiety. She lets herself fall into the conversation.

Competition; winning; trying.

She walks her way over to Midoriya. Denki is at his side too, now, gently running his hands through his hair. Bakugo is staring at them like he has something to say, red eyes glaring. The adrenaline from her classmates makes her blood warm. She approaches them, inclined to make them notice her.

Who doesn't lust after the attention of a monster?

“Midoriya,” she greets, “Kaminari.”

“Hey!” Kaminari smiles. Midoriya grunts.

"Are you excited to crush the sports festival?!”

“Woah,” Kaminari chuckles. “That’s quite the expression.”

Iida comes to her side. “You feel it too then!”

“I’m going to go for it!” She pumps her fist, drawing the attention of some of the students.

"Hell yeah!" Kaminari cheers. Ochaco giggles, though her attention is focused elsewhere.

Midoriya gently raises his head. “Good for you, but please quiet down,” he moans, like in pain.

Ochaco rubs the back of her neck, a little embarrassed.

“I guess their energy is rubbing off,” she mumbles, cheeks blushing a light pink. Kaminari waves her off, friendly as ever, before turning his attention back to Midoriya. He whispers something to Midoriya as she and Iida wander off to their other friends, the latter nodding slowly. Kaminari gently rubs his cheeks, frowning.

“We’re going to the washroom,” he declares, standing up with Midoriya, who clutches his shirt and buries himself into Kaminari’s back as they leave the room.

Ochaco diverts her attention to her classmates, who are discussing a thousand other things.

"Do you think they're an item?" Mina asks, nodding to where Kaminari and Midoriya had been.

Ochaco shrugs, distracted. Across the room, Iida asks Sero about the reason behind their pursuit of heroics.

'Why a hero?'

(A little girl with dirt on her knees and tears in her eyes. A little girl who wants to help. A little girl who sees Mommy and Papa slumped over broken wood covered in too many papers stamped bright red. A little girl whose stomach feels caved. A little girl who wants a piece of bread. A little girl who shapes her mouth to the 'smarter' vowels because she talked like she came from scraps. A little girl who hates the sounds of gunshots.)

She wonders about the others; about how they struggled and fought to make it. Their scars and blood, the threat of monster vs man. She wonders what their stories are.

What his story is?

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“Dude, what did you do?” Denki asks solemnly as he uses bunched-up tissues to wipe off Izuku’s face. He shifts through his backpack and pulls out a water bottle and a flimsy cheese sandwich.

Izuku accepts the packages gratefully, tearing into the sandwich and taking large gulps of the water. His headache eases, his parched throat aching less, sweat cooling over. When he’s done eating, he yanks off his tie and unbuttons his shirt, ignoring Denki’s surprised yelp, and stumbles off the counter and over the sink, washing his face and letting the water run down his skin.

“What are you doing?” Denki asks, cheeks cooling down.

“Makeshift shower, without the soap,” Izuku replies, tone indicating it should be obvious when it very much f*cking wasn’t.

“Let me help you then,” he tells Izuku, tapping the counter and indicating for Izuku to take a seat. Izuku listens, and Denki goes to take a few more tissues and runs them quickly under the tap, rubbing the cold water against Izuku’s chest.

This close, he can smell it, something like old yeast and raw bread left to rot.

“sh*t Izu, are you drunk?!”

Izuku shakes his head.

“Hungover,” he groans. “God, I feel like my brain is going to melt out of my ears.”

Denki places a soaked through tissue across Izuku's forehead, the cool water a temporary relief.

He really wishes he had an ice pack and some painkillers.

And, like, a gun or something.

“Take my other sandwich,” Denki says, throwing him the other box.

“You sure?”

“Yeah," he assures, stepping back. “Why are you at school if you’re hungover?”

“Dunno?” Izuku shrugs around his bite. “Didn’t want to be there again.”

Denki doesn’t ask where ‘there’ is. Instead, he stares at Izuku’s torso—Izuku doesn’t share any classes with them, so he’s never changed by Denki—the freckles and skin pulled over lithe muscles, nothing impressive but nothing to scoff at either. He's heavily scarred too, with some light yellow and deep purple bruises painting what Denki can see of his waist not hidden by his shirt. But Denki's eyes are zeroed on the large burn scar on the right side of his abdomen, stretching. It travels all the way passed the band of his pants and around 3 inches from his armpit, webby and pink.

“You done staring?” Izuku asks, sounding a lot more coherent now thanks to the water and food. He owes Denki a meal, or maybe a few new pins.

“That’s a lot of marks,” Denki comments, almost absently, "and a hell of a burn."

Izuku tosses him back his water bottle, rebuttoning his shirt and leaving his tie undone.

“Yeah.” Izuku smooths down his collar, leaning over to use Denki as a crutch again. “I’ve had a fun life.”

Denki scoffs, wrapping an arm around Izuku’s shoulders and hugging him to his side without complaint.

“That’s one f*cking way to put it.”

═════════ ☻ ═════════

They’re markings that tell stories: of loss and love and promises and broken hearts; of sheathed weapons and bullets and the splatter of blood against alleyway dumpsters, pooling on the floors; of slaps and punches and bruises; of runaways and nimble fingers and angry store owners.

Of how he survived.

Scars, his scars, they tell his stories.

Hitoshi

⛧ ⛧ ⛧

Hitoshi takes Midoriya by the arm the second the lunch bell rings. Midoriya follows without question, much to Hitoshi’s delight. He wasn’t sure how Midoriya would react to what was happening, after all.

“Why are we headed to 1-A?” Midoriya asks as they turn the familiar corner. There’s a crowd of students, most from the General Education courses, it seemed, surrounding the 1-A door, blocking the entrance.

(So many people. Too many, Hitoshi can’t do this. There are too many people.)

“What’s going on?” he asks, using his free hand to rub circles into his temples. Hitoshi feels a little bad, knowing Midoriya's been dealing with a headache all morning, but he isn't sure he could do this without him. “What the f*ck is happening?”

Choking on the glass in his throat, Hitoshi has to take a few deep breaths to calm his racing pulse before he can answer.

“Confrontation,” he chokes out, “the Gen Ed students wanted to s...s-scope out Class A since they’re sure t...t...t-to win the sports festival.”

So badly, Hitoshi wants it to be him. To be up on the podium with a medal and a smile made of pride and spite. To watch as the students wonder how someone like him made it. It doesn't have to be 1st place or 2nd, or even 3rd. But, somewhere in the top 10, somewhere amongst the best. On top, where people can’t help but acknowledge him. That's where Hitoshi wants to be, where he needs to be.

Hioshi is determined to prove to the world that 'villains' are actually heroes. He is determined to prove that the world that 'heroes' are villains; determined to prove that titles are bullsh*t. God, he'll be damned to not proudly show that the muzzles and leashes and treatment didn't do sh*t. That he prospered and will continue to prosper; that he won and will continue to win.

That Hitoshi f*cking can.

That somewhere is where he needs to be.

A sweet, feminine voice says in astonishment, "Woah." It comes from a girl with very round, pink cheeks, grimacing at the sight.

A voice with a lisp follows it with, "Are they crowing the exit? What? Why? What's happening? "

Someone harshly snarls, "They want a glimpse at the class that got ambushed by villains." It's a blonde boy with spiky hair and pants sagging to his knees. His expression matches the animosity and arrogance in his tone. His vowels are sharpened with a promise of violence as he continues, "It's pointless to try, so why don't you f*ck off, you goddamn mob."

Hitoshi's knees start to shake; Midoriya wordlessly lets go of Hitoshi's arm to reach for his fingers, and Hitoshi's grateful despite the unfamiliar intimate touch, feeling steady. Hitoshi weaves through the last few lines of the crowd and sees Kaminari, who looks equally as confused and put off by the sight. When Kaminari meets his eye, his confusion melts away, and instead, he flashes Hitoshi a cute smile. Hitoshi returns it with a more reserved, embarrassed one, feeling a little warmer.

He takes a breath, envisioning the smile and clicking his tongue against his teeth to help his nerves.

“Are all the kids e....e-enrolled in the department like-like this?” He tries to sound smug despite his stutter and pretends he’s under that large tree with Midoriya and not in a crowd with too many eyes and unfamiliar faces. It helps.

“Ha?!” The blonde tilts his chin up to meet Hitoshi's eyes. Hitoshi can’t help the small flare of satisfaction that courses through him at the height difference. He always loved being fairly tall. The blonde turns to Midoriya, and his gaze hardens even further.

“It s...s-seems I’m a bit disillusioned.” He brings a free hand to the back of his neck, feeling the heat of his anxiety through his skin, and plays with the texture of his hair. It lulls him into a sense of familiarity. "Did y-you know that a lot of kids who f...f-failed the heroics exam a-are p...p-put into other courses?”

They tried their damn hardest, but the world was so f*cking unfair.

“What do you f*cking want, Eyebags?”

There's something about his sneer, the cruelty of his gaze. It drags Hitoshi away from the noise, stares and people, drags him back to the memories of a loose brick taken from the wall with blood at its corners and sirens in the distance, the sneer of the ‘the villain did it! the villain did it!’ on the perpetrators’ tongues.

The hand in his squeezes, scarred fingers and a bandaged wrist, grounding him. The crowd waits. Hitoshi’s breathing levels, his heartbeat a faint thud as opposed to a f*cking roar.

“Consider this a declaration of war.”

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku watches in bemusem*nt as Katsuki is berated by his classmates for causing a further scene and alienating their class.

He thinks of the words ‘It won’t matter if you’re at the top’.

Lies. Nothing matters regardless of where you stand. Not your face, name or reputation.

Almost Nothing.

Izuku doesn’t matter, and never will.

“You’re gunning for heroics?” Izuku asks Shinso as they make their way to the large tree.

His response is cut off by a familiar voice.

“Hi, guys!” Denki cheers, waving stupidly and drawing attention to himself as he jogs over.

“Hi, Denks.”

“Hey, Kami.”

Denki takes the seat by Izuku and plops Izuku's head into Denki's lap, playing with his hair and scratching his scalp. Izuku’s headache, now a dull hurt, lessens.

Shinso stares at them but says nothing.

“So?” Izuku asks again.

“So?” Denki repeats, confused.

“I asked Shinso if he was aiming for heroics.”

“Oh yeah, you did that whole war declaration thing. I thought it was kinda cool! And don’t mind Bakugo, he’s always a prick.”

Shinso snorts, but answers.

“I am going to prove to everyone that people like me can make it.”

Denki tilts his head in confusion. "People like you?"

"Yeah." Shinso looks to the side, a little uncomfortably. "You know, with the whole, v... v-villainous quirks thing."

"That's stupid." At Kaminari's statement, Shinso looks up again, eyes a little wide. "Your quirk shouldn't mean sh*t. Besides," Kaminari beams, “you’d do good in heroics, in my humble opinion. Plus, it’d be cool to have another pretty face around.”

He winks at the end, and a light blush creeps on Shinso’s cheeks.

'Oh?'

“You think?” Shinso leans on his wrists and looks up at the clouds.

“Hell yeah,” Denki says brightly.

Shinso’s eyes are still trained on the clouds, the shadows changing as they pass by amiably.

“I’m going to try my f*cking best.”

Denki smiles brightly.

“I’ll be rooting for you then.”

Izuku slips his eyes shut.

"We both will."

Chapter 13: our hellish preparations.

Chapter Text

Mei

♻ ♻ ♻

Mei is especially ecstatic.

It's a familiar, comfortable feeling. She's always been told she's overzealous; loud and chaotic and proud and loud. Mei steps into the room and no one else fits; she's too smart, too impulsive, too headstrong and too much.

She's always a little too much.

It never bothered her though. To get where she wants to be and be as strong as she is, she needs to put in 3000% and needs to be full of energy and motivation. She can't lag or fall behind. She has no room to laze around or lose ambition.

I mean, if she did, she wouldn't be who she is.

Mei Hatsume: inventor extraordinaire and future millionaire, baby!

Mei Hatsume: Dirt, grime and oil stain almost all her clothes; the smell of gasoline trails behind her in a wicked stench; callouses cover her hands and hardened scarred palms; scars litter her skin from explosions and mishaps; her expression lights up her entire face whenever an idea strikes her and you know you're doomed if you're the victim of her inspiration staring into her missing-front-tooth smile.

Mei Hatsume: always working, never not working, who tells herself she has to work, work, work until her nails break and joints ache and she's dizzy and disorientated and can no longer articulate her thoughts out loud but can if she continues to ʞɿow.

And the last time Mei's been this ecstatic her Maam had finally taken her to an old factory's scrap yard when she was 12 and Mei felt like she'd raided every dumpster within a 10km radius of their house for spare parts.

The Sports Festival is coming up, and Mei will finally, finally, get to debut all her babies!

The thing is, Mei's always been told she's a genius. Gifted. She supposes she is, in a way. Mei's always felt partially defined by an innate talent to invent. It isn't that she doesn't practise, though. She does. She embraces her failures, hugs her explosions, and sees the ringing in her ears as proof of her hard work as opposed to something to feel concern over. But, before people saw her practice, they saw her talent. Mei is the bread and butter of engineering, building and making. She knows how to take things apart because of her deft fingers and good eyes.

But, talent, at its core, is never enough. Mei still isn't the best, and the people who surpass her aren't 'geniuses', but those who thrive on practice.

So, though initially defined and maybe still an outline of her talent, at her core, Mei is infamous because of her practice. She can't rely on her fingers or eyes. If Mei is going to be the best—and she will—she needs to try. To try, try and try and then try again. She doesn't feel good if her wrists don't ache or the tips of her fingers aren't singed. The ringing in her head gets worse but that means Mei is getting better.She wants to see her efforts in the bags under her eyes and the pounding of her headache.

That's why, nowadays, even if people see her as someone evil genius, they fear her because she's mad with effort. No one can say she doesn't try hard enough, because Mei is too much.

Power Loader gives her free access to the labs during breaks at her request the moment the announcement of the Sports Festival is made. He tells the entire class that they're welcome to join her, but no one goes because the label of 'evil' in the whole evil genius thing isolates her. Mei doesn't mind. She works best on her own in a room crowded with her thoughts. Smart as a whip with the skills to match.

(She doesn't really understand why people see her as an 'evil' genius. She also doesn't care enough to wear any protection when working with live fire and gasoline. Mei isn't really aware.)

Mei's currently working on her latest invention to, hopefully, show off and aid her in the coming weeks.

A jet pack.

Another explosion is set off and with it a blooming cloud of smoke and gas. She tightens the bandana wrapped around her nose and mouth and tries not to breathe in the noxious fumes. It's one of the few protective measures she takes. The fumes tend to dull her senses and make her feel lethargic, which Mei finds to be a nuisance to her brilliance. Hiking up her overalls, she wipes her hands against her tank top, oil and all, and moves to her computer.

Although she isn’t told of the obstacles they'll be facing during the Sports Festival, she’s wholeheartedly convinced that a hover pack will come in handy. Sure, there are kids with quirks that can make them fly and float and sink to the ground.

But there are kids who can't. Students who aren’t so gifted, with simple quirks, simple minds, and bodies not biologically battle-honed. Students who need support, for one reason or another.

If men aren’t equal, then people like Mei Hatsume simply have to even the playing field themselves.

(Preferably with flames and guns and giant explosions—to leave an impression.)

With no intentions to win, her goal is solely to invent and draw an audience to invest. She'll work until the wires are crossed perfectly, the screws are tight, and the bolts are locked, and show everyone that she is here with plans for the future, to be the best of the best. She is a whirlwind of chaos aching to wreak havoc.

Yuuei has the perfect breeding material for her precious babies. Her blueprints are hovering before her on the table, a 3D hologram, every instruction, messy outline, and number calculated to the hundredth decimal there. She adjusts—writes, types and draws—and moves again. (Again, again, again.)

There are always new numbers and formulas, always more to perfect and work with. She jots down new ideas on the inside of her arm as they come to her.

A bucket of paint, hot pink and red, sits at the corner of the lab. She reaches for a paintbrush and messily writes a conjoined version of the letters H and I on a scrap of metal that is the latest jetpack model. Satisfied, she pulls up her bandana and pulls down her goggles. She clicks a button and the little light on the camera stationed at the front of the room flickers red.

“Proptype fifteen. Jet testing in one...two...three!”

The metal is sent careening right to the other end of the wall fast, a gush of hot, hot air that Mei can feel from the opposite end of the room. It shatters against the wall with a satisfying ‘crunch’. Mei audibly lists her observations.

Her video diaries.

It was the best solution to record her severely scattered thoughts. Mei's mind worked a mile a minute, and certain ideas would slip her mind when she'd come to jot them down later on. A recording in the moment meant she could blurt out her flurry of thoughts and review them, later on, to compose them in a more organised manner. And when she's made, itthose diaries will be proof of Mei Hatsume's cultivating talents.

Mei stops the recording and moves back to the blueprint.

'The propellers don’t move fast enough.'

The potency of the fuel means the ignition is strong, but she wants something stronger. A rocket is good for immediate combustion, but it doesn’t hover, and jets do, continuously sucking in air and raising the pressure.

“Stronger fuel?” she mumbles to herself, jotting down the idea. Of course, that potentially could just lead to another, significantly larger explosion, but Mei’s sense of self-preservation is at an all-time low. Scabs, blood and mild concussions are for nought in the name of inventions, so long as her legs, arms and eyes work.

Just as she’s about to set the recording for number 16, there's a knock on the department door.

“Yes?!”

The door is heavy, made of metal and deadbolts, and reinforced after one of Mei’s more frivolous inventions shattered the hinges. The person behind it doesn’t struggle much with swinging it open, letting themselves in. Mei quickly takes in their—his—appearance, recognizing him in the halls, often accompanied by the electric quirk user from the hero course and an unknown purple-haired boy.

He’s hard to forget, with brutish scars and perceptive eyes.

“Hello, hello, hello, stranger!” she greets brightly, bouncing over to him with no sense of boundary. "Hello again! I’m Mei Hatsume, future owner of Hatsume Industries, and inventor extraordinaire! Wanna take a look at my babies?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, heading for the jets. “Currently working on this bad boy. Just gotta find a way to make the propeller work faster without creating another explosion.” She runs over to the blueprints. “I almost got it done though. Shame you got here before I could test the next prototype. I’m like, 72% sure it won’t explode.”

The boy’s eyes dart around furiously, before landing on her, though he doesn’t meet her gaze. They're iced-over, dull, his expression muting the otherwise vibrant green. She sort of wants to see them gleam. She's sure they'd look like pools of acid.

“I was sent here by Power Loader,” the boy tells her, a little hesitantly, eyeing the pile of broken metal left to the side with mild interest, “I have the right to accommodations for the Sports Festival so long as I make the items.”

He pulls out a plastic thing, flicking it open with a quick wrist movement. A sharp metal blade—glinting silver, dented and a little rusty at the base—catches the artificial ceiling lights.

“I need to change the blade and reinforce the grip,” the boy says, “I also want a bo-staff—I've been working on something similar at home, but it's evidently too lethal—and something that emits flashes of light, startling enough to blind someone.”

“A flashbang?!” Mei jumps happily. “Oh gods, let me help you. We’ll make awesome babies together, Freckles!”

“Freckles?” the boy murmurs, shaking his head. “Is that even allowed?”

Mei beams, “So long as I’m a student, it’s free reign baby!”

The boy eyes her, before flashing a set of sharp teeth, and sticking out his hand.

Mei lights up, lurches forward and squeezes, feeling the rough fabric of old bandages scratch the skin of her palm.

“Izuku Midoriya.” The boy shakes her hand. She sees it then, that gleam she'd anticipated. She was right. Acid.

“I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together, Hatsume.”

Mei laughs, a cackle, something a little mad, a little manic.

“This is the start of a beautiful friendship, Freckles.”

Denki

❂ ❂ ❂

Denki’s panting heavily, t-shirt sticking to his body, drenched in sweat, tears and a little bit of blood. Across from him, Shinso is fairing only slightly better, hands on his knees and capture weapon draped across his neck, inches from the floor.

Quirkless sparing, Izuku proposed. Accordingly, Hitoshi has only been working on martial arts for a little less than a year, at the insistence of his adopted dads, who were adamant about helping him train for Yuuei the second he’d admitted to wanting to pursue a career in heroics. Izuku, on the other hand, grew up quirkless.

⚬⚬⚬

“All I’ve known is bare knuckles, Denks,” he says as he aims a particularly harsh punch to Shinso’s side, the latter skirting away by hair’s width. “This is my f*cking forte.”

There’s so much wrong with that, wrong with the dirty tricks, swiping at ankles and pulling at mats. Every lesson that Denki’s ever been taught about morals, mercy and kindness is being spat on by cutthroat eyes and a smile threatening to split a face open.

A choking noise welcomes Shinso falling, clawing at his throat and heaving on the floor. Izuku sends a kick to his stomach and traps his legs under his knees, kneeling over him and forcing him on his abdomen.

“Forfeit,” he orders, coldly. Shinso nods, still coughing, and Izuku sits up. He doesn’t offer a hand, but bends to Hitoshi’s side and gently pries the hands off his neck, offering a water bottle and coaxing Hitoshi to take a sip.

“That was f*cking cruel,” Shinso murmurs, wiping at his mouth, “you’re not supposed to—”

“When we spar, there is no taking the high ground,” Izuku cuts him off. “No villain takes the high ground, why should we? If we’re going to play into 'survival of the f*cking fittest', you hit them with no regard for morals. If they’re down, you hit them until they can’t get up.” He turns to Denki, the same resolve making his features seem all the darker. “The throat, the eyes, groin, soft spots, joints, hair. Whatever f*cking hurts. If blood is spilt, so be it.”

'He's terrifying.'

⚬⚬⚬

Denki's currently fighting Shinso, losing miserably, quirk releasing in tiny spurts of energy that he’s trying so hard to keep in check. Izuku watches impassively.

“Denki, you’re too focused on your quirk,” Izuku tells him, playing with the frayed edges of one of his bandages, “I called for a quirkless spar because both of you are reliant on your quirk, but if your energy is focused on keeping your quirk under wraps, you can’t fight to the best of your ability.”

“But I’m not supposed to be using it?”

“You can’t help the static, that’s not on you. I want you both to go again in 10 minutes. Focus on fighting Shinso, not on the small releases. A few jolts of electricity shouldn’t disorient him enough to hinder his fighting abilities, and the binding cloth is insulated. By quirkless, I meant no purposefully using your quirk.”

‘Ah.’

“And Shinso,” Izuku adressses him. “The cloth, you’re new to it, right?”

Shinso nods, the flush on his cheeks a little darker. “Is it that obvious?”

Izuku nods and Denki winces at the brutal honesty. Personally, he couldn’t tell. Shinso wielded the weapon efficiently and continuously kept Denki at a distance, mimicking Aizawa well. When asked, Shinso had admitted to Aizawa taking him under his wing a little under a year ago when they met under unfortunate circ*mstances. He had been training him with the weapon for around six months.

Denki was beyond impressed, especially when he’d asked to use the weapon himself, and wound up a wrapped gift, wiggling helplessly on the floor as Shinso laughed at him.

Izuku wasn’t there for that conversation, having headed to Nezu’s office to file a report.

“Although,” Izuku continues, oblivious to Shinso’s embarrassment and Denki’s discomfort, “I am comparing you to Aizawa since he’s the only other person I’ve seen wield such a weapon. It’s the same material too, some type of metal alloy I’d presume, difficult to cut without the right blade…” he pauses. “Aizawa’s your mentor, isn’t he?”

Shinso blanches a little. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Izuku is astute, calculating, and smart. Smart in a way that transcends limitations.

“Yeah,” he answers, “he’s been teaching me how to use this scarf for about 6 months now.”

Izuku hums, taking the information at face value. He doesn’t ask questions. Where Denki was brimming to know why, how and when—because Shinso is Gen Ed, and the school’s only just started, so where and who and again, how and why—Izuku doesn’t ask questions, beyond what is asked, and what is answered.

He could, but he doesn’t. Denki thinks it has to do with his bandages and scars. How he came smelling of liquor the previous day or the texts he sends too late into the night, and why Denki continues to hold his tongue.

Don’t ask questions, don’t ask me questions.

“Cool.” Izuku walks over to them. “Do you think I could borrow it for a second?”

Shinso nods, pulling off the scarf and handing it like a heap of bandages. Izuku pulls at the material, before looping it over his neck and snaking it over his arms, lifting them as if to test the weight.

“It’s heavy,” he states, “and elastic, it’s also weirdly soft.” He looks at Shinso and hands him back the scarf. “You’ve been doing this for 6 months?”

“Around.”

“You’re talented.” He doesn’t say it as a compliment, more so as a fact. Shinso, who was finally cooling down from the spar, blushes red, pulling a face that Denki found utterly adorable.

“I’m assuming you didn’t use it at the entrance exam because you weren’t trained enough yet?”

“Yeah.” Shinso rubs the back of his neck. “Probably would’ve tripped on my own feet and done worse.”

“Okay.” Izuku turns back over to the bench, arms behind his back. “When you fight, I want you to stop mimicking Aizawa. I get that he’s your mentor, and it’s smart to follow similar movements, but don’t disregard your abilities. Aizawa is bigger than you, stronger, has broader shoulders and better hand-eye coordination. You’re lankier with a much slimmer build. Don’t attempt anything too reliant on the muscles in your biceps, keep the scarf movements more simple and use your legs.”

Denki already knew this but Izuku's seriously analytical; he's dangerously good at breaking them apart to put them back together.

“The 10 minutes are up, get back to sparring. Remember what I said. Loser fights me.” He smiles a little at the end, lips curling sad*stically.

Both Denki and Shinso tense.

For all that Denki loved Izuku—and he really did—he did not want to spar with him again.

Izuku’s a f*cking menace, fights with his nails, knuckles and teeth.

Friend or foe, he’s not afraid to spill blood.

Shoto

❅ ❅ ❅

Pain paints his vision with spots of white and black, a sharp ache in his left side and a burning so strong his shoulder feels almost numb. The air is thick where the heat of the fire is focused, and Shoto blindly ducks at the sudden shift in temperature above him. He trips face forward, arms instinctively reaching to break his fall. The pain in his shoulder flares intensely, elbows buckling.

“Is this how you expect to win the Sports Festival?” Enji sneers above him, the sound of his footsteps loud and menacing as his shadow moves to loom over Shoto, who doesn’t dare to look up to meet those disgusting turquoise eyes. A foot forces his head upwards like an owner would a f*cking animal, but Shoto defiantly keeps his gaze down, weakly pushing the foot aside with his head, arms still trembling to keep him upright.

“Look at me, boy,” Enji spits with malice and spite, “now.”

The rise in temperature—blistering heat; hot; hot; heat that burns and eats through everything, hot as his temper (as yours)—is a blaring forewarning, a ghost hand wrapped around Shoto’s lungs, pumping fear into his blood, his heart,his stomach; his nerves alive and waiting for the pain, the hurt.

Despite the stubborn mule in him that was screaming to keep his head down, it does not out-win self-preservation. Shoto tilts his chin up, pushing himself onto his knees and sitting at his father’s feet. Like a peasant, a slave, someone lesser, someone to be looked at and spat at and ordered around; a promised carbon copy.

“How do you think you’re going to do anything out there if this is how you hold yourself?!” Enji bellows, the flames around his face dancing wildly. “How do you expect to be number 1 if you can’t even beat me?!” There’s smoke curling at the edges of his moustache, and the temptation to douse his damn face in a bucket of water just to watch those putrid flames fizzle and die is much too tantalising for someone so vulnerable to Enji’s hand.

Shoto only registers the second (third, eighth, hundredth) pain after the hand has come down on his cheek, head whipping to the side with the aching promise of a handprint. Enji stares at his palm with disgust, wiping against his white wife beater like it had been tainted with snot and germs.

“Don’t glare at me like that,” Enji growls, “you were more than useless today, be lucky I’m going easy on you.”

'Because of Yuuei, isn’t it, Enji?’ Shoto thinks bitterly.

'Because at home, there are no witnesses to the bruises and broken bones. No one questions the burns before they’ve healed, or the doctors coming in and out with hush money and a threat looming over them lest the public finds out about the youngest Todoroki’s injuries. Because there are heroes—there are people—with a shred of dignity and some sense of morality that would stop this, stop you.

‘Isn’t that right, Enji? You know no mercy; you know no loyalty.’

“You should be f*cking grateful,” he continues, heading for the doors, “I let you become a boy so you’d grow up to be a man. But all I see right now is a pitiful woman grovelling at her knees, a pathetic girl.”

Like always, his hurt numbs Shoto to his bones. With the pain and bruises comes an ache of dysphoria. Shoto swallows the fire on his tongue and breathes slowly, his thoughts rampaging.

‘Little Daddy’s girl will never be strong enough; will never be seen as a man. Little Daddy’s girl, with Daddy’s fire and Daddy’s smile and Daddy’s temper.

'Little Daddy’s girl will never be strong enough; will never be seen as a man.’

Slowly, Shoto stands, going to the wall for support as quirk exhaustion leaves his limbs weak. Regrettably, Enji’s fire has blistered the skin of his left shoulder, as opposed to his right, where frost crawls up his skin in a design of snowflakes, pretty much like his mother’s ice.

‘Little Mommy’s boy, too much like his father; will never be seen outside of his father's image. Little Mommy’s boy, with Daddy’s fire and Daddy’s eye and Daddy’s looks.

Little Mommy’s boy, too much like his father; will never be seen outside of his father's image.’

Gritting his teeth at the pain in his ankles from a messy fall, Shoto slides the door to the training room open and hobbles to his room. He passes by Natsuo, who’s at the gate, ready to leave. He rarely comes over, spending the night with his friends in their apartments on their couches.

To get away from Enji. From Shoto.

A scathing look is shot his way and Shoto ignores the little part of him that aches for his older brother’s touch. He turns away. (He misses the way Natsuo frowns and stutters in his steps at the startling burn bubbling on the skin of his shoulder and the visible bruises on his elbows and forearms.)

Fuyumi isn’t in his room—she must be cooking dinner—but the first aid kit is there, on the edge of the low table. Shoto grabs it and sits comfortably on his futon, peeling off his shirt and hissing at the little pieces of burnt fabric that pull at his wounded skin. Undoubtedly, Enji would bring home a ‘doctor’ when the injury scabbed over. Healing quirks were rare, but quirks that could hide scars were a dime a dozen.Masking, mimicking and altering appearances, even a weak quirk could hide the would-be remnants of Enji’s abuse.

Shoto's long since stopped justifying it as 'training'. It's abuse—slapping and kicking and screaming; hurting. That’s all Enji ever did, all he was good at; hurting.

He leaves the burn for Fuyumi to tend to—her caring hands and gentle smiles reminded Shoto of his mother—and gently rubs the soothing ointment on the bruises on his legs and arms, purples and blues over his torso. He brings his fingers to his face and blindly traces where it aches to touch.

Daunted at the prospect of wearing any sort of cosmetic to hide the bruise, Shoto tries to ease the swelling by cooling over the palm of his hand. The fatigue of quirk exhaustion threatens to leave him for dead when he tries to form a sheet of ice on the skin itself.

“Shoto!” Fuyumi’s head pops into the room, where Shoto’s blinking away sleep. His shoulder and his ankle needed to be wrapped properly.

Then he could sleep. Not relax, never relax, not in this house, never with him home, but sleep.

“Oh.” Her voice comes out far more subdued as she takes in his appearance. Without saying anything, she comes to his side and starts to gently clean his wound, apologising for every touch, voice so soft and quiet.

She’s never been one for confrontation. She’s never been one to complain. Like Rei, Fuyumi is patience that's slowly wearing thin. Shoto waits for the day she leaves, like his mum, like Natsuo. Permanent fixtures have no place in the life of Endeavor's masterpiece. Shoto is to succeed, on his own and by himself, with his mother’s ice. Should he burn in his loneliness...well it's only the fate he'll face as a consequence of his irredeemable sin. (The sin of living.)

“Anywhere else?” she asks, and Shoto nods to his ankle. Sighing, she pats her lap and Shoto twists oddly so his foot is rested there comfortably. There’s mild bruising, but nothing too horrible. Fuyumi wraps it tightly and taps his leg twice when she’s done.

“I take it I leave your plate in the fridge?”

Shoto nods, already moving to settle himself more comfortably. Fuyumi smiles at him, the expression a little worn at the edges, the crow's feet by her eyes deepening. As she does after every session, she gently trails the littering white scars on his biceps, and the larger, scathing red one marring half his face. She presses a kiss to his shoulder, and Shoto feels hugged so intensely by her very soft love.

Shoto thinks it’s to remind her of his vulnerability, to remind her that he is more than a chef-d'oeuvre, a child bred to become a slave to his parent’s desire. Shoto thinks that maybe it keeps her by him, keeps her with him, at his side. Shoto thinks that she reminds him too much of Rei when the smile becomes a little softer as Shoto's eyes go half-lidded and his expression eases.

It scares him.

“Rest well, Shoto.”

“Rest well, Fuyumi.”

Still, he can’t deny how the small part of him that aches for comfort settles when she’s around. Despite what he is told, despite what he says or the lies he whispers to the mirror every morning, he needs support. He doesn't want to be alone. (Fate is cruel.)

But a larger part of him knows that abandonment is inevitable; understands that nothing is permanent. Shoto is Enji’s child, and cruel bastards should be given no mercy.

Who's to declare their blood an exception?

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“f*ck, I’m so glad I’m not in your class,” Shinso whistles, as Izuku explains to him the mandatory psych evaluation each student was expected to undergo before the Sports Festival.

In 3 days.

“I’m not gonna f*cking do it,” Izuku mumbles, playing with the hilt of his knife. While Izuku was rather proud of the upgraded version, Mei had insisted she evaluate it herself. Izuku found no problems with that—leave the crazy genius to her work and all.

According to 1-A, only a select few hadn’t undergone their session: Denki, Todoroki, Katsuki, Sero and Ochaco. Ochaco was scheduled for later today, and Denki, after much coaxing from Sero, had scheduled an appointment for tomorrow, right after Sero’s.Todoroki would undoubtedly go if only to avoid punishment, and Katsuki was likely the same, no matter how reluctant either party may be.

Izuku on the other hand, would rather not and did not care about the potential consequences. He knows he’s f*cked in the head. The impression left on him by the people who've left scars on his skin and moulded the way he thinks and sees is screwed beyond words. He knows it's all wrong. Just, worrying, scary and...So. Very. Wrong.

He didn’t need some hero with too much fur to tell him that. He doesn’t intend to work on it, to 'fix' it, or get help to get better. Who cared if his smile never always looked too sharp or if he preferred cigarettes and blades to cope and scratch the incessant itch that danced on his skin whenever the memories of his life or the intensity of his feelings threatened to overwhelm him?

If it kills him, he dies, and death always sounded so sweet.

“Do what?” Denki asks, plopping himself by Izuku’s side and leaning his head against Izuku’s shoulder. Izuku unconsciously lifts a hand to stroke his hair, stony expression softening when Denki nuzzles into the touch.

“Attend the weird shrink sh*t with Hound Dog that Aizawa said we had to go to,” Izuku explains, directing the rest of his statement to Shinso. “I don’t know why you agreed to be his protégé, the man would work you ‘till your bones are ground to dust.”

Denki snorts, “You say that like I didn't nearly lose a tooth when training with you.”

Izuku turns to Denki and lifts him by the chin, gently biting his nose in retaliation for his snark. Denki squeals and backs away, rubbing the spot with a pout.

“You agreed to train with me," Izuku reminds him with a proud smirk.

Denki shuffles closer to him, still rubbing his nose, and whines, "You didn't need to bite my nose."

"Should I bite your ear then?" Izuku flirts, leaning over. Denki giggles and gently turns Izuku's face, forcing Izuku to meet Shinso's eyes. He'd been watching the scene unfold with furrowed brows and a tense but teasing smile.

Izuku feels himself wane in self-consciousness under such an awkward stare.

"Is something wrong?"

“Are you guys dating?”

Denki, whose hand was still on Izuku's cheek, startles at the question, pulling away, cheeks blushing a dark pink. Similarly, Izuku’s cheeks turn a feint red, but his face falls into that ever-impressive stoic expression habitually.

“No?” Izuku answers, though it comes out as more of a question than a statement.

Shinso levels him with an unimpressed look.

“That didn’t sound so sure.”

“It’s not that we’re dating,” Izuku clarifies, beckoning Denki closer and reaching for his hand, intertwining their fingers, “we’re not interested in each other like that, or, at least, I don’t think so.”

Denki nods in agreement.

“Okay yeah, so it’s not that. But I definitely value Denki more than I would someone I only shared platonic feelings for.”

Denki further explains, “I can’t imagine myself being romantic with Zuku, but, unlike my relationship with Mina or Kirishima or Sero, I’m more hands-on and comfortable. My feelings for him exceed that of strictly platonic, but aren’t romantic either.”

Shinso blinks a little.

“So...not dating, but more than friends?”

“Queerplatonic,” Denki confirms, “I looked it up.”

Izuku thinks of Shinso and thinks maybe it’ll be the same with him. A friendship that exceeds the confines of platonic and romantic, and simply is. A friendship that is valued more than love, more than sexual intimacy and need and desire.

“Huh." Shinso looks off to the side. “Maybe I should look it up too.”

“You totally should!” Denki gives him a megawatt smile and stretches over to interlace their fingers, ignoring Shinso’s sputtering and reddened cheeks.

(A small child with wild green hair and stars in his eyes will cry at this memory. A little circle of friends who hold hands like toddlers. A small child with wild green hair and stars in his eyes will pretend that he is a part of that circle, will pretend that there are no scars on his skin and tattoos on his wrists and fangs in his smile.)

“Now.” Denki drops his smile and turns to Izuku, looking far more serious. “You are not skipping therapy.”

Izuku's expression mutes.

"What?"

═════════ ☻ ═════════

Izuku stares.

Stares.

Stares.

The clock on the wall ticks and ticks and ticks.

Hound Dog waits, clipboard in hand and pen in the other. He doesn't write anything. Doesn't have anything to write.

Izuku stares.

And between them passes an hour of silence.

"Silence can speak a thousand words," Hound Dog says at the end of the session, finally breaking it.

Izuku smiles bitterly.

"Then write them."

═════════ ☻ ═════════

“How was it?” Denki asks Izuku the next day.

Izuku gives the best smile he can and replies, “The worst possible thing I ever had to f*cking go through. And I once fought off a rat that was trying to eat my ramen cup. It was a fat rat, a fat f*cking rat that wanted my ramen cup. I was twelve.”

Denki looks down, sheepishly. “Heh. Yeah, mine wasn’t too much fun either. But on the bright side, we never have to do that ever again!”

Izuku huffs, “Poor Aizawa, he’s going to have to go through those damn evaluations.”

Denki laughs a little. "He's the one who demanded we get screened."

“C’mon, we should head to training. Don’t wanna slack off two days before the festival. I need to let off my irritation.”

"...f*ck."

Chapter 14: a series of sh*tty and non-sh*tty encounters.

Chapter Text

Touya

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

Touya keeps a firm grip on Himiko’s hand, away from the slowly crowding bleachers. Izuku’s to meet them before heading to the locker rooms to guide them to particular seats he’d chosen.

Crowds make him feel itchy and gross and people tend to shamelessly stare at them wherever they go. He gets it, really. A man with scars and tattoos crawling over him and a short, obviously malnourished girl with tubes up her nose and unhealthy pallor skin. They're broken people—spectacles. But neither Touya nor Himiko were TV show characters for their viewing.

“Where is he?” Touya murmurs, grimacing underneath his mask at the group of people eyeing his sleeve nervously. He'd given his jacket to Himiko, who was shaking, and wished he had the sense of mind to wear a long sleeve underneath it.

Himiko hums, rocking on her feet with anxiety, “He’ll be here soon. He has to be. Or I’ll stab the annoying people who keep looking at us.”

Touya doesn’t protest.

Just as he's about to set fire to the jacket of one of those bystanders, a familiar mane of dark green walks towards them, dressed in the Yuuei sport’s uniform, a long-sleeved top underneath hiding the scars Touya’s so familiar with. His expression warms when he catches their eye, walking a little faster. He grabs both Touya and Himiko’s free hands and starts walking them through the bleachers.

“I got you seats at the top, just before where the students are seated. The chairs by you 'just so happen' to have loose screws so no one will be crowding you.”

Touya doesn’t bother suppressing a smirk.

“So, this is the fancy Sports Festival,” Touya whistles, “one hell of a turn-out, one hell of a place.”

Large, obnoxiously so, tall with high bleachers and screens far too large hung up like billboards. Heroes and businessmen and people with money and power to their names flood most of the audience, scrutinising the mothers and fathers supporting their children with nothing to their name.

Touya wonders what he and Himiko look like, to them. Supporters or critics? Madmen and women or simply people who are different? Who’s to say that mattered anyway?

'Is ‘different’ not just crazy in the eyes of someone who falsely claims sanity?'

“I know. It’s god-awful loud.”

“Is Mikumo coming?” he asks, looking around for the kid and his mums.

Izuku nods. “His parents said I shouldn’t escort them since Yuka-sama has something she has to take care of at her job. Their seats are reserved down there.” Izuku points to the end of the bleachers, front row, right before the glass. “I can properly introduce Himi-chan and you afterwards if you'd like.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Himiko squeals, jumping, “I love cute kids!”

Touya grimaces but doesn’t reject the idea. He supposes it wouldn’t hurt, and Izuku seems to like the family. Besides, Akatani was never really fazed by his appearance, so perhaps his mothers wouldn’t be either.

“So, do you want us to like, cheer you on or something?”

Himiko looks up at Touya dumbly. “Duh, we’re going to cheer him on. Izu-chan deserves all our support.”

Izuku tells them, “Do whatever, be vulgar about it too. Anything to piss off the heroes in the stands.”

Touya chuckles. “Now that I can get behind.”

Shota

☾ ☾ ☾

Shota cringes at the level of Hizashi’s tone as he introduces the start of the Sports Festival, boisterous, excited and so f*cking loud.

He swears his eardrums are going to burst. At the announcer's spot, all the way at the top, everyone looks far too small, huddled together, like they’re being shoved into one tiny spot, a bunch of little lab rats to be observed. He recognises the heroes—Mount Lady and Kamui Woods heading for the vendors, Midnight chatting with Cementoss by the announcer’s stand. He’s sure there are representatives too, underlings who go in favour of the heroes themselves. His eyes subconsciously drift to a head of green hair, far away from the hustle and bustle of everyone else. Distinguishable even in such a large crowd. Most of the students are waiting by the designated locker rooms, but Midoriya's never been grouped with 'most'.

He seems to be escorting his guests near to where the students sit, secluded, the seats by them unoccupied.

Dabi and Toga.

He isn’t sure what to make of them. Midoriya reacted kindly to them, the way he would to Kaminari, to Shota’s son the passing times he’d see them hanging out during lunch breaks and after school. He isn’t sure what to make of them, because they look like broken kids from f*cked up families. The type of kids who seek vengeance before comfort, before compromise and peace, before all else.

“What’re you staring at?” Hizashi comes up behind him, done with introducing the basic premise of the Sports Festival as more people flood in.

“Midoriya’s guests are the two people we met at the hospital,” Shota says. Hizashi nods like that explains everything. Shota likes that he can speak without talking; that he can make a point without spelling things out. Hizashi is smart like that, smart with Shota.

“They sure were interesting.” Gentle hands move to Shota’s waist, hugging him from behind and resting a chin on his shoulder. “What do you think of them?”

“I think they look like the kids I lock up in juvenile detention centres,” Shota says truthfully.

Hizashi makes a contemplative noise.

“And Midoriya?”

Shota stiffens a little, before going lax under his husband’s touch again.

“He does too,” Shota admits. “I’m still unsure about him.”

Hesitancy. One of Shota’s greatest fears, one of humanity's worst faults. Hesitate, and the bullet meets its target. Hesitate, and there’s blood on your hands.

“And Hitoshi?”

Ah.

There it is.

“That’s different.”

“It is,” Hizashi acknowledges, letting go of Shota and instead moving to stand in front of him, blocking his view of Midoriya who looks to be walking away from his friends. “But not for the reasons I assume you’re thinking of.”

‘Hitoshi is our son,’ is what Shota thinks, ‘he is family. He is good.’

Hizashi looks up at him, soft eyes the colour of freshly grown red roses. “The truth is they scare you because they remind you of, well, you. They remind you of Hitoshi when we first met him, of me when…when he died.”

Broken; beyond repair; spiteful; hateful; scared.

They remind him of him when he’d climb rooftops and stare at the stars and wonder what it’d feel like to fall. Of his son, when he’d wake up thrashing, hands wrapped around his throat, too afraid to speak. Of his husband, drowning himself in liquor and intoxication, frightened and so painfully lost.

They remind him of the kids on the streets that seek vengeance before all else.

The people he loves and loved. The person he was, the person he could’ve been.

“How do you think they met each other?” Shota asks, dignifying no response.

Hizashi smiles.

“I don’t know.” He turns back to the mic, soon everyone will be seated and the proper introduction will begin. “Why does it matter anyway?”

‘They remind me of the kids on the streets that seek vengeance before all else.’

“I guess it doesn’t.” (It shouldn’t.)

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku waits patiently by the hallway for Mei to show up. She’d been adamant about adding ‘final touches’ to his equipment, already giving him a run down as to how they worked the previous day.

“Freckles!” a familiar, far too loud voice shouts. Izuku looks up to find the devil herself, decked out in the gym uniform, startlingly different to her usual apparel of overalls and a tank top. Still, in true Mei fashion, there’s a smear of soot on her face.

“Hi.” Izuku sits off the wall and points to her face. “You got something on your nose.”

Mei merely shrugs before shoving the things in her hands towards Izuku, who nearly drops everything in her haste.

“Okay, so first, change into the shoes.” She points to the identical pair of red high-tops she’d given him, far less damaged and dirtied than his own. “The soles have a little more height to them, they absorb impact with the padding, and they’re steel-toed.”

She folds her arms and taps her feet, impatient.

“Well?” She gestures haphazardly.

“Now?”

“Yes, now,” she huffs. “Put them on.”

Placing the other items on the floor, Izuku quickly undoes his shoes for the ones she played with. They’re a perfect fit, lighter on his ankles. When he touches the toes together, they make a sound.

“They’re good?”

“Perfect,” Izuku answers honestly. Mei beams up at him.

“f*ck yeah! As for the other things. Your knife is more or less the same. I've adjusted the handle to be more rubbery to keep your grip from slipping when your palms start to sweat, and I’ve accented it with green to fit your whole vibe. Oh, also! If you click this little button, the blade will pop out, so you can use it as a throwing knife. Just take into account that the blade is nowhere near as small and delicate as an actual throwing knife, so it probably won’t be the most accurate shot. There are two other blades stocked in the holder, which slide open if you twist it down the middle, in case you lose the first one. Even though they are, technically, smaller and better to throw, I say keep that as a last resort.”

Izuku snaps his wrist, the knife flicking open in a smooth motion. True to her word, there is a little black button right before the hilt. He clicks it and the blade falls right out.

Izuku throws the knife at the wall opposite them with little effort, grinning when the blade embeds itself right into the concrete.

“Damn, Freckles,” Mei whistles. Izuku walks over to pull the knife out, clicking it back into place. He twists open the holder at the little seam and finds two other, somewhat smaller blades compacted into a little space.

“This is sick, Mei.”

“I know.”

Mei jogs over to him and hands him a belt with little holsters, most full.

“This is to keep your weapons and the little metal balls are the flashbangs we worked on. You know how those work.”

Izuku nods. It had taken trial and error—explosions, fire, three showers and what definitely was mild concussion—but they’d finally managed to create little bombs that emitted sudden light followed by a slight grey smoke, disorienting enough to anyone unsuspecting.

“And then, the bo-staff.” Mei hands over the final item. “Collapsible and can be pulled apart if you click either of the buttons at the centre seam, just as we intended. It extends if you click the other buttons on the ends, but you have to whip it, the same way you flick open your knife, simultaneously. To shorten it, just push the ends back into themselves keeping your finger on the button, like luggage handles. To put it back together, twist it when you connect the ends until you hear a clicking noise. They're thicker at the ends to deal heavier blows if you were to swing them like a baseball bat, but the metal is reinforced tungsten, so they should withstand almost all pressure.”

She’s rushing, speaking too fast, her excitement palpable.

“I’m very glad I met you,” Izuku murmurs, more to himself than the girl, admiring the matte-black stick and weaving it around.

Mei laughs, a hearty sound right from her belly.

“Same here, Freckles. Don’t forget to advertise my babies, yeah? A girl’s gotta impress the scouts in the audience.” She winks. “I’m off to wear my gear. Catch you later!”

═════════ ☻ ═════════

In the comfort of himself, he pretends he is innocent. That the weapons and time and blood that were shed are all for the goodness of heroism, for measly sparring and gunning for first place in a competition made for the praiseworthy and the strong.

In the comfort of his lies, he pretends he cares.

An innocence that's been long forgotten for the promise of survival.

And in the comfort of himself, he pretends he is an honest person.

Shoto

☾ ☾ ☾

Shoto stares at his classmates. Like this, they pretend to be equal. ‘Level the playing field’ as the teachers had put it. All in the same uniform, with little to no modifications to accommodate for their physiques and quirks the way their hero costumes are.

Well…mostly. A few students are exempted from that, like Aoyama and his belt, Bakugo and his wrist weights, Sato and his strap of sugar packets, and Midoriya and his multitude of support items. He isn’t with Gen-Ed, for reasons Shoto’s unaware of. He hadn’t changed with them in the locker rooms, though. Shoto’s sure he would’ve seen him—not that he himself changes in the locker rooms—but he’s here now, in the waiting area, leaning against an empty locker as Kaminari ties his shoes.

Iida walks up to him, stiff and strict.

“Midoriya-san.” He bows in greeting.“I must ask, are that many items allowed to be—”

“They are,” Midoriya cuts him off, “as long as they’re student-made and I file the right papers. If you’re so unsure, ask Katsuki or Aoyama.” Midoriya takes a deep breath, adding, "Is there a reason you only approached me when it's obvious other students have support items too? Or are you a bigot?"

Iida sputters, put off by the brusqueness in his voice, much to Shoto’s befuddlement.

Midoriya's never been nice to them. Always too cautious, calloused, cold. Different from Shoto's frigidness, the ice in his veins and on his skin. Midoriya reminded him of blizzards before he did of frozen lakes. The kind of unrelenting cold that rains on you, that blinds you, that sweeps you away. The kind that melts under your feet and wets your skin and hair.

"If you're not going to f*cking answer, go away."

Iida, red cheeks and engines making a quiet noise—like they're begging to be let loose—does.

Assessing everyone objectively, Midoriya is one of the weakest. (Though Shoto's gaze finds Mineta first.) He’d revealed no quirk, and most probably honing a mental one. He’s small, fragile-looking, and tired. The kind of tiredness that makes him look like he'll collapse and never wake up.

Assessing everyone objectively, Midoriya is one of the least likely to win.

Assessing everything objectively, Midoriya would not surpass Shoto.

Yet, as vivid as the nightmares plaguing his sleep of the day his mother was taken away, Shoto remembers the USJ. He remembers Midoriya, treating broken arms like minor nuisances as he runs towards the purple monster that towered over everyone. He remembers, watching with horror, with fascination, as brain matter and blood sprayed him; watched as Midoriya smiled, a dangerous smile, the glint of his fangs, and the dented knife in his grip.

Assessing everything objectively, Midoriya would not surpass Shoto. This isn't ego or arrogance, it's an evidential conclusion. One that even Midoriya would agree to if he contemplated it, surely.

Yet, there’s this urge, this need, a part of Shoto so dire to be satiated by telling Midoriya himself, by hearing his...confirmation. (Not quite. Shoto doesn't want a confirmation; doesn't need one. He wants a reaction, a response, to look into those green, green eyes and think 'Oh, this is what fire is, raw and burning and nothing like the red and orange flames that have burned me for a decade.')

And so, Shoto does.

“Midoriya,” Shoto addresses him, forgoing formality. Midoriya looks up at him, gesturing for him to continue.

“Objectively, I am stronger than you, in terms of practical strength at the very least, aren’t I?” Shoto’s always found it hard to speak, to articulate his thoughts in a way that made sense to others. With Midoriya, his words come to him easily, though they're bordered with harshness strong like the iron bars of a prison cell.

Midoriya hums in agreement. This should be enough. It is not. Shoto keeps speaking.

“You’ve never used your quirk, either.”

He waits for a reaction. Midoriya gives him none.

“You’ve captured Nezu-sama’s attention, that much is obvious,” he states, “and I do not care much to pry into that.”

He waits for a reaction. Midoriya gives him none.

“Regardless of all that.” He finds he’s fisting his hands and makes a conscious effort to relax. “I’m going to beat you.”

Kaminari makes a noise, wrapping an arm around Midoriya’s shoulder, tone teasing if a little nervous. “What’s this, another declaration of war?”

“C’mon, man.” Kirishima sets his arm on Shoto’s shoulder, freshly healed to ensure he does his best at the Sports Festival. ('No excuses’, Enji had said, healing all his wounds so Shoto couldn’t use them as justifications for his ‘sh*tty performance’.) “What’s up with the sudden hostility? And right before the start—”

“I’m not here to make friends or seem amiable.” Shoto shrugs off the hand.

Still, Midoriya offers no reaction, nothing Shoto can discern.

Shoto feels like screaming.

‘Say something. React. Show me that smile. Show me you're dangerous.’

In a half-assed answer to Shoto’s desperation, he speaks.

“Newsflash.” Izuku Midoriya's eyes look dull, like his determination, the manic gleam, is lost, somewhere; hidden. A diseased part of Shoto wants to find it. He doesn’t know why—or does he? Something about Midoriya is intriguing and horrible and he doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t scare him. Instead, he craves it. "Everyone here is trying their hardest.” Midoriya steps forward, and Kaminari’s hand on his shoulder tightens. There’s something undoubtedly bitter about his tone.

He turns to Kaminari, and gently grips his face, “Denki, is trying his hardest.” He drops Kaminari's face and shuffles to his side. “Shinso is trying his hardest. The annoying f*ckers in the other classes and other departments are trying their hardest. Your, stupid, self-obsessed declaration is more than pitiful.”

Shoto bristles. The worst part isn't the words, the truth they hold or the way they sting. It’s his tone, the lack of conviction, of heat. It’s striking all the same, but Shoto feels himself burning and freezing over at the unperturbed way he’s addressed. He wants to see the heat, he wants to be vindicated; stripped; violated.

“Oh,” is all Shoto can whisper. He keeps his stance strong, back straight, head held high. He thinks Bakugo clicks his tongue, almost like a reprimand, but it falls to the background noise of the crowds before the doors and the lockers being gently shut; falls to the background noise of his raging heartbeat.

Midoriya looks at him a little closer. Steps into his space For a second, Shoto swears his heart stops. For a second, he swears, Midoriya’s eyes burn.

“C’mon,” Kaminari says, a little placating, a little in awe, “it’s time for us to walk up.”

Assessing everyone subjectively, Midoriya is perhaps the strongest.

Denki

❂ ❂ ❂

Denki notes that Izuku stays behind as his class heads for the doors. Though he was ordered to remain with them up until this point, he knew Izuku would’ve preferred 1-C for the lack of attention. Denki keeps his pace to match the lazy drag of Izuku’s footsteps.

It’s interesting, the declarations of war. Once from a friend, once from a class, and now from a boy.

“Everything good with you?” Denki asks, bending over a little to be heard over the chatter and steadily growing noise of the crowd. He can hear Mic-Sensei announce for them the same way one would brag about their trophy sets. He isn’t sure how to feel about it, being a spectacle for an incident he never asked to live through, for surviving where he’d yet committed to die. Or maybe he knew he always would, following an unforgiving path with a body that seizes at every corner.

Izuku hums.

“I don’t think Todoroki really cared about the declaration,” Izuku admits to him. He’d been talking more often, Denki noticed. Longer sentences, tone less robotic and conversation flowing more smoothly. “Not the way Shinso did.”

“No?”

“It didn't feel like he was desperate to win." Izuku's lips curl like he's thought up something terribly amusing. It makes Denki fear for Todoroki and his future interactions with Izuku. "You don't look at someone like that if you're thinking about beating them."

'Like that?'

Denki thinks it over and tries to remember the subtleties of Todoroki's behaviour, the way he stared Izuku down. (Was he staring at Izuku with contempt? Was he staring down at him at all?)

'How did he stare at him? What was he so desperate for if not to be number 1? Attention? Lust? Acknowledgement? To be heard? To be able to speak with so much venom it sounded almost sweet?'

“Like what?'

Izuku grins, then, showing off a sliver of his tawny teeth, eyes like slits and shining with what Denki swears is excitement.

'Oh?'

"Like he's waiting to be eaten alive, don't you think?"

The doors to the stadium are pushed open and out walks 1-A. The deafening roar of the crowd is both exciting and frightening. Denki's heart beats a little too fast, movements shaky. His eyes dart around, catching the familiar heads of blonde and black hair belonging to his siblings. He almost waves at them, before settling for a smile that he hopes they can see. They then move to Todoroki, standing as one of the first in line, calm and cool-headed.

Todoroki’s gaze is settled on the ground, refusing to look at the audience. His father is one of the more obvious heroes sitting on the bleachers, arms folded, chin raised; haughty.

“I don’t know,” Denki says truthfully.

It’s times like these when Izuku feels omniscient; feels truly, frighteningly dangerous as if he has all the secrets to the universe cupped in his callous palms. It’s at times like these that he feels only a little less human.

A hand slips into his, squeezing, and Denki squeezes back. Izuku’s eyes are on the crowd, looking for someone.

He’s trembling.

Denki follows his line of vision and sees both Dabi and Toga, following it down to where 3 pretty middle-aged women are seated in the front rows, a younger kid with them, jumping up and down and waving his arms wildly.

Izuku moves closer to the bleachers with Denki until they're close enough to hear what the little kid is saying. No one notices them slip into the 1-C line.

“Aniki!” the little boy is screaming. “Aniki!”

Subtly, Izuku raises his free hand and waves back. The kid screeches, before throwing himself at the woman with midnight hair. His smile is wide, cheeks flushed and black bounding as he shakes with excitement.

“That’s Akatani,” Izuku whispers to him, “and those are his mothers, Ayako-san, Yuka-sama, and Mika-san.”

Oh!The little nine-year-old boy who upstarted Izuku and Denki’s friendship.

“He’s cute.” Denki smiles, and teases, “And he calls you Aniki.”

Izuku blushes, tan skin taking on a cherry tint as he sends Denki a heatless glare.

“Shut up.”

It’s times like these when he remembers Izuku is human. Izuku is his friend, loving and sweet and crude and aloof. He blushes, smiles, loves and hates and is good.

“Hey,” a different voice pipes up behind them. Denki jumps, startled.

“Hi, Shinso,” Izuku greets, undisturbed.

“sh*t, that scared me. You’re picking up on Izuku’s habits,” Denki mumbles. Shinso snorts, leaning a casual arm on Denki’s shoulder.

“You know, your class is why everyone’s here,” Shinso tells him, “makes me feel a little jealous, I’ll be honest.”

Denki’s grip on Izuku’s hand tightens.

“I wish I could trade places with the other students,” Denki confesses, “like, we really didn’t ask to almost die.”

Shinso’s hand on his shoulder slips off, the faux co*ckiness in his expression shifting into something more awkward and embarrassed.

“sh*t...umm...sorry man. Didn’t mean it like that.”

Denki huffs, plastering on a small smile. “It’s fine. I know you didn’t.” He takes Shinso by the side and wraps an arm around his waist, un-intertwining his fingers with Izuku and doing the same, sandwiching himself in between them. He likes it like this. Likes them, like that.

“Anyways, when are they going to be done with the introductions?” he whines. He feels like he’s been standing forever.

“Right about now. Midnight-Sensei is walking to the stage,” Izuku answers.

Denki lifts his head, and indeed, walking right up to the podium, is Midnight-Sensei, clad in her raunchy, skin-tight costume, hair let loose. Denki’s cheeks burn a little red; he notices many of the audience and predominantly male students are ogling her too.

“Why is an 18+ sex-advocate heroine our announcer? We’re a high school,” Shinso mutters, completely unaffected.

‘Oh, the power of his gay.’

Denki feels Izuku shrug. “I mean, she’s a teacher. And it’s not like she’s showing skin, per se.”

“Yeah, but she’s using a whip. “

“An introduction for potential future BDSM users?”

Both Shinso and Denki snort.

“Now, time for the freshman representative to step up!” Midnight announces with the crack of her whip. Denki stills.

“Rep?”

“Katsuki Bakugo, please come to the stage.”

Izuku stiffens and Shinso lets out a dry laugh.

Denki groans, “Seriously? Him? Shouldn’t the representative be someone who acts at least mildly heroic?”

Katsuki

✷ ✷ ✷

Katsuki walks up to the mic with confidence and swagger. He’s so sure of himself, of his talent, his bravado.

He’s sure he’s going to win. He’s going to win with everyone’s f*cking knives pressing against his throat, threatening to kill him.

It’s always going to be all or nothing.

“Sensei,” he speaks into the mic, keeping his hands in his pockets, “I’m going to place first.”

Immediately, the students erupt, all booing and upset. His classmates yell at him for dragging them down. It doesn’t matter. They’re nothing but words.

He wants action. He wants pain, fists, kicks, and fire.

Ambition.

“And you’ll all make wonderful placemats for me.”

He wants them to hate him so much that they’ll fight. He wants to make sure they’ll fight with everything they've got. Who gives a f*ck if they're quirkless, useless, powerful, or weak? He wants their eyes to gleam with the same malice he sees in his reflection.

With that, he walks off. Extras are yelling this and that about sh*t that doesn’t f*cking matter. Going on about how they’re going to knock him off his high horse, how they’re going to bury him in the ground, all a load of bullsh*t and bark.

He almost grins.

He wants them to.

He dares them to.

He really f*cking does.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“He’s changed,” Izuku voices aloud, as Denki exaggeratedly talks about how annoying it is that Katsuki keeps wrapping up the entirety of Class 1-A in his arrogance and overconfidence.

Shinso pauses his witty retort to Denki’s dramatics, and Denki pauses his dramatics, to stare at Izuku.

“Who?”

“Katsuki.” Izuku flexes his fingers. “He’s changed. The person I remember would’ve shouted some bullsh*t about his quirk, his strength, his power.”

“He claimed first place before the matches even began,” Shinso points out dryly. "And what do you mean ‘he’s changed’?”

“I knew him when we were kids,” Izuku offers vaguely, fighting back memory after memory. His life, his future and his past, they’re dead to him.

Why should they matter, for a life soon to be short-lived?

Denki looks up, horrified. “You mean he used to be worse?”

Izuku nods.

“He isn’t being arrogant, he’s making sure that whoever pairs against him...” Izuku’s eyes move to Katsuki only to find them staring back at him, wicked and in warning, “...is going to give it their everything.”

Denki straightens his posture and turns to look at Katsuki too. The blonde is already looking away, shrugging off his classmates who reprimand him for his speech.

“What a conniving bastard.” Shinso’s voice is severe; dry.

“He isn’t a sore loser,” Izuku continues, brushing over Shinso’s remark, “but he can be a sore winner. I don't mean braggadocious, but that, if he wins and he thinks his opponent was approaching him half-assed, he won't accept it. It's got to be all or nothing, always."

⚬⚬⚬

Six-year-old Izuku groans, head throbbing where he’d been shoved face-first into a wall. Kacchan challenged him to a one-on-one when Izuku got the best spelling score out of everyone.

“That’s enough, Kacchan,” he sniffles, “it hurts.”

Kacchan doesn’t relent, palms sparking in a warning. The kids with him laugh when Izuku flinches and hits the wall again. His punches aren’t that strong, but Izuku’s small, too skinny, and he still has bruises from his Daddy and the other mean kids at school.

“Pathetic.” The explosions die down, and Katsuki walks away. “It’s not even fun anymore. What a worthless fight.”

⚬⚬⚬

“And no one likes a worthless fight.”

‘Isn’t that right, Katsuki?’

Chapter 15: victory is ingrained in our diamond smiles.

Chapter Text

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“What an interesting speech!” Midnight cracks her whip, not missing a beat and drawing the attention back to her and off of Katsuki. Izuku grimaces at the blushing faces of some of the spectators.

Understandable, but no less uncomfortable.

“Now, as for the first tournament, we have...” She points at the enormous billboard. It starts to flicker, screen-colour changing accompanied by the obnoxious sounds Izuku remembers vaguely from those game shows where they spin the wheel. It ticks and ticks and ticks and then stops, the sound of ‘ding, ding, ding’ accompanying the bold words flashing on the screen.

“Obstacle race!”

There are whoops and cheers as the crowd rages. Izuku finds it comical that there are people who believe in the ‘randomness’ of the selection. Of the extensive vocabulary Izuku has regarding Yuuei and Nezu, random is certainly not one of them.

“It’s a game between each and every class!” She gestures to the gates being slid open automatically, showing off an insane field that goes past Izuku’s eye.

“You’ll each have to get through five unknown obstacles and cross the finish line! Though you’re free to be as creative as you like to get through, know that anyone who steps out of Cementoss’ boundary is out! And don’t even think of trying to cheat! Even a toe out of the line and Present Mic will immediately get an alert, disqualifying you instantly.

“Outside of that, it’s free reign! Yuuei prides itself on its preaching of freedom, so everything’s up in the air!”

Shinso scoffs, "Freedom? They’re aware that quirk-use during practicals for the hero students isn’t ‘freedom’, right?”

Izuku nods. “Kids at my middle and elementary school used their quirks all the time.”

“Maybe they mean legal freedom?”

Midnight’s voice deafens Denki to Shinso’s rebuke.

“Alright students, we’ll give you a few minutes to stretch while we set up the finish line!”

Izuku pulls Denki and Shinso aside as students slowly start to crowd the gate.

“How about we work together?” he suggests. “It’ll be getting across quicker.” Though an intelligent idea—he knows Shinso and Denki enough to be able to utilise them fairly well—it sounds weird off his tongue. Izuku’s unused to reliability. Even with Dabi, their relationship started off clinically, something that stemmed from a take, give, take, take and Izuku’s irrational sympathy for pathetic homeless kids who wanted to live. There was never a basis for dependency because Izuku never depended on Dabi and Dabi didn't feel tied down to Izuku despite the dependancy.

Izuku is used to callusing his hands and his hands alone.

“I don’t know,” Shinso answers nervously, wringing his fingers.

“I say absolutely.” Denki sounds far more confident when replying, wrapping an arm around Izuku’s shoulders. He leans into him, playfully caressing his cheek. “How could I not want to team up with you, honey?”

Izuku swats off his hand, lips twitching, though his fond expression falls when he catches Shinso’s frown.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Shin,” Izuku reassures. It sounds a little apathetic, even to his ears, and he suppresses a wince. Now that he has friends Izuku really should find some time to practise his tone.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Shinso denies, “it’s just that...isn’t this every student for themself?”

Izuku can’t help but blink at him dumbly, Denki—for once—reciprocating the look.

“Who said that?” Denki blurts.

“Look at your classmates,” Shinso deadpans, gesturing to the 1-A and 1-B members. Izuku supposes he has a point. Observationally, at least, most of the students look ready to tear each other by the throat. A hum of anticipation drums in Izuku’s fingers at the near-predatory gleam in some of the students’ eyes. It must look intimidating, to the other classes, watching the Hero Course students stretch, bend their limbs, and flicker their quirks as they warm up.

Izuku finds it riveting. He can’t wait to rip them apart; to show them what it feels like to cower under someone’s boot; to force them to strike out; to overexert themselves. He needs to frighten them enough to get them to make him feel like he’s in danger. He'll come after them with every intention to maim them so they'll meet his threat with threat. He hears his bloodlust whisper at him softly and stomps out the noise before it can grow into a roar. (This is not a cage.)

This was an opportunity to ruin them, not to instil the casual fear of death. They are not Izuku, they are not depraved, worthless, violent monsters in human skin. They do not crave that fear.

“And? They do them. I do me. You do you. Who gives a flying f*ck?”

Izuku agrees, snaking an arm around Denki’s waist and pulling him flush against him.

“So, do you want to work together?”

Hitoshi

⛧ ⛧ ⛧

Hitoshi says yes because he likes Midoriya and Kaminari and he wants to work with them. There’s also this annoying tug in his gut whenever Kaminari and Midoriya are a little too close. He doesn’t understand why, he knows they’re friends, he knows he’s their friend. He even looked up queerplatonic relationships the night they told him about their relationship to have a better grasp on their dynamic. He understands it. (Perhaps a little too strongly considering how he’d only known them for a month. But he thinks it's alright. Only a month feels like a year with them. Feels like forever. Isn't that what matters?)

Still, they’ll always be a tad bit closer, if only because they knew each other longer. Watching as Kaminari wraps himself around Midoriya, as Midoriya pulls him in, familiar displeasure washes over Hitoshi.

He thinks, maybe, hopefully, their relationship will grow altogether into that intimate closeness, that it's already reaching and bridging over. But at the moment, Kaminari likes Midoriya, and when Midoriya smiles at him his eyes look warm. And at the moment, Kaminari likes Midoriya.

⚬⚬⚬

“Are you guys dating?”

Kaminari jumps a little, flushing. Hitoshi’s stomach coils when he sees a similar tint on Izuku’s face. It doesn't help when taking into account how un-expressive he tends to be.

“No?” He sounds uncertain. Hitoshi can’t help but deadpan.

‘No? The hell does that mean?’

“That didn’t sound so sure.”

He wants them to be sure. He wants to be told that they aren’t dating, that they aren’t romantically involved. He wants that stupid part of him that started growing a little too fond of Kaminari to be grabbed by the wrist and thrust into a landscape of tall grass and beautiful flowers. He wants to be Midoriya's friend. He believed he'd come to terms with depravity fitting him like a second skin, and yet the unwarranted envy he has brewing for Midoriya is so difficult to push away.

“It’s not that we're dating.”

They intertwine their fingers and Hitoshi can’t help but think they’re lying.

“We’re not interested in each other like that, or, at least, I don’t think so.”

Kaminari nods. Still, his grip on Midoriya’s hand tightens, and he leans impossibly closer to him.

“Okay yeah, so it’s not that. But I definitely value Denki more than I would someone I only shared platonic feelings for.”

“I can’t imagine myself being romanticwith Zuku, but, unlike my relationship with Mina or Kirishima or Sero, I’m more hands-on and comfortable. My feelings for him exceed that of strictly platonic, but aren’t romantic either.”

That nickname too. Zuku. Everything about them is endearing.

Hitoshi really can’t believe it. For no actual reason other than. He can’t bring himself to believe. Sureness or otherwise, hope is a dangerous promise for people like him to have.

He can't afford a second heartbreak.

⚬⚬⚬

Hitoshi can't shake it. Kaminari likes Midoriya. Hitoshi knows better than to let the impudent jealousy bother him. They assured him that they were not romantically involved and would not grow to be, and they've repeatedly given Hitoshi the impression that their friendship with him is growing deeper than the surface level of what was platonic. But, even Hitoshi knew that the bond they shared would never be shared with him.

And...it's...just...well there's something so intangible about Kaminari.

Hitoshi blames his dads. They’re his only role models for a healthy relationship, a relationship he wants—something he almost had.

Hitoshi’s always had a pathetic soft spot for dorky morons who are a tad too energetic.

He reminds him of ◼️◼͉️̴͜◼️͍̐̿◼͎̕͢️̴͓◼͎̊️.

“Ready!”

Midnight’s voice startles him out of his thoughts. He ignores the squeeze of his heart when he catches Kaminari nuzzling Midoriya’s cheek with his nose. He says something to Midoriya, and the latter huffs out a laugh, elbowing him lightly.

“On your marks!”

Hitoshi deliberately looks away and bends his knees. A hand around his waist catches him before he can run. He stumbles forward, almost face-planting. Midoriya’s voice by his ear sends a shiver down his spine and Kaminari’s hands on his shoulder make his stomach churn.

"Go!"

Hitoshi can't run.

“Not yet,” Midoriya whispers, arm sliding off. Kaminari’s hand is still on his shoulder, and he pulls him in so they’re back to chest. The students swarm the gate.

“I know they said five obstacles, but they really mean six.” Midoriya points at the students, crowded by the gate, shoving against each other.

Kaminari lets go of him. Hitoshi does doesn't miss it. “Besides, we also have my classmates.”

Before Hitoshi can ask what he means, there’s a loud sound, like whipping wind, and an iceberg taller than the students starts for the gate like a wave, trapping most of the participants.

“A strong start from Shoto Todoroki, taking the lead and leaving his opponents frozen, literally!”

Mic's commentary is a pan-against-the-head-slam realisation to Hitoshi.

The hero course students are racing with them.

“I’m going to try the crowd.” Midoriya takes off in a run, Kaminari at his tail. Hitoshi takes a second to catch himself before he’s off too, thanking his long legs for keeping him up to speed.

What Midoriya said only registers then.

“Did he say he's going to try the crowd?!”

Kaminari turns his head to him and grins; a wicked, wild one. Hitoshi’s neck burns.

'He's been spending too much time with Midoriya.'

“Watch him.”

Hitoshi does, looking over to where Midoriya’s ahead of them by a few paces. The students are still struggling, but Midoriya isn’t. He jumps into a handstand and pushes up, landing on a trapped student's shoulders. The people under him yelp, disgruntled as Midoriya crawls on top of them, pushing forward. He wrestles and struggles—an uneven crowd of people from all different heights is surely not something easy to walk over—but doesn’t fall or slip back. Kaminari whistles, impressed.

“We’re not doing that,” Hitoshi sweatdrops.

Kaminari laughs, “Of course, not. We just run on the outskirts, and then squeeze through the corners.”

Hitoshi sighs, audibly, and follows Kaminari's lead. Thanks to his slim frame, it's easy to weave through the students still stuck in Todoroki's ice. Midoriya jumps off the last person by pushing himself into another headstand and flipping off. The student gives him lip about it, but Midoriya’s glare shuts him up quickly. There are already countless students ahead of them, mostly from the hero course.

“Hurry up, the ice is bound to melt soon.” Midoriya’s fast despite his stature, forcing Hitoshi to push his legs. His momentum works for him just as they reach their first obstacle—hurdles. Stupidly tall hurdles, nearing ten feet in the air, with countless grooves in the brick. They stretch to the boundary line. There are remnants of Todoroki’s ice, water droplets, and scorch marks from explosions all up the wall as proof of the students' efforts and attempts. A girl with short auburn hair is literally floating above them.

“Shinso,” Midoriya orders him, nodding to the girl with auburn hair who’s almost at the top, “brainwash her and get her to use her quirk on you. It’s your best chance. Kaminari and I have this figured out.”

Without doubting him, Hitoshi yells out, “Hey, you! Girl with the really pink cheeks! Don’t you think you should watch out?!”

The girl whips her head around, confused. "Watch out for what?"

Hitoshi has her, like a faint thread tethering her head to his heart. He grips it and weaves it with his fingers. The girl is immediately vulnerable to him, floating aimlessly.

“Come down here.” She lets go of her fingers and drops. Hitoshi quickly moves to grab her before she can hit the ground. Still, she’s under his control.

“Take us both over the hurdles using your quirk,” he demands of her. She nods blankly, pupils shifting back and forth at an alarming rate. Her hand touches his shoulder and then himself. In a second he feels weightless, bones hollow and blood thin. She seems to struggle a little, so Hitoshi grabs her waist, sure to remain gentle, and kicks off the tops of the hurdles to push them forward with quicker momentum. He feels like he’s swimming in the air. It’s around ten hurdles, and they fly over them with ease. He catches Kaminari and Midoriya, using each other to climb over the hurdles. Kaminari is steady when he stands on Midoriya’s shoulders, and they barely sweat as they lift each other up and over like acrobats, their slimmer and lighter frames aiding them well. It's flawless and obviously practised.

“Oh, oh, oh! Look at this! Students pairing up?! You rarely see it in this competition!”

Hizashi sounds like he’s gleaming.

Hitoshi sort of hates how the first thing his mind runs to is 'when'. As in, when did they practise such a move together?They train together on the school grounds and Hitoshi's never seen this act. All they've been is brutal with swinging fists, purple bruises and spilt, syrupy blood. But they've never lifted each other into the air, stood on each other's shoulders and fallen to the ground in a perfect crouch.

Hitoshi swallows down the uncomfortable tightness in his throat at the confirmation that they’ve hung out together and trained without him—that’s the only explanation for that practised coordination. It’s only natural that they’ve hung out lonesome. Hitoshi speculated it; they knew each other months before Hitoshi integrated himself into their little group. Denki knew Dabi, had met him, and had a better read on Izuku's life as Izuku does his. But it was the sort of thing Hitoshi knew without trying to think about. He can't deny it if he's seeing it before him, though.

“And Todoroki takes the lead again with that beautiful quirk control. It seems that most of 1-A is in the lead! What the heck are you feeding them Aizawa?!”

“They’ve already faced stronger opponents. They know not to hesitate.”

Quicker than Hitoshi anticipated, they reach the end, and the girl sets them down.

“Walk away,” he instructs. The girl casually walks towards the next obstacle, alien in comparison to students who’re sprinting with everything they can, shoving past her in a hurry to win. Hitoshi’s eyes bulge out of his skull when he sees what they’re running towards. It’s an expanse of water, an absurdly large man-made lake that looks like it cost way too much to build. He releases his quirk when he’s sure she won’t know who took control of her, sympathetic to her look of complete and utter confusion. The girl clutches her stomach like it hurts and bends over to throw up on the track the moment the thread between them snaps.

Hitoshi cringes and looks away. Quirk drawbacks are a bitch.

Midoriya and Kaminari jump off the last hurdle a few seconds later.

“Oh, damn. I should tell Aizawa that she needs to improve her endurance before her capacity,” Midoriya mumbles, grimacing at the vomit. “We’ll see to it later, let’s go.”

They hurry to the edge. Hitoshi bends his legs to leap—this close he can see footstools on the pillars for students that fall. The drop is deep and frightening-looking. A twenty-foot plunge, if he had to estimate, with sloped, somewhat steep hills instead of straightforward cliffs. The water is black, making it all the more terrifying.

“No,” Midoriya declares. His eyes dart around, landing on a large piece of melting ice. It seemed to have been connected to a bridge that Todoroki used to hurry from pillar to pillar. He runs over, picks it up, and slides it over to them, right before the drop.

“You can both swim, right?”

They nod. He smirks. Hit with an impossibly stupid idea, Midoriya takes a seat on the ice, and gestures for them to follow. Kaminari doesn’t even blink, wrapping his legs and arms around Midoriya and hugging him close. Hitoshi's too flabbergasted to feel jealous. They both look at him expectantly when he doesn't immediately follow up behind Kaminari.

"Seriously?"

Midoriya nods. "Dead."

Hitoshi makes a silent prayer and takes the end seat, holding Kaminari just as tightly as he was holding Midoriya, and stretching out his legs to wrap them around Midoriya as well, once again, too f*cking terrified to be aware of their proximity. He's gritting his teeth, the ice so f*cking cold he can feel it in his spine. Without warning, they’re pushed off. Hitoshi had, seemingly, underestimated how steep the hill was. He feels like they’re speeding, going too fast. The ice is slippery and he nearly falls off but his hold on Kaminari and Midoriya anchors him. Still, the ice keeps melting, so they keep going faster. There’s a small slope at the end of the hill that takes them into the air before they’re thrown into the water, the slab of ice hitting and jumping the lake like a skipping stone before eventually coming to a float in the middle.

“We’ve never seen that before folks! These kids are wild!”

“They’re something.”

“Come on, swim,” Midoriya encourages, sliding off the ice and diving into the water. It’s dark and a little cold, the pull of Hitoshi’s uniform slowing him down. He’s the last of them to reach the end, Kaminari helping him out.

“Do it,” Midoriya tells Kaminari, upon noting some of the students following in their footsteps. Depending on your quirk, Hitoshi supposes swimming fifty feet is more convenient than attempting and failing the jumps. Hitoshi doesn’t know what ‘it’ is until Kaminari touches a finger on the water. Rivulets of electricity dance along the surface, immobilising the few students inside and turning off those who were tempted to try.

“Let’s climb,” Midoriya then says, as the students groan and start their ascent on the other end, prolonging their time.

Hitoshi's immensely grateful for the hellish regimen both his dad and Midoriya put him through. A year ago he barely would have been able to make it halfway up the hill before collapsing.

Midoriya is, of course, the first out, helping Kaminari up, and Hitoshi right after. Soaked to the bone and a little uncomfortable, Hitoshi enviously watches as Midoriya strips out of his shirt, still dressed in a tighter long-sleeved undershirt. There’s no need for prompting to keep running. They’re in a safe spot in the competition, now. The people ahead of them are most of the hero students, unsurprisingly, the lead students being Todoroki and the Bakugo kid, according to Hizashi.

“Another f*cking cliff!” Kaminari whines as they reach the third obstacle. It’s an endless-looking cavern, three times as menacing as the man-made lake drop and at least ten times as deep.

“We can’t do anything about it,” Midoriya poorly sympathises, patting his shoulder and going on. He steadies his arms and starts tight roping. The rope is stable, not shaking despite the many students on it. Kaminari is a lot less sure of his balance and monkey crawls along the bottom. Hitoshi follows Midoriya’s lead. Finding his centre of gravity and keeping steady was one of his first lessons with Aizawa, something he needed to excel at to have a fighting chance using the binding cloth as his signature weapon.

They’re all only slightly faster than the average contestant, getting ahead of a few 1-B members but falling behind the students with quirks that give them speed and grip. The students at the top just reach the next obstacle by the time they’re over the cavern.

There’s a loud sound, a shock of pink smoke, and a student is hurdled at their feet, shocking a yelp out of Kamimari and jolting Hitoshi. Midoriya is, as usual, unflinching. The student is dirt-stained, bruised and groaning. Parts of his skin are metal, his lashes white, thick and comically long, curling to his eyebrows and shadowing his cheeks.

“Oof, look like they’ve reached the minefield! 1-B's Testsutetsu took one hell of a hit!”

'Metal-Man must be Tetsutetsu then.'

Kaminari hisses, petting the metal man on his hair sympathetically and mumbling a 'Sorry, buddy' before they’re off.

They reach an expanse of land that looks like a plain desert. Midoriya pauses just before the sand, putting his arms out and turning to Kaminari and Hitoshi with a warning.

“Watch out for the—”

“Freckles!” a cheery voice cuts him off. “You’re quite the team! Most of the students from the non-hero courses are still at the big lake!”

“Genius,” Midoriya thrills. “Do you have a large scrap of metal? Or three?”

She nods, lighting up further. “I’ve been meaning to shove this off anyway.” She shrugs off the backpack she was wearing. Large slabs of metal that should not have fit in there sit at their feet, amongst loose screws, bolts and other parts.

“The hover-pack that took me across the cavern sputtered, and then some big oaf broke and flattened the metal when I was trying to kick it awake.”

Midoriya lifts the metal. It’s about the size of his abdomen. He toes the largest one to Hitoshi and the one right after to Kaminari.

“Point out that big oaf for me later on so I can thank him personally.”

“You got it, Freckles, and good luck with whatever you plan on doing. Remember not to die until you've shown off our babies!”

“Saving it for the versus rounds, if I make it.”

“You f*cking better.” She hip-bumps him and jumps, kicking her heels together. Her shoes hover across the ground, helping her make it across the field, though at a rather leisurely pace.

“You’re babies?!” Kaminari exclaims.

Midoriya rolls his eyes. “She means gadgets, moron.”

He grabs the metal and gathers the mines near each other, digging into the sand. Hitoshi and Kaminari mimic him unquestioningly. Midoriya’s leadership is subtle, but its presence is undeniable nonetheless. Hitoshi wants to listen; knows if he does then success is only a step closer.

Any hesitancy would lie in the hidden horror surrounding the concept of success; in the perspectives from which they look at it. To Hitoshi, success is making it. It’s becoming something, becoming someone, despite his crutches. The things about him that made him wrong, he’d work until they were what made him incredible. Hitoshi was a person weeded and watered with determination, spite, and the want to scream ‘f*ck you!’ to everyone while laughing at the disbelief on their faces. He wants to be the person promising children like him that it’s possible—heroism—despite the stereotypes imprinted on them like tattoos needled into their skin.

Hitoshi doesn’t like thinking about the meaning of success to someone like Midoriya. He is bastardised; is frightening; is wrong. He is persevered spite embodied, is the impossible. It's incredible, but it came at the cost of something that Hitoshi could never place. To Midoriya, success would be the blood shed in battle and the ache of his wounds, not the resolution. It would be the 'f*ck you!’ that reminded people of the personification of delusions and that hallucinations could come to life.

Hitoshi understands as Midoriya steps back, what his plan was.

“Ho-ho-ho? What is going on with our little triad?”

“You guys need to keep a strong grip, or you’ll slip and fall backwards."

The metal is cold against the wetness of his clothes, but Hitoshi hugs it to his chest like a pleasant childhood memory.

“I say three, we jump, slamming the metal plate. Angle it downwards so we’re not pushed back.”

Hitoshi would not call himself a religious man, but he makes another silent prayer nonetheless.

“One…two…three!”

In near-perfect sync, they slam against the abundance of mines they’d gathered in haste. Hitoshi feels the heat and is afraid it’s singing off his eyebrows. His legs sting and he’s sure there are a few tears in his pants where the metal doesn’t reach. He screams, feeling the wind whip around him. He's flying much faster than with the dollar store board they’d ridden into the lake. It pulls at his skin, and he presses his lips together to keep it from pulling back his mouth. Kaminari’s screaming bloody murder, though there's excitement in his tone too. Hitoshi, on the other hand, is questioning his life decisions and how he ended up like this.

Not that he minded it. At all.

“Look at them go! Talk about a show, ey Aizawa?”

“It’s a show, alright.”

“Hit the floor again keeping the plate at the same angle!” Midoriya yells. Hitoshi can hear his smile, the way he loves the fear that makes Hitoshi want to lock his bones and cower into a foetus position like a pathetic eleven-year-old all over again.

Shaking against the wind, he lifts his arms and slams the plate down just as he’s about to hit the sand, hard. He hears the mine blow, feels it again, far less painful and hot than the first blast with less power behind the explosion. When he hits the sand in a roll, it’s less than ten feet from the end of the obstacle. He lets go of the metal with a swing behind him, wincing as another mine is set off. The force of it stumbles Hitoshi's footing, nearly tripping him, but he’s quick to find his balance, narrowly dodging another lump in the sand right at the end of the course.

When his feet find solid ground, he pauses to heave, bending over, hands on his knees as the fatigue seeps into his bones. The heat and wind have half-dried his pants and his hair. He is sure he looks disgusting, parts of the wet fabric still clinging to his skin. Purple strands of his hair are stuck up every which way, mimicking frenzied scientists after an experiment gone wrong. At the opposite end of the spectrum, Kaminari's eyes are blown wide, his hair messy in a way that seemed effortless, smile broad despite his quivering lips. Sweat drips down his neck and across his forehead; it looks like he's glistening. Midoriya too. He pulls out his ponytail—which had been becoming undone with every obstacle—his hair cascading in a mess of curls that looked straight out of an oil painting. He brushes the bangs out of his face and reties his hair in a high ponytail, the tightness of his shirt showing off the stretch of his lithe—and surprisingly toned—figure. His eyes are hardened, his expression cool. His brutish scars only add to the appeal.

‘Seriously what the f*ck? Why don’t they look like sh*t? What in the goddamn nonsense?’

“Holy f*cking sh*t!” Kaminari exclaims.

“And with that move, Denki Kaminari from 1-A and Izuku Midoriya and Hitoshi Shinso from 1-C are in the top ten!”

“Holy f*cking sh*t,” Hitoshi reiterates, for an entirely different reason.

“We’ve still got one more obstacle, don’t celebrate too early.” Midoriya grabs them by the wrist, practically dragging them at his speed. Hitoshi understands stamina, but holy f*cking sh*t how is he not winded?

They reach the end. It’s a maze of plants, woven together vines in beautiful patterns, lined with flowers and thorns. They’re thick, thicker than Hitoshi’s entire body, and seem to slither, like snakes. The woven walls are almost 50 feet tall, far too tall for almost anyone to jump over.

“A f*cking labyrinth?”

Kaminari touches one of the vines and the thorns spring out, larger and sharper, almost like they’re glinting. The weeds move a little faster, before slowing down, over each other, protectingeach other. Despite the roar of the crowd—of Hizashi’s commentary and his over-exhausted heart—Hitoshi can hear the explosions being set in the maze and the curses that follow.

“Hah, Bakugo.” Kaminari snorts, knocking shoulders with Midoriya, who’d finally let go of their wrists

“It’s probably not just a maze.” Midoriya rolls his shoulders, bracing himself. “Let’s go, the other students are going to catch up soon.”

They enter, walking cautiously. Midoriya looks around and looks at the floor. They take their first turn, a right, and Hitoshi thinks, for a second, that maybe, hopefully, it’s just a normal maze they need to navigate and Midoriya's just being overly cautious.

Alas, this is Yuuei and that would be way too f*cking easy. As they take their first turn, something starts to slither up his leg. Hitoshi yelps, startling Midoriya and Kaminari. He stares down, horrified at the vines that are slowly making their way to his thighs.

“Get the f*ck off of me!” he yells, stomping it down with his other foot. A thorn catches his sole, stabbing through it and lightly grazing him. He flinches and pulls his foot off, helpless as the vine keeps climbing. Midoriya steps up and slams the toe of his shoe against the plant, hard enough that Hitoshi can feel it in his calf. He thinks, despite the thickness of the vine, that the force of it must've bruised his skin. The vine retracts, the thorns on the end that Midoriya hit hardening and growing. Hitoshi, afraid of getting stabbed, looks away like that'll magically prevent the plants from piercing his skin. There’s another thump, another potential bruise. He feels someone's hand cover his eyes. Their touch is gentle.

“Don’t worry,” Kaminari soothes him quietly, “Zuku’s almost got it off.”

Hitoshi nods, ignoring how his heart hammers impossibly fast against his ribs. Another thud, this time by his ankle, and the thing coiling around his leg must've dropped and hit the ground because Hitoshi couldn't feel it anymore. Kaminari lets go of his face, and Hitoshi blinks down to find the vines slinking back into the wall. Lifting his foot, he pulls out a loose thorn, the length of his palm and thicker than his wrist, that was embedded into the sole of his shoe.

“Keep it,” Izuku tells him, “could be useful.”

Hitoshi pockets it.

“What the f*ck is your shoe made of?” Hitoshi breathes. Without the constricting vines, he can feel it throb where Midoriya had kicked.

“Some type of metal at the toes and hardened souls.”

Hitoshi blinks. Midoriya blinks.

Kaminari grabs them both by the arm.

“We should hurry up.”

They do, deciding to run in hopes of avoiding the snaking plant. They take rights, only rights, never running into anyone despite Hizashi’s announcement that over twenty people had made it to the maze. It’s another three minutes of mindless running when Kaminari trips on something. Midoriya catches him by the waist, righting him and guaranteeing he isn’t hurt.

“I’m fine,” Kaminari assures, “I just want to know what the f*ck—”

He’s cut off by a gust of wind, strong enough to trip his feet again.

'f*ck.'

The vines on the right side of them caved open, and, like guisers, the wind is being propelled at them with enough force to drive them into the left side of the wall, where the pressure of the wind has hardened the thorns on the thick and continuously slithering vines. Izuku, the smallest and lightest of them, clumsily pushes against the vines, doing his best to avoid the thorns and using them as makeshift leverage to pull forward, his boots being the highlight of the hour as it kicks and shrinks away the vicious plant. Hitoshi's clothes get caught multiple times and he absolves himself to Midoriya's reckless tactic, the wind still vigorous as if desperate to turn them into human shish kabob.

"Don't bother using your quirk, Denks. It'll electrocute us before it'll ruin the plant," Midoriya advises, words coming out choked through his struggle. Hitoshi notes then Kaminari's feeble attempts at electrocuting the plants before he too decides to hail mary and put his arms forward to keep from becoming one with the wall. Although it's only the distance of one-third of the school's shorter hallways, it takes them nearly five minutes to make it through, looking worse for wear with tears in their clothes and blood on their palms.

“I hate this.”

“Look on the bright side.” Kaminari nudges him. “At least we're dry now.”

Hitoshi ‘hmphs’. He just wants to get this over with.

They’re a little more careful as they start taking lefts and more rights and rights. Midoriya stomps on vine after vine and they set off numerous more traps—from limboing branches to having to dance around makeshift deadends that come out of nowhere. At last, they see an end. A large clearing with an opening beseeching them to cross. Hitoshi almost gets on his knees, worn out with leaves stuck to his shoes and exhaustion weighing on him like three-ton boulders. He lost half his shirt after a particularly nasty thorn cut his abdomen and a good part of his pant leg in the limbo, his cuts sting with a few still bleeding, and he can feel the bruises in his legs.

“Praise Jesus. Hallelujah. To the Father, the Son and the holy spirit.”

“You’re agnostic.”

Kaminari, still panting, waves off Midoriya’s comment.

Natur-f*cking-ally, it's not that simple. This is f*cking Yuuei. Just as they take their first step, there’s the sound of wires fizzing, like a machine glitching and coming to life. From the beautiful, twenty feet away opening, three different three-pointers from the entrance exam roll through, looking a million times more annoying and a million times less menacing than they did during the actual exam.

“Looks like those three are nearing the end, can they make it through the infamous robots from the entrance exam before their opponents reach them?”

Midoriya grits his teeth, sprints forward, and latches onto one of the robots, digging his fingers into the grooves of the metal.

“Shin, go for the eyes,” he tells Hitoshi. “Kaminari don’t override yourself.”

They both nod. Hitoshi stalks forward on one of the robots, whose eyes are locked on him. During the entrance exam, he never stood a chance. They were too large, too overpowering, and the students were too strong. They were advantageous from the start. Hitoshi knew they would be, yet when he walked away with only ten villain points under his belt, he couldn’t help the drag of his feet and the suffocating shame of defeat.

Now, it was different. Now, he had people who were there, fighting with him. Midoriya was hanging, legs wrapped around an arm, swinging upside down, face split into a grin despite the way his head grazed the ground, centimetres from a full-on skull bash in. Kaminari looked like he was channelling himself to keep from burning out, posture lax as he slowly, carefully, walked over to the towering metal menace. The robots towered Hitoshi, yet, despite his apprehension, he felt no genuine fear. Thinking on his feet, his fingers skim his pocket, where Izuku told him to keep the thorn.

He smiles.

Ignoring the mild pain in his palm—the edges of the thorn were almost as sharp as the tip and his palms were still bleeding from the guiser incident—Hitoshi runs towards the robot, using the minimal parkour skills he’d learned from Aizawa to jump off the ground and stab its middle. The thorn sinks through the soft metal the way a warm knife slices through butter. Hitoshi uses his long arms to reach into the groove where the arm attaches to the shoulder and swings himself upwards, stabbing into the robot's higher torso.

“Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die, don’t die,” he repeats in a mantra as the robot swings around dangerously, nearly flinging him off several times. He lifts himself and sits on the robot's shoulder, digging his heel into the neck to stay as steady as possible. He pulls out the thorn, raises his arm, and stabs the robot through the glass eyes, down to his shoulder in the wires, hissing at the sting of glass and sparking wires as he rips through them. The robot smokes, collapses, and Hitoshi jumps off just before the head can fall on top of him.

“Let’s f*cking go.” Midoriya runs to the exit. Both he and Kaminari had already incapacitated their robots. Kaminari and Hitoshi follow him.

The finish line is in sight. There are the sounds of explosions behind them, of shattering ice, of running engines and whipping air; quirks going ablaze as the rest of the students near the end too. Together, they sprint, knowing better than to linge or savour the moment before they claim it. Hitoshi's calf muscles shake, his thighs ache, and his chest burns as he tries to breathe in what feels like lava.

“Looks like those three are almost there! But, the other students aren’t far behind. Will they make it?”

Hitoshi can hear it. The roaring in his ears, the crowd cheering wildly, the adrenaline pumping through him. They’re going to make it.

They’re going to f*cking make it.

He crosses the finish line, right behind Kaminari and Midoriya, placing third all. They’re nanoseconds apart, Midoriya taking the lead. It’s fine. It feels like they’ve won together. It feels like first place all the same.

“And in a shocking display of power, strength and intelligence, our first, second and third place winners are Izuku Midoriya, class 1-C, Kaminari Denki, class 1-A, and Hitoshi Shinso, class 1-C! Can we get a round of applause!?”

He turns to the billboard, sees his face, sees his smile, wide as ever. Sees his friends, tired and worn too. They're bleeding, bruised, scraped—holes in their clothes and dirt in their hair.

'Holy f*ck.'

Hitoshi falls on his back, heaving, staring at the sun as exhaustion hits him like a freight train. Midoriya and Kaminari lay down on either side of him. Hizashi’s announcing the other places, the other students who're making it through. After them.

Because they made it.

“We’re. f*cking. Awesome,” Kaminari praises them, turning his head.

Hitoshi hums in agreement, reaching for their hands sluggishly. They both respond to the touch, clasping Hitoshi's hands and squeezing.

"Holy f*ck."

Chapter 16: we are governed by an insanity i embrace.

Chapter Text

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku, Shinso and Denki remain sprawled on the ground as the other students run into the stadium, holding hands and staring at the sky as they calm their racing hearts. Izuku barely feels his superficial wounds, the blisters, burns and cuts no more than a slight sting.

Bakugo seethes in fifth place, coming in a flurry of explosions that stutters Izuku’s heartbeat. He clenches his fingers and Denki and Shinso squeeze back, the grooves in their palms and press of their fingers grounding. Just before Bakugo came Todoroki, skating on his heels on his river of ice. It was an ethereal entrance, its transcendental nature emphasised by his appearance.

Izuku pushes himself up on his elbow to spare more than a fleeting glance as Todoroki melts his slide, sweat beading down his neck and following the curve of his Adam's apple. His hair is still split perfectly, his frown only adding to the demure, haggard princely appearance. It isn't that Izuku had ever been blind to Todoroki's beauty, but the declaration he'd made earlier (the way his eyes seethed hot and cold all at once and so intensely) has only amplified his beauty.

He's such a marvel.

So beautiful.

“You’re staring,” Denki snorts. Izuku begrudgingly pulls his eyes away from the boy and huffs, turning his head back to the sky and kicking Denki with his foot, smirking when the blonde yelps in pain.

“He’s pretty."

“Mina calls him 1-A’s greatest ikemen.”

“I heard he has the personality of a rock though," Shinso says. "Aren’t ikemen well rounded, attractive guys?”

Izuku slips his hand out of Shinso’s to sit up, Shinso and Denki following. They all look to Todoroki, who’s secluded himself, back to a wall and eyes downcast, as opposed to the other students, who are gathering together in friend groups and classes as the remaining people walk into the stadium, sweat-drenched with wide smiles despite coming in the last places. Izuku spares Endeavor a glance, noting the hostile way the pro hero was staring down at his son. Feeling their stare, Todoroki turns to them, eyes meeting Izuku’s head-on.

His expression falters. Izuku flinches, feeling the intensity of his stare despite the distance.

(It’s so hard to meet people’s eyes.)

“I don't think so," Izuku whispers, eyes turned to his lap, "and even so, don't you think he’s pretty enough to absolve all of that?” It's a thought he's had in passing that now sits in between him and his friends like a thousand-tonne anvil, tangible and heavy and impossible to take away.

Denki's face, teasing, softens at Izuku's admission. He shuffles so that he’s sitting in front of Izuku as opposed to beside Shinso, leaning forward to wrap his arms around Izuku’s neck and pull him for a hug. He leans by his ear, and asks softly, “So someone caught your attention?”

Izuku doesn’t shove him off, burying his head in Denki’s shoulder.

‘How couldn’t he?’

At first, the attention was clinical. Izuku found him as intriguing as he found Tokoyami’s Dark Shadow and Shoji’s many arms. A dual wielder who forcibly repressed a part of his quirk. The proclaimed Todoroki heir. The only child of Endeavor who debuted at the age of thirteen in hero society. Then came the USJ. It was the first time Izuku admitted his beauty, and god everything about him was so incredibly beautiful, Izuku'd be numb to not feel provoked by it. It’s skin-deep and shallow but a beautiful painting does not lose its value to the eye of a beholder who’s failed to grasp its meaning. The brief visit during the hospital piqued Izuku’s interest further, unlocking a gateway he’d unknowingly left wide open.

Todoroki, stoic, cold and brutish like his ice, was desperately searching for something; he has been forever and seems to have found it somewhere in Izuku. But, unlike the part of the quirk he used or the usual expression on his face and numbness or hatred in his eyes, this desperation was hot.

Izuku always hated fire, hated explosions and hated being burned. But this heat, the look in his eyes Izuku had seen in passing at the hospital and had seen scorching earlier that day, oh it was f*cking degenerating. His declaration of war was a cry to be set ablaze. (And it's a little insane, how fast Izuku is to latch onto something; how fast he is to fall. But he's so new to it all, to this promise of being charred and liking it. To that sort of desperation being aimed at him so wildly and unprovoked.)

For a moment, Izuku wondered what’d meant to let the flames swallow them. (For a moment, Izuku wondered what’d mean if he struck the match.)

“Is he alright?” Shinso asks.

Denki hums, straddling Izuku properly to gently run his fingers through Izuku’s hair. He undoes his ponytail, massaging Izuku’s scalp and scratching it gently with his nails. Izuku relaxes further, melting against him.

The sound of a bell startles Izuku out of his haze. He pulls away, a little unwillingly, and Denki offers him a sweet, soft smile.

“Give me the hair tie,” Shinso tells Denki, who obliges. Shinso raises a hand to Izuku for consent, and Izuku tilts his head to give it. Shinso crawls behind him and, with a surprisingly delicate touch, braids Izuku’s hair down his back. Izuku sighs as Shinso ties it off, leaning back and greeting Shinso's upside-down face with a rare, relaxed smile. Shinso hiccups, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. Denki giggles, drawing both of their attention.

Izuku co*cks a questioning eyebrow.

“Nothing, nothing,” Denki says, raising both hands while still wearing an odd smile.

Midnight’s whip breaks the atmosphere. The sound of other students heckling each other, the cheering crowd, the roaring noises and Mic’s announcements that the obstacle course is over breach the barrier Izuku unknowingly put up.

(His heart stammers if he thinks about it. It stammers so loudly he can’t hear it. Has he ever felt serene? Were those few minutes a taste of what it could be like to feel alive?)

“The top 42 from this qualifying round will move on,” Midnight announces, “and now the main section really begins!”

Denki groans, “What do you mean now? That obstacle course was a different kind of hell.”

Midnight continues to rile up the remaining students on the field, pointing back to the screen of flashing colours waiting to reveal the second round.

“The second event is…this!”

“Battle Royale?” Shinso mutters.

“Isn’t the second round supposed to be some kind of group thing?”

“Is it just all hands-on?”

“We have to go against f*cking Bakugo?”

“I’m going to blow all you suckers to kingdom come.”

“Let me explain, so keep quiet!” Midnight scolds, the handcuffs attached to the belt of her costume clicking wildly as she shakes in anger. The questions come to a stop.

“Good. Now, to explain, this will be a team battle royale. You will all pair in groups of four and two of five and a paint colour will be assigned to your group. You will all be given loaded guns and plastic knives. The guns are paintball guns, and the knives are lined with paint on the inside that will smear against your opponents should you slash at them. Critical hits mean you're dead until one last person is standing. That person’s team gets an automatic win. The uniforms you’ll be given are lined with microwires that are linked to mechanic chips ground into the paint. Present Mic will receive a notification when a student receives a critical hit. We have other teachers working as observers too. Students who receive non-critical hits will have to put up with a handicap akin to the injury.”

‘Seems simple enough.’

“However, there’s a catch!”

‘Ugh.’

“Each of you has been assigned a point value based on your rank in the last event! Four teams will make it through, and it'll be those with the highest point count, outside of the final person standing! Your individual point values start at five, from the bottom. So the student who took 42nd will have five points, the student at 41st will have ten, and so on…yeah?”

Izuku feels an impending doom looming over his shoulder.

“As for first place…they’re worth 10 million points!”

All eyes whip to Izuku.

“You have to be f*cking with me.”

Denki

❂ ❂ ❂

“So we’re obviously pairing with each other,” Denki remarks offhandedly, wrapping a casual arm around Shinso’s shoulder and forcing him to crouch. If Izuku's going to start being gung-ho about Todoroki, he may as well rile things up with Shinso, no?

‘Can I call him Hitoshi?’

Shinso grumbles, blushing as he pulls off Denki’s hand.

‘Will he turn red like that if I call him Hitoshi?’

Despite his criminal posture, Hitoshi still towers over Denki, all lanky, limbed and long-legged. He looks up at him and grins lopsidedly, showing off his crooked teeth.

Izuku walks over to him and shoves him away, murmuring, “Flash him that pretty smile later, Denks. We still have to find one more member.”

Denki elbows him, smile straining.

“Keep talking and I’ll tell Todoroki that you think he’s the prettiest person since Edgeshot’s debut.”

Izuku rolls his eyes, shamelessly countering, “I’d tell him myself, try again.”

Pouting, Denki looks away and walks back to Hitoshi's side, arms folded across his chest and complaining, “Izuku’s so mean to me.”

Hitoshi snorts, ruffling Denki’s hair playfully, “Bet he had a good reason.”

“Rude,” Denki gasps, exaggeratedly, fanning his face, “is this an attack Denki day?”

“It will be if we don’t f*cking find a fourth person,” Izuku scowls, narrowing his eyes and effectively putting an end to Denki’s antics.

A familiar voice startles the lot of them.

“If you didn’t stand out before, you sure do now, Freckles!”

It’s the girl they met briefly during the obstacle course. The one who offered her scrapped metal plates.

“Genius.” Izuku nods, acknowledging her.

Denki had been too distracted to hear if Izuku called her name earlier, but surely it wasn't Genius?

“Anyways, I’ll be joining you.”

Denki’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Now hold on—”

“Because of the point system, your group is undoubtedly gonna be in the spotlight, which is advantageous to me, since I get to show off my babies.”

She pulls off her backpack and dumps a bunch of trinkets and machines on the ground right in front of them. Denki yelps in shock when a larger, heavier-looking metal box nearly slams his toe. Hitoshi grabs his shoulder and gently pulls him back, frowning at the girl.

“Watch w…w…w-here you’re—”

“I’ve made plenty of babies for this festival, and I’m sure they’ll be of use to you in some way. The more you use the merrier. Check out these shoes. And you already know you can trust my creations, Freckles.”

‘She really isn’t listening.’

Izuku’s expression sharpens. He looks through the abundance of inventions with a wicked grin, matching the invention girl’s energy as they bounce conversation off one another, too fast and wordy to keep up with.

“I feel like I wasted a good pot of luck becoming friends with you, Genius,” Izuku mumbles, looking at an imitation of a katana with worrying interest.

“Feeling is mutual. So, I’m in, yeah?”

Izuku lets go of the imitation katana—thank god—and turns to Hitoshi and Denki, who’ve been actively ignored up until this point.

“Introduce yourself to my friends first.”

The girl finally turns to them, pink dreads hitting each other with how quickly she whips her neck. Finally meeting her eyes, Denki finds himself transfixed. Her irises block the entire whites of her eyes, something he hadn’t noticed earlier as she was wearing her steampunk-era goggles. They’re otherworldly, shades of amber, gold and honey showcasing cogwheels and screws, as if her eyes were blueprints to a grandfather clock.

“You have insane eyes,” Denki compliments.

She grins widely, bowing clumsily as she introduces herself.

“Thanks, Pikachu. The name’s Hatsume, by the way. Mei Hatsume, future CEO of Hatsume Industries. Remember my name when you make it pro, it’ll be all over the billboards.” She places her hands on her hips proudly. “I met Freckles when he was building his support items for the Sports Festival and I’m convinced he’s gonna be one of my best investments. Feel free to ask me to build your support gear! I’m 75% sure it won’t explode.”

‘Pikachu? Explode? Future CEO?’

“75%?” Izuku co*cks an eyebrow.

“It’s my average,” Hatsume shrugs.

“Well, I…I-I-I’m Shinso.”

Denki snaps out of his stupor, noting Hitoshi’s nervousness. He’d been given a very vague debrief about his selective mutism and understands he struggles to talk to new people, especially those with as much vigour as Hatsume.

Denki steps up in front of Hitoshi as if to shield him. It’s a little comical, considering their height difference, but sweet nonetheless.

“Hi! I’m Denki Kaminari! Any person whom Izuku approves of is a friend of mine!”

“Freckles, I like your friends,” Hatsume decides, “please let me use them.”

“No.”

“Use u…u-us?”

“To make babies.”

“Fix the way you word things, for f*cks’ sake,” Izuku admonishes, then explaining, “She means to study you to build support gear. She isn’t lying about the 75% estimate though.”

“C’mon don’t you think—”

“Wait, wait. You study our quirks, don’t you? Well, I know you study mine,” Denki interrupts, having come to an idea.

"Pardon?"

“Why don’t you offer Hatsume the notes instead? That way she can work around your theories instead of at the expense of our lives.”

“Pikachu, you are a genius!”

“You can call me—”

“Freckles, give me your notes.”

'I give up.'

“I can do that. But, I haven’t studied Shinso’s quirk and I won’t unless I get permission,” Izuku warns Hatsume. She clicks her tongue but her eyes are mirthful. “Anyway, we’ll worry about that later, let’s go register ourselves as a group and get our sh*t. We can filter through Genius’s inventions afterwards.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Denki salutes. Izuku rolls his eyes and heads off, Hatsume ranting about something at his tail. Hitoshi hasn’t moved an inch. When Denki looks up at him, he’s wearing a pained expression.

“Are you alright?” Denki asks worriedly.

“Did he…did Mido…did he say he’d study my quirk if I let him?”

Denki blinks, confused.

“Yeah? He studies 1-A’s quirks all the time. It’s like, more than half his role.”

“Yeah, but my quirk, i-i–it’s, my quirk i…i-is— it’s not…”

‘Oh.’

“Zuku couldn’t give less of a sh*t about what your quirk is. We know that better than anyone.”

“Y-Yeah, but…I never…it’s still, it’s—” Hitoshi pauses, takes a breath, and continues, “I’ve never met anyone quite like him.”

Denki gets it. There’s something so compelling, so daunting and terrifying and loving, about Izuku. He's very different to anyone Denki's ever met before.

Just then, Izuku turns around, frowning at their lack of movement.

“Hurry up,” he says, voice carrying over despite its softness.

“Let’s go, Hitoshi.”

“Yeah, lets—”

Hitoshi burns red to the roots of his hair. Denki hides his smile, grabbing his hands and skipping off.

‘So cute.’

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“Holy sh*t.”

“This is definitely showing off.”

“I want Yuuei Money™. I could fund a million babies and start up my company with Yuuei Money™.”

“If I wind up living a longer-than-expected life, I pray to all the gods and deities who’ve f*cked me over to repent by making me rich. Like, I could afford a place to live.”

Denki hums, "Your place is cool though."

"Still."

The terrain is incredible, a faux city of broken buildings and desert sands of roads. Cementoss’s walls build a border and cast a shadow that highlights how desolate it feels. Flickering lights of deserted establishments catch Izuku’s attention, along with the rows of empty cars with broken headlights and deflated tires. Traffic lights, all stopped at red, glow despite the mid-day sun.

It’s an apocalyptic wasteland.

Izuku adjusts the new uniform they’d been given, black sportswear with lavender accents to match the colour of their paint. Hatsume had given all of them extra holders, garters and belts to holster their weapons. Izuku personally wore two garters around either thigh and a belt for knives and guns. Denki and Hitoshi—Kaminari had whispered to him to call him that right after they registered their team—both forewent knives for guns. Hatsume tinkered with one of the guns and exclaimed that she needed nothing else.

“Come on,” Izuku encourages, shaking off Yuuei’s abundant wealth, “we have 2 minutes to find a place.”

They move forward in a run, the first group to go in considering their point value as a whole. Izuku slips into an alleyway, feeling familiar with the darker, grittier environment. Without consideration for his friends, he kicks off a protruding brick to latch onto a low-hanging pipe, using the strength he’d built surviving among a den of rats, snakes and germs to climb upward. When he reaches the balcony of what he assumes is an apartment in this complex, he climbs onto it. Most of the bars on its railing are broken, but the initial frame is still sturdy.

Denki is staring up at him in both admiration and disbelief. Hitoshi looks more apprehensive and Hatsume is as lively as ever.

“Are you guys able to climb up?” he asks, leaning over and raising his voice.

Hatsume nods. Denki shakes his head, eyes blown wide like thinking so was ludicrous. Hitoshi is contemplative, his apprehension more evident.

“I’d say come through the front but most of the groups are already scouting, so you’re more likely to be seen,” Izuku narrates. To punctuate his sentence, an alarm rings, indicating that all the teams are in the terrain. It gives them less than five minutes to come up with a solution.

“I can help with that!” Hatsume exclaims, pulling off the sole of her shoe.

“Pikachu, climb onto Sir Lavender over there. Sir Lavender, put this against the bottom of your shoe and push the switch at the heel, it’ll expand and fit the bottom of your shoe.”

Izuku stares down at them curiously. Hatsume is loud enough to hear despite the three-story distance.

“I told you my name is Shinso,” Hitoshi grumbles, though he listens to her orders. The appliance blinks red and clicks to fit Hitoshi’s sole perfectly. Hitoshi bends and Denki quickly climbs on top of him piggyback style. Izuku notes the blush spread across both their cheeks, more significantly Hitoshi’s, with a smirk.

“Alright, brace yourself and keep your balance,” Hatsume warns.

“What—”

Hitoshi doesn’t get another word in as they’re both sent up in the air. Denki lets out a high-pitched squeal, and the two boys topple at the start, before finding some kind of footing. They continue to hover up until reaching the balcony. Hatsume grabs the railing and sets down, coming to Izuku’s side to help manoeuvre Hitoshi and Denki onto the balcony without the latter accidentally slipping off. Hatsume, who Izuku hadn’t noticed was holding a remote, presses a button. The attachment on the bottom of their shoes flashes red for a second time.

“Those are my hover shoes, by the way! Please click the switch again and give it back.”

Hitoshi hurriedly does so, muttering about ‘crazy chicks’ and ‘no warnings’ under his breath.

“C’mon, let’s discuss a strategy.”

“Wouldn’t it be e...e-easier just to keep people from targeting y-you?” Hitoshi supplies, “Even if one person t-took everyone out, their total p..p-point...s-s won’t surpass yours.”

“Logically, yes, but…”

Denki swallows. Izuku grins.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Shoto

❅ ❅ ❅

Shoto watches on in boredom as a group of students struggle out of his ice, nodding at Yaoyorozu, who lands critical hits on 3 of the 4 participants and handicaps the fourth just as they use the strong edges of their…bug arms to crack the ice out from under their feet and sprint away.

“Iida,” he commands. His classmate wastes no time, using the engines in his legs to chase after the bug mutant. Their strategy had been sufficient so far. Either Shoto or Tokoyami would use their overwhelming power to subdue the enemy, and during that time, Yaoyorozu and Iida would take them out with the knives and pellets, painting the students in a wash of green.

The wasteland they’re working in is rather large and nearly empty. Mic had announced that most of the people had been eliminated and that Shoto’s team was currently tied with Bakugo’s for second place. He isn't sure how many groups are left, only that his team is still standing.

Much to Shoto’s displeasure, he hadn’t run into Midoriya.

He’d been annoyed coming at fourth all in the last race and confused upon noting the players ranked above him fixing him a look for a few seconds as the remaining students trekked in. When he chanced upon a look at Midoriya and his friends again, an unfamiliar loathing brimmed him as they embraced each other with the gentleness of a lover. There was no doubt they’d pair with each other during the ‘Team Battle Royale’, but he hadn’t expected Midoriya to pair with the tan-skinned, pink-haired support course student.

She’d made a name for herself among the students as Powerloader’s ‘Crazy Genius’, known for the oil in her dreads and soot on her clothes. She and Midoriya seemed well acquainted, holding a conversation with ease and matched energy. Shoto wondered if she’d ever seen what he couldn’t forget: the image of a fallen angel, dressed in blood and sporting a hellish smile, brain matter streaked on their cheeks, blood splattering across their face and colouring their hair with paint strokes. A fallen angel, their knife raised in the air, dripping with sludge.

‘Can I call that beautiful?’

(Envy is uncomfortable. It treats him like a pathological liar and forces Shoto to meet his truth in the mirror. It’s ugly.)

“Todoroki-san?” Yaoyorozu calls his name softly. Shoto’s face betrays nothing as he’s brought back to the present. He bends to the rubble, presses his palms into the gravel and debris, and presses harder to feel it hurt. It is a warning, a foreshadowing, a teaser; it is a reminder of his father’s wrath should he continue to let his mind stray.

“Why hasn’t Iida come back yet?” Shoto asks upon noticing the lack of ‘You must pay attention!’ followed by those odd arm movements.

“Let’s follow where thee went,” Tokoyami suggests. Both Shoto and Yaoyorozu nod in agreement and they take off, following the ruined asphalt as a result of Iida’s engines. They run into no one, though in the distance Shoto hears the familiar ‘boom’ of one of Bakugo's larger explosions followed immediately by an identical noise. Shoto considers another student sharing a similar quirk, aware that Bakugo’s yet to be capable of setting off multiple explosions of that calibre without a few seconds of rest or his gauntlets.

“The tracks stop here,” Yaoyorozu murmurs. They’re surrounded by broken walls and buildings, part of the road dismantled and a broken stop sign sitting in front of them, a row of five cars totalled against each other before it.

“Where is—”

“Dark Shadow!” Tokoyami yells suddenly, startling Shoto and Yaoyorozu. An object the size of a golf ball is hurtled towards them, and Tokoyami releases Dark Shadow to bat it away. Shoto uses his ice to slide a farther distance, grabbing Yaoyorozu by the arm and dragging her along. The second Dark Shadow touches the gold ball, it explodes in a large splatter of lavender, effectively covering Tokoyami from his collar to his knees. The accents of his uniform glow and a drone flies downwards to take him away. They figured out early on that the sensors attached to their clothes were connected to the drones, as whenever they managed to land a critical hit, the objects would swoop down at the speed of an eagle and whisk away the contestant.

“Ah, dammit that was the last one!” a strong feminine voice whines. Shoto shoots over an avalanche of ice in the direction, feeling exhaustion creep onto him. He aims his gun, which was strapped to his holster, in front of him, nodding to Yaoyorozu to stand by him.

“Who’s here?”

Much to Shoto’s surprise, the pink-haired girl Shoto was thinking of a bit ago skips forward, an unfamiliar weapon in hand. She’s above them, standing comfortably on the roof of a four-story building.

“Hi, hi! That was my invention, by the way, a few tweaks can do so much, you know?"

Shoto shoots three pellets. The girl raises her wrist and a shield builds itself at an impossible speed. She’s knocked off balance by the force of the bullets, but they do not touch her, the paint dripping slowly down the dull, grey metal.

“Dandy, am I right? It’s Mei Hatsume, by the way.”

Neither Shoto nor Yaoyorozu acknowledges her, trying to determine how to eliminate her while scouting for her teammates.

‘Did they separate? Were they eliminated?'

“Ah, I know about the Todoroki heir, but who are you?” a somewhat familiar voice asks. The tall boy with purple hair who hangs out with Kaminari and Midoriya steps out right by her. Shoto hadn’t noticed him, and they were too high up for him to see where he’d come from.

“Why does—” Yaoyorozu’s retort falls flat. Her body falls limp, still standing straight, her irises shaking and her expression muted.

“Yaoyorozu?” Shoto asks, trying to keep his eyes on the opponents while looking out for his teammate. They still haven't found Iida, but Shoto's working on the presumption that they'd taken him out.

In a dull voice, the boy orders, “Shoot yourself in the heart.”

“No! Do—”

She startles, as if waking from a dream, the moment the pellet hits her chest. It’s awfully dramatic.

“What?” She looks down at herself, stunned. “When did—”

She’s taken away.

“Ah, she was pretty though.”

Shoto growls, though says nothing. He’d concluded that the purple-haired boy must’ve used his voice to persuade her, in some way. He shoots for a larger column of ice, bigger than a glacier and stronger. It traps the two enemies, and he wastes no time in using his ice to lift himself to the roof, aiming for their stomachs and hearts with his gun.

“Ah, f*ck!” the purple-haired boy curses as Shoto co*cks the gun and shoots. The drone heads down and tugs him easily out of the ice, though the way he yelps tells Shoto that some force must’ve been used.

The girl, on the other hand, hadn’t struggled at all despite the ice climbing to her wrist. Shoto aims for her but is taken aback when she speaks to him.

“Don’t worry, I’m not even here to win, Mister Prince,” she says, looking off to the side, “he might be angry though.”

Shoto’s a split second too slow. A crackle of lightning shoots at his side, breaking the glacier he'd been standing on in half, making him slip, nearly colliding forward, before falling off to the side. Using his quick reflexes, he creates a half-sphere shape to soften his landing as he hits the bottom, cupping himself and slipping around. The ice is not soft, however, and he bruises his knee on the landing, wincing at the jolt of pain that momentarily blinds him.

“Why the f*ck did you shoot Hitoshi?” Kaminari yells at him, disgruntled, "I get I took out Iida by why Hitoshi?"

'f*ck, so I'm the last one left.'

Shoto doesn’t respond, though he does take a second to watch as the girl’s uniform lights up. Both she and Kaminari’s eyes widen in surprise, only to notice a long slash across the skin of her neck. Taking advantage of Kaminari's shock, Shoto raises his gun and shoots him twice in the abdomen. (He then goes once more right for the centre of his head when he remembers the way Midoriya fell into him right before this event as Kaminari straddled him and played with his hair.) Shoto pockets his flimsy knife with a self-satisfied grin, keeping the gun in hand and taking off before he could watch the drone take them away.

Stubborn as he may be, Shoto knows to choose his battles.

He still hadn’t seen…

“Not so fast, Pretty Boy,” a voice whispers as a shadow drops past his shoulder.

Shoto reacts, his left side flaring up and fire catching the ends of his hair. Midoriya (who else would make his skin crawl and crawl and crawl) gasps but does not let go of his shoulder, nails digging in.

Shoto does not feel it, does not hear him or see the terrain. He is facing the mirror, staring at the scar marring his face, the bruises and burns lining his torso, the bandages around his chest, and the scars—thin, red, bleeding scars—with disdain. He’s being mocked, told that not even a thousand years in the farthest pit in hell could redeem him. He feels inhuman, feels like this body is not his and accepts that it deserves to be punished. His mother is calling him his father and everything hurts. Shoto is not there for a moment that feels like the last fifteen years of his life.

He comes to when Midoriya strikes.

A flimsy rubber knife is streaked against his neck. Midoriya’s breathing against his ear, and Shoto turns his head to catch his eyes. They do not meet Shoto’s—not directly—though they are gleaming. He’s staring at Shoto the way Shoto begged him to at the locker rooms, lips stretched into that haunting grin.

“Got you.”

Shoto’s taken away, numb as betrayal turns his veins into ice. (It has never been this bad. He has never bruised.)

He hears the sound of an alarm indicating the end of the tournament. They had been the last people left, then. How anti-climactic.

‘My father was right.

‘I…I’m broken.’

═════════ ❅ ═════════

He dominates the battlefield, and he does it with a devastating gleam in his eyes.

The audience is silent as they watch the students fall to their knees before him.

It feels like they’re pleading with him to let them die.

How suffocating he must be.

How brutish.

How frightening.

On that screen, with pain splatter on his cheeks, purple now synonymous with red and a halo of hair as green as the stem of a black rose, a monster bears his teeth.

And thrives.

“Izuku Midoriya is the last on the field!”

┏━━━━━━━━☻━━━━━━━━┓

‘Is he…is he even human?’

‘How did Yuuei accept someone like that?’

‘He’s not even in the hero course.’

‘Did he use his quirk?’

‘He looks like a criminal.’

‘Horrific.’

‘He’s clearly a villain, how dare they allow him to participate.’

‘I bet you he deserved those scars.’

‘How abhorrent.’

┗━━━━━━━━ ☻ ━━━━━━━━┛

And the audience is silent.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“They all suck,” Denki mutters as he, Izuku and Hitoshi head over to the dining area for their lunch break.

“To think that almost no one applauded.”

“It’s fine,” Izuku dismisses, unbothered, “I never expected them to.”

“Yeah but—”

“Really, it’s fine. Akatani and his mums still smiled at me, and Dabi and Toga looked proud. I really don’t give a sh*t about anyone else.”

“Still, it’s f*cking stupid,” Hitoshi berates, “you won fair and square. Yeah, you give off spawn of Satan vibes, but you didn’t actually kill them. I’d bet if someone like Bakugo won they’d be cheering so loudly we’d go deaf, and the angry little sh*t makes the ugliest expressions alive. Did you f*cking see him after they announced you as the winner?”

“According to Mina, he went on about how he definitely could’ve beaten you if you fought head to head. Apparently, he and his whole team were taken out by some blonde kid from the 1-Bs team. They took each other out, actually. Like simultaneously. He’s definitely in over his head.”

Izuku shrugs.

“There’s no use dwelling on it, I guess,” Denki sighs, “let’s just—”

“Midoriya.”

Izuku’s head snaps up.

Shoto Todoroki is staring down at him. Izuku cannot fathom his expression.

“I need to talk to you.”

Chapter 17: a declaration made at the centre of an inferno.

Chapter Text

Toshinori

☮︎ ☮︎ ☮︎

“It’s been a while, Endeavor!” Toshinori greets heartily, spotting the hero at the base of the stairs. “10 years, right? I happened to catch you and thought it was about time for a reunion!”

Todoroki’s expression sours, even more disdained than he’d been whenever they passed each other in Yuuei two decades ago before graduation. Toshinori never did understand the tangible distaste the man held for him, brewing as if healthy some years ago and not once snuffing itself out. Why, Toshinori is sure that the brighter his beard got, the hotter that distaste burned.

“Oh, is that it?” Todoroki clicks his tongue, kissing his teeth in a scowl. “Then get out of my f*cking sight.”

He turns his head, muttering under his breath, “As if I’d sit to talk with you, I need to f*cking take a leak…”

Toshinori, having none of it, hurriedly moves to block Todoroki’s pathway, posing ridiculously, his smile hardened at the edges.

“Now, come on. Why be such a grouch?”

“Get the f*ck out of my way.”

Toshinori brushes off the threatening tone like dust on the collar of his shirt, awkwardly bringing up the reason he sought out the brutish man in the first place. With the grace of an elephant on a unicycle, he says, “So, your son, little Shoto, he was rather impressive on the field.”

Toshinori had been stunned silent during the last two rounds. He remembered Midoriya from his encounter with him months prior with a little boy. He had filled out, still thin but less malnourished looking, his hair far longer and his skin a shade less sickly. He was a difficult person to forget, with such a presence and those horrible scars. Supposedly, he and another one of the 1-A children had taken down the Nomu themselves. (Toshinori was too late. He can’t save everyone. He couldn’t save everyone. He couldn't make it, he’s losing, he’s dying.)

But what was stunning, what had him gripping his seat and frightened to the marrow of his bone, was the way he obliterated every person he came across. His weapons were lethal held in his grip, the lavender paint splatter like a blood bath soaking the terrain. Not a single noise, not so much as a loud intake of breath, could be heard as he finally took out the Todoroki heir. All without a physical quirk too (at least not one anyone could see.) They’d, unknowingly, been the last two left by the end of it, having taken out most of the groups, moments after the third and fourth-placed groups had taken each other out.

Todoroki ‘tsks’, impressively, glowering with more malice than earlier.

“Not impressive enough, being upstaged by that homeless-looking rat.”

Toshinori frowns, unimpressed by the grown man insulting a child, but chooses not to comment on it, not wanting to escalate things.

“Anyhow, it was rather impressive how he took out near everyone without once using his left side. It seems like you’ve been raising him well.”

This is the wrong thing to say, as Todoroki stiffens, sharply turning his head. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“No, no. I just wanted to ask about raising the next generation.”

Toshinori has yet to find a successor, though Sir Nighteye’s protégé was certainly a fine candidate. He supposes a few pointers on how to take a child under his mentoring from a father of a prosperous kid could be helpful. (The part of his concave stomach that still is there is really the only part that thinks Togata could work. There’s something about him that doesn’t set Toshinori alight the way he ought to be. The way someone else could…someone who could save everybody.)

Todoroki co*cks an eyebrow, confused.

“I mean, like, tips.”

Todoroki scoffs, folding his arms across his chest.

“You’d think I’d f*cking tell you? Always prancing around with that happy-go-lucky-for-sh*t smile, it pisses me off.”

Toshinori awkwardly folds his hands over each other. He’s met other people who aren’t too fond of his optimism—Aizawa, for instance, comes to mind—but this is the first he’s heard of it from Todoroki. Not to mention, Aizawa doesn’t stare at him like he spat on his shoes and pissed on his rosebeds.

“Sorry,” Toshinori apologises stiffly, though he isn’t too sure what he’s feeling sorry for. His smile? Never. That was the smile he practised for ages in the mirror, a reflection of the woman who gave up everything for him. Alas, confrontation will do him no good.

Todoroki walks around Toshinori to the next flight of stairs, continuing, “But just know this for damn sure.”

Toshinori catches Todoroki's expression in his profile. It’s disturbing, the look of a mad scientist gloating about their latest project, not one of a father bragging about his accomplished son. It settles an ugly feeling in Toshinori’s stomach that he swallows. The flames of Todoroki’s beard catch the hair around his eyes and light up his face in horrible shades of orange and red.

“I’ll make sure he surpasses you by any means, it’s why he was f*cking created.”

Toshinori swallows, the lead in his stomach feeling heavier.

‘Is this what it means to find a successor?’

“Sure the brat’s in his rebellious phase, but he will outdo you, I’ll make sure of it.”

Todoroki walks off then, trailing a thin line of smoke like the wisps of his anger.

Toshinori will not be like that. When he finds that person (the person) who will move his heart so, who will take his quirk and take on his legacy, it will not be like that. He will find a second saviour, a good heart, and strengthen it with the embers of a quirk made for heroes who win to save.

He is here.

═════════ ☮︎ ═════════

What an unfair person you are, Toshinori. What a vile man. How dare you place this burden on someone else, this fantastical world you’ve kept cupped in your palms so closely you’ve forgotten the torment that lives outside of it?

And you call yourself a hero?

How despicable. How despicable, Toshinori.

You are no more than a dream that’s been shattered beyond repair. You are a freckle of sand in a vast desert. Wasted, a soon-to-be ghost so aware of his mortality he has gouged out his eyes for faking blindness became too much to bear.

Learn, Toshinori Yagi. Learn before you fail the world you are so desperate to save.

You cannot save everyone.

No one can.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“Why did you call me here?” Izuku asks, brusque as ever.

Todoroki stares down at him, his gaze like the cold temper of blue fire and the harsh audacity of a blizzard—Intimidating in its very nature.

“You’re overwhelming.”

Simple. To the point. Todoroki does not beat around the bush, does not care to and was not taught to. Izuku’s sure if he were to ask him about what it means to hide a blush behind your hands he would look at him dully, uncomprehending of the pretence.

“You’re so overwhelming you made me break the pledge I made to myself years ago.”

Todoroki clenches his left hand as he says this, though he looks off to the right, as though rejecting half of himself. Izuku leans against the smooth wall of the archway, purposefully fixing his eyes on Todoroki’s left hand until the boy relaxes his fist.

Izuku'd been meaning to have a conversation with Aizawa regarding Todoroki never making use of the 'fire' side of his quirk, on the chance it was a condition of sorts that prevented him from utilising his left side. It would’ve aided him greatly during the courses. Not to mention how important it was that he regulated his body temperature. Izuku’d been sensitive enough to not berate him after the USJ upon learning that Todoroki refused to treat his frostbite, feeling like a hypocrite considering, well, him.

He’d guessed—guessed said like a casual word and not the simplification of the minute observations he’d come across observing the boy and his beauty—that maybe it was the makings of a story instead, the invisible ink written into people’s biographies that few bothered to read. (The heat of his stare and the frigidness of his behaviour, the way he scowled and the way he frowned. The way he shied from Katsuki’s palms like Izuku does; as if the heat that radiated off them promised pain. And yet he could set half of himself ablaze.)

But stories were always so miserable. They were always books of burned pages and broken spines. They were manuscripts of torture and torment, explaining away cruelty in the face of cruelty.

“I’ve never felt such pressure from anyone,” Todoroki admits, raising his hand and staring down at his curled fingers like they hurt him so personally, he’d wanted them cut off. Izuku would do it, in an instant. He would pull them out from the knuckle and let Todoroki bleed away if he desired so. He's pretty enough to make hurt. “That’s why, I have to ask.”

Izuku braces himself for the inevitable. He braces himself for a slew of questions regarding the quirk he does not have and then another ten asking for proof, a proper truth, something that could explain away his cruelty in the face of cruelty.

Except it does not come. Todoroki does not ask that.

“Are you a devil? Is that your quirk of a symptom of it?”

Izuku blinks, slowly. So slowly it feels more like he rested his eyes for a moment. He looks up at Todoroki, and the young heir’s expression is serious down to the wrinkle of his brow. He is not mocking, nor is he mean. He is asking like he believes it’s an honest truth, a potential hypothesis to the enigma he saw in Izuku Midoriya. The boy he stared down with fire in his eyes just hours ago, a devil.

“I’m sorry, what?” Izuku’s voice is so feeble, so drowned in his disbelief.

‘Impossible. There’s no way he isn’t f*cking with me right now. He just has one hell of a poker face and would probably be a riot at the casino.'

“Are you a devil? Or perhaps, the son of one?”

“Are you…are you being serious?”

Todoroki nods. He f*cking nods. He nods and his expression doesn’t so much as twitch.

Izuku leans into him, close to him, looking at him. It’s more than just staring at a pretty face, it’s more than just a pretty face. Shoto Todoroki, with a good heart and genuine intentions, is asking him if he is the son of a devil. If he is the devil themself.

Izuku can’t help it. His knees almost give out and he dissolves in a fit of giggles, chest feeling all light and cheeks a little hot. He takes his hands to his hair and laughs, trying to calm down only to laugh a harder at the little note of confusion threaded into Todoroki’s still-mild expression.

‘Oh my gods he’s absolutely adorable, what the hell.’

“No…no Todoroki, I am not an actual devil spawn, nor do I have a devil-esque quirk” he breathes out, still hiccuping from his laughter. Oh god, it’s been so long since someone’s been able to make him feel so ‘la-dee-daa’. It’s a lovely feeling, one he’s afraid to cherish at the moment. Afraid he’ll seek. “Though, I suppose with my dad being the way he is, you aren’t too far off.”

This catches Todoroki’s attention, whose eyes widen just a fraction.

“Your dad?”

“Yeah, he sucks,” Izuku admits casually, his lighthearted expression falling into something more neutral. “I hope you didn’t actually take me here to ask me if I was the son of Satan.”

“You aren’t, though.”

“I am not,” Izuku agrees. “Though I’m so curious as to how you came to that conclusion.”

“You’ve caught Nezu-sama’s attention.”

‘Ah.’

“Since they call him the demon principal of Yuuei, I just assumed…” Todoroki trails off with a slight shrug.

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart?“ Izuku mutters with a smirk.

Todoroki huffs, looking off with a tinge to his cheeks.

‘Really, so f*cking cute.’

“But that isn’t exactly why I brought you here.”

The tonal shift in the conversation is enough to give Izuku whiplash. Though, he supposes that’d only be true on his end. Todoroki had been serious from the start, brewing with intensity even as Izuku laughed like bells. Izuku straightens his posture, offering Todoroki his rapt attention.

“You know my father is Endeavor.”

And isn’t that such a wonderful start to a story?

‘My father is Endeavor.’

'My father is Endeavor.' Said with so much vitriol Izuku would swear Todoroki was spitting out a slur. Said like it hurt to admit, like it was a crime to be sentenced for. To be the son of Endeavor; to be a bastard in every way but your birthright.

“Yes?”

“He’s a powerful asshole who’s only ever thought about how to get stronger.” Todoroki looks off and looks away. He is a narrator, distant in every manner but his anger, palpable in the coolness of his eyes. Izuku wants to grab his face and search desperately for that fire he’d seen in the locker room, the depravity that caught his interest and amplified Todoroki’s beauty.

“He’s gone out of his way to create a name for himself as a limelight hero and has proven his strength time and time and f*cking time again.” Oh, that anger, palpable in his diction too. “But he’s always seen, well, All Might as an eyesore of sorts. A roadblock that met him at every turn.

“He could never beat him, not on his own, not with his quirk.”

'It all comes back to that bullsh*t, doesn’t it?'

Comes back to quirk. Comes back to the temper tantrums of a grown man who never grew up. Izuku’s long since learnt to remain apprehensive. He’d never had the best impression of heroes as a whole, but the showy, angry kinds he hated the most. They killed civilians and called them ‘necessary casualties’ in pursuit of a man who stole a loaf of bread for his dying family. They hurt more than they saved, and called themselves ‘good’.

“So, he thought up another way.”

Izuku clenches his fist, takes his arms behind his back, and rubs his bandages against each other.

“Where are you going with this?” Izuku asks.

“Quirk marriages, have you heard of them?”

═════════ ☻ ═════════

What is disgust if not the way you have to swallow your bile as someone recounts the story of their heartache? And what is disgust if not the way you have to sit and listen to a broken, broken boy recount the beginnings of a broken, broken story? How do you listen to turmoil, pain and undoing all in one, and not think ‘If only slugs died in pools of salt’ because ridding the world of their slime is the only way to feel clean?

What are humans if not a means to an end?

We are selfish, we are lesser, we are vile.

And we are a means to an end, making means to an end and means to an end.

Living in our anger. Living in our hatred. Letting it dictate who we are.

What is disgust if not the way you want to shut your ears as you sit and listen to a broken, broken boy recount the beginning of a broken, broken story? What is disgust if not the way you wish you could reach for his scars and tell him he is pretty like it meant something? Like it held weight.

Always a means to an end.

═════════ ☻ ═════════

“I hate it!”

It’s Todoroki’s first exclamation of anger. It is strong, it is loud. It isn’t being said to Izuku, Todoroki is no longer speaking to him, but to a mirage. An image of himself, staring through Izuku and not at him. His exclamation of anger is still so cold.

“I hate being a tool of his creation. As I remember it, my mother is always crying. She’s always crying, looking at me. ‘I can’t stand to see that left side of yours’, she once yelled, before pouring scalding water over my f*cking face.”

Izuku’s fingers skim his side and the scar that mars him too. It is different, he recognises. Todoroki speaks of his mother like she was good; he speaks of her like she was kind. (Can a mother who hurt him so deeply his blood is now ice be good? Solely because she loved, and so did he?) Izuku feels kinship and heartache. (Feelings a reminiscence of her her her pull.)

“Not using my left side against you, against anyone, is my way of revenge. Rising to the top without my father’s sullied quirk, I’d have denied every part of him.”

(And snap.)

Izuku turns cold then too, Todoroki’s blizzard of anger infectious. The part of him that felt hardens. The sin of Todoroki’s heat is too far away, too out of reach. Izuku will not chase after it. Not like this. It's all too cold.

Who would’ve thought he’d ever be looking for fire?

“Your connections with whoever, the reasons you’re here, you can keep it all to yourself. I’ll defeat you as I promised with just my right side. Regardless of your quirk, or who you are. Sorry for wasting your time.”

Izuku's fingers find the fabric of Todoroki’s shirt and tug him back aggressively, slamming him against the wall and staring up at him. (It feels like he is staring down, feels like he is making Todoroki small.) He pushes against his chest, against the beat of Todoroki’s quickening heartbeat, and meets his contempt, meets his second declaration—too, too cold—with a matching glare.

Empty.

“So you’ve got it sh*tty, right?”

Izuku doesn’t give him time to answer.

“You’ve got it like hell, raised by a piece of sh*t father and a mum who couldn't look you in the eye. Well, guess f*cking what, Pretty Boy, that’s just another sob story of fifty. My father beat me up too. He made sure I no longer could tell the difference between a nasty bruise and a broken bone and taught me real early on that the colour of my blood was deep, dark-f*cking-red. Do you think you're the only one who's gone through some sort of hell? The only bastard with a scar and a reason to hate it?"

Todoroki swallows. Izuku’s throat hurts.

“The truth is, you’re pitiful and half-assed. Do you know how insulting it is to hear you talk about refusing half of yourself when there are people,” ‘like me, like Akatani, like Toga or Hitoshi’, “who wish for a quirk with even a quarter of your strength? And you’re denying it over what? A grudge with some old son of a bitch? You say you refuse to let him dictate your life and yet you actively refuse a part of yourself because of him. It's pathetic."

Izuku is callous. Does not chase but demands for Todoroki's intensity to return, now that he knows why it is so cold. He calls for it and promises nothing in return. Still, Izuku calls for it.

"Do you wanna know something, oh Heir of Endeavor?” Todoroki stiffens at the cruel nickname. His coldness is seeping out of him; is seeping out of Izuku too. The space between them is hot. Izuku stares at him; meets his eyes the way he can’t with so many others, looking for that fire with his own vice.

(The roles are reversed, and it is just as striking.)

“I’m quirkless.”

Todoroki blinks. That is his reaction. A blink.

Izuku chuckles, mirthless.

“I’m a quirkless piece of sh*t who’s going to do his all to make it to the top. I’m not going to ‘deny’ any part of myself, it wouldn’t be fair to the people who face me.”

Izuku lets go of him. Neither of them pulls away. So close, Izuku can see the thin sheen of ice crawling up his neck in a pattern of snowflakes. It's so very pretty.

“You wanted to be seen by me earlier, well here I f*cking am,” Izuku whispers harshly. “I’ll match both your declarations with ones of my own. I’m going to f*cking kill you, so you better come at me with everything.”

Izuku walks away, shoulders to his burning ears.

“I’ll win,” he hears Todoroki say, so quietly he’d swear it wasn’t meant for his ears. At least, if not for the finger hooked on the sleeve of his uniform. Izuku turns to him and sees it then. (Fire.) Todoroki lifts his head, reddened cheeks and brazen eyes; ablaze. "I'll beat you."

Izuku grins, feeling Todoroki's intensity in his blood and across his skin. It's making him feel desperate in a way that he never had, before.

“Bite me.”

Katsuki

✷ ✷ ✷

Katsuki walks down the empty hall, hands over his ears and head spinning every which way.

‘I’m going to f*cking kill you.’

'My father beat me up too. He made sure I no longer could tell the difference between a nasty bruise and a broken bone and taught me real early on that the colour of my blood was deep, dark-f*cking-red.'

‘‘I can’t stand to see that left side of yours’, she once yelled, before pouring scalding water over my f*cking face.’

That isn’t what Katsuki expected to hear. He’d intended to eavesdrop expecting to learn more about the relationship between IcyHot and Deku, not to hear the two-toned bastard spill his guts and for Deku—once so sweet it made him violent—to stomp on his motivations with the kind of hatred that sews itself into someone’s skin. (He didn't know about his father. How didn't he know about his father?)

He’d revealed he was quirkless. Katsuki knew. He knew, but to see the way he moved, the way he thought, the way he rampaged and the way he snarled. It felt like someone’s taken away the boy he grew up with, that a stranger was wearing a skin suit he'd marked up. It made him doubt it. Even now, thinking of the way he behaved minutes ago, despite what he overheard, Katsuki is a sceptic.

Izuku called Todoroki pitiful.

Katsuki wonders what that would make him.

He fights for recognition, fights for fame and victory. He loves it all, the best of the best and everyone else under the sole of his shoe.

Didn’t Todoroki think that way too? So proud and sure of his strength he swore an oath to fight with half of his power.

But Katsuki is different, has to be. Katsuki’s always been told his strength is unrivalled; was always taught that half-heartedness would be met with sh*t. He'd never willingly handicap himself no matter the reason.

⚬⚬⚬

“You say this is the best you can do? Are you f*cking joking, Katuki?”

“The hell are you on? I got the best-f*cking-grade in my entire year!”

Mitsuki slams her fist against the table. Katsuki stiffens, quiets, and bows his head.

“You got a 93, Katsuki. Is that a 100? Are you so f*cking r*tarded you can’t read numbers anymore?”

Katsuki growls under his breath.

“This is what you get for slacking off! I told you to stop messing with people in the park, you’re letting your ego get to you!”

“That’s because I f*cking deserve the praise!”

“You don’t deserve sh*t! You are far from the best, and this goddam test score is proof. Now go to your room and give it 200% or so f*cking help me, it won't be pretty”

Katsuki looks at his dad, staring at the floor, meeting his gaze with a forlorn, pathetic smile. The same one that drove wrinkles into his skin and greyed his hair at 35.

“Fine, whatever.”

⚬⚬⚬

Of course, he’s the best. He’s the greatest.

He won’t do any of it half-assed.

‘I’m a quirkless piece of sh*t who’s going to do his all to make it to the top.’

f*ck it all.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“Dude, dude, dude, where’d you go? Where’s Todoroki?” Denki asks Izuku as he slides by him on the table, a tray of food in hand.

“I’ll tell you about it later,” Izuku promises. “Where’s Hitoshi?”

“Oh, he’s just getting some water.

And anyways, I sort of need your help.”

Chapter 18: cheerleading uniforms and the ire of a frozen heart.

Chapter Text

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku walks out of the stall with his bandaged arms wrapped around his stomach. The locker rooms are empty as most of the students are either in the dining hall or arena waiting for the last round to be announced.

Izuku had told Denki, based on his assumptions, that the event was almost certainly a tournament-style, one-versus-one battle. He’d been nervous seeing as his quirk control was mediocre compared to his peers. Izuku did not reassure him. Denki was behind on his quirk control, the new regime he’d come up with Aizawa having only been implemented less than a month ago. Rather, he advised Denki to limit the use of his quirk if he could help it, as, unlike in the USJ, he did not have conductors he could implement to keep him from overriding himself; to essentially strategise as opposed to act on impulse.

“Oh damn,” Denki compliments where he’s seated on the bench by the lockers. It is just them, the rest of the students finishing their lunch before the annual recreational games, accessible to all. Seeing as it was a festival, Yuuei always hosted a few fun games that students could choose to participate in before the final event.

Izuku looks down at the revealing cheerleading uniform Denki had roped him into wearing. The skirt brushed over just after the last of his cuts and the bandages wrapped around his arms clashed greatly with the sweet, feminine apparel. Nonetheless, it fit well around his waist and across his chest. However, he is uncomfortable showing off his large and intense burn scar. Luckily, he hadn’t any bruises or wounds from his job, Recovery Girl having healed the more injured students after the Team Battle Royale, Izuku being one of them. He tugs at the choker until it’s loose enough that he doesn’t feel gagged, the fabric stretched thin.

“I don’t understand,” Izuku says, pulling his hair in his signature, half-up style, “why not just tell the girls Mineta was lying?”

“I tried, but they were already in their locker rooms and I was stopped by a teacher who thought I was trying to peep at them or something,” Denki explains, standing up and pulling up the hem of the skirt. He looks good in it as well, the feminine clothes fitting. Izuku pulls up the high socks, wrapping around his thighs whereas Denki’s stopped right below his knee. He didn't want to showcase most of his scars to the elite students of Yuuei if he could help it.

“Help me with these, would you?” Denki asks, gesturing to the cute hair pins in his hand.

Izuku sighs, taking the pins and gently tilting Denki’s head down, tucking a few strands of his hair behind his ears and pinning them back.

“Where did you find these?” Izuku asks quietly, eyes catching the smattering of freckles across Denki’s nose, far subtler than his own, and the reddened acne on his cheeks. He wonders if it’s normal, how close and intimate he is with Denki. How strongly he loves him. And he does, can admit it with ease. He loves him the only way he knows how to, in ruin. Loves him like he drowns, and loves him so he lives. To Izuku, love was sacrifice and death and morbidity. It was damnation. That is how he loved, that is how he knew how to love.

“There are actual cheerleaders, this is the official uniform. I just went to the clothing room,” Denki replies, just as quietly.

Izuku hums, stepping back and finger-twisting the few framing pieces he left.

“Done,” he decides.

Denki grins, turning on his heel and pulling open a locker, admiring the simple hairstyle in the small mirror.

“Oh, this is sick.”

Izuku shrugs, more accustomed to doing hair since meeting Himiko.

As they’re walking out, Izuku is hit with a realisation.

“Wait.”

“Hm?”

“Why didn’t you just tell them as they were walking out of the lockers that it was a prank? Before they could go up in the arena?”

Denki stops walking, shrugging sheepishly, cheeks blushing red. Izuku looks at him with a raised eyebrow, unimpressed.

“I totally did not think of that.”

Izuku sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Let’s just go.”

Momo

𑁍 𑁍 𑁍

Momo feels like the stupidest person alive.

‘Smartest student in Class A my ass.’

She can’t believe she believed Mineta. Minoru Mineta, the local pervert and peeping tom. He’d…he’d clung to her during the obstacle course, made her feel dirty in her skin. She brushed it off because it had been his way of winning; tried to swallow it down as a strategy. Mineta made perverse comments towards them and jeered about groping and touching and f*cking, yet Momo still believed him. She trusted too much and now she and her friends were dressed in cheerleading uniforms, hearts in their stomachs as Mineta and an audience of perverts leered at them.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells her friends, head in her hands, crouching and trying to hug herself. She’s used to showing off her skin, used to tighter-fitted clothes and low-cut tops. But in those moments, she is a hero. She sacrifices comfort and dignity for the sake of a life—to save. She could excuse it then, could brush off the unwanted eyes and predatory grins or the wandering hands, followed by two-hour-showers and a few shed tears. She could take it if it meant something.

This isn’t that. This is feeling undressed by the eyes of many without her consent. It is feeling dirty in her skin all over again, like she’s drowning in slime. Her friends, sans Hagakure, all wear similar looks of uncomfortableness and distress. Across from them, Mineta’s stare is burning.

She’s ashamed. They elected her as class president and she let them be humiliated like this. She let them be stared at like prey to a den of predators.

“I’m trying so hard not to melt his brain through his ears with my earphone jacks,” Jiro threatens, hands wrapped around her stomach, glare directed downwards.

Momo stands up, straightening the skirt and trying to keep her chin high. She flinches when someone in the audience wolf whistles, Momo catching the words, “Why don’t you dolls dance too?!”

“Who the f*ck—”

“And what is this?!”

Present Mic’s shrill voice cuts off Mina’s angry rant.

“Oh, holy f*ck look!” Mina giggles, pointing to the entrance where one Denki Kaminari and one Izuku Midoriya walk through, both dressed in the same uniform they wore. It draws the attention of the audience and their wandering eyes. Momo feels the slime slip off her and climbs over to them.

At the sound of sharp, crude and loud laughter, Midoriya looks up at the stands and flips off an audience member with a neck tattoo. By him is a frail girl with something across her face that Momo can’t see at this distance; she shapes her fingers into a heart and Midoriya rolls his eyes.

Denki smiles brightly, bouncing over to them.

“Hey!” he greets, a stone-faced Midoriya by him.

Momo’s eyes track the scars littering on what's seen of Midoriya’s torso, zeroing in on the significant and large burn scar stretched over half his abdomen, crawling into the cropped, cheerleader top. There are scars like stab wounds on the sliver of skin showing between his thigh-high and skirt too. Realising she’s staring, Momo looks away from Midoriya’s scars, a blush on her cheeks when she meets Midoriya’s eyes, already on her, eyebrow co*cked.

“Sorry,” she apologises.

Midoriya shakes his head at her, mumbling, “Don’t worry, you did nothing wrong.”

Midoriya isn’t someone she knows fairly well. Quite frankly, he scares her. He’s smart as a whip in a way that she isn’t and exudes a ferocious aura. As far as Momo is aware, he could be quirkless or have a quirk that could rival gods with how little he shares with their class, save for his relationship with Kaminari. He’s had it rough, and it made him cruel and violent.

He critiques them with the skills of a professional, making her feel like he’d broken her down to her atoms. He has a way of making people feel microscopic. Not to mention his impressionable introduction and the USJ incident. She’d been away from the main commotion, healing her friends’ injuries and helping the heroes break through the emergency door, but Tsu had recounted to them how bloody it was.

Midoriya looked half-dead when he was taken out on a stretcher.

She supposes there’s something to admire about his tenacity, that some would go so far as to call him brave for the way he throws himself head-first into the collision. Momo would disagree. It felt less like bravery and more like selfishness, like Midoriya wanted to be at the wheel, sword against his neck, gun to his head. Never would she admit this loudly, never to an open ear. (It’s too frightening to entertain. The thought that Midoriya chased after death and not away from it. That he wanted it to take him six feet under. A life is a life. A life to be cherished.)

“What is this?” Jiro asks with a laugh.

Kaminari co*cks his hip with a cheeky smile. “We’re offering our support.” He drops the pose with a slight blush and further clarifies, “I heard about what Mineta told you guys, but when I wanted to warn you, a teacher kept me thinking I was trying to sneak into your dressing rooms. So I thought the next best thing is to dress up with you guys, and I dragged Izu into it.”

Kaminari wraps an arm around Midoriya’s waist and pulls him in. “ ‘Sides, I wanted to see him in a skirt.”

Midoriya rolls his eyes. “You’ve seen me in a skirt you f*cking moron.”

“Not a cheerleading uniform though,” Kaminari banters.

“Next time I’ll wear a nurse uniform, then? Or would you rather a maid-outfit, oh Denki-sama?” Midoriya quips with a mild expression.

“Does it come with lace?”

Midoriya leans up and whispers loudly, “Do you want it to?”

Mina whistles, “So is it true that you two are together?”

Momo doesn’t think so.

Both parties turn to her with flat expressions.

“Where did you get that idea?” Midoriya deadpans.

Mina blinks, surprised. “Just the way you guys act with each other is really intimate.”

Denki shrugs. “We’re just like that. But nah, not together. Unless…?” Denki wiggles his eyebrows at Midoriya, who lightly shoves him.

“Are you sure?”

Denki furrows his brows. “Mina, yes I’m sure, the hell?”

“Alright, alright,” she backs off, palms towards them.

“Wait, wait,” Uraraka chimes in, “why didn’t you just tell us on our way out from the dressing room?”

Midoriya turns to her, saying, “That’s exactly what I said.”

Denki bashfully rubs the back of his neck and admits, “Honestly it didn’t even cross my mind.”

Momo smiles gently.

Though, she does wonder… “Why did you agree to it, Mido-chan?”

Tsuyu seemed to be on the same wavelength as her, then.

Midoriya shrugs. “Denki asked. Didn’t see a problem with it.”

'Simple.'

“Besides, I know how uncomfortable it is to be leered at.”

‘Oh. That's upsetting.'

Momo lets it slip, in a brief moment of vulnerability, “If I wasn’t so used to it due to my hero costume, I think I would’ve broken down.”

Toru, the least perturbed of them, shakes in place to garner their attention, admitting, “Probably same. I’ve gotten used to being naked in public though, and I’m not perceived really, so it helps.”

Midoriya frowns, biting his lip.

“I’m going to talk to Aizawa about accompanying the both of you to the costumes department to sort out your costumes,” he decides, more to himself. “Really, it’s imbecilic of them to approve your designs considering safety and basic human f*cking decency.”

“Oh there really is no—”

“This isn’t your decision to make,” Midoriya interrupts rather rudely. “Apart of my requirements as Nezu’s representative is ensuring you guys improve at a more proficient rate. It’s well within my authority to adjust a costume that I deem inappropriate for the student or does nothing for the student’s quirk. However, before such, I would need a more thorough understanding of your quirks and how you utilise your costumes, something that I intended to leave for after the internships.”

‘Ah.’

“Isn’t my baby so smart?” Kaminari coos.

Mina leans up to Momo and softly comments, “Don’t they pair well together?”

Momo’s always been good at determining relationships, something her father taught her early on should she have chosen to remain successor to the family business as opposed to pursuing heroics. Body language between people, conversation, tone of voice and facial expressions, she studied it all in order to strengthen her leadership skills. Although she isn’t the most empathetic, given her upbringing, she is smart.

Her eyes find Hitoshi Shinso a few yards away with Mei Hatsume, the latter is sitting on the floor, tinkering with something. Shinso’s eyes are glued on Kaminari, taking him in down to the last detail she’s sure, a slight hue to his cheeks. They then move to Todoroki, secluded, back to the wall, eyes drawn to Midoriya. They’re only ever so intense when Todoroki looks at Midoriya, something that Momo came to notice after the USJ.

Todoroki had been there, fighting alongside them. He’d seen what tore Midoriya’s skin off his arms and left him limp, seen the stark white light that momentarily lit up the entire dome right before All Might tore the door off its hinges. She’d known Endeavor’s Heir since they were toddlers, discussing politics and lineage, reading in the study because Endeavor did not allow Todoroki to play. Momo always found it to be a particularly cruel irony that Shoto Todoroki was a boy, as his father dreamed.

“I don’t think so.”

“Holy sh*t!” Toru squeals.

Momo and Mina look over to see Midoriya balanced perfectly on Kaminari’s shoulders in a handstand, drawing the eyes of many. (Drawing them off of her.) Midoriya flips off with ease, the stunt coming to an end with Denki curtseying.

What interesting people.

‘And I must admit, they look good in the uniform.’

Hitoshi

⛧ ⛧ ⛧

Hitoshi is going to decidedly combust. A firework shot up into the night sky, a million sparks falling into the shape of a gnarly, beating heart. Because there is Denki Kaminari, metres from him, talking with his classmates, dressed in a f*cking skirt.

No…no in a cheerleading uniform. A cheerleading uniform showing off his fit figure and toned arms and tanned skin. The Lichtenberg scars drawn across his forearms and thighs and abs are like paint strokes, Denki’s (Denki, he asked him to call him Denki! And Izuku! And Hitoshi’s heart fell and fell and fell) skin the most perfect canvas.

Izuku too, looks incredible, the uniform extenuating the more feminine aspects of his androgyny. Hitoshi’s sure he’s beguiling, but Hitoshi’s eyes are focused on Denki. Denki, touching his heels as Midoriya balances on his back, performing another trick.

Hitoshi’s so enamoured he forgets to feel jealous about their proximity. (Later, he will think about Denki’s fingers gripping the bare skin of Izuku’s waist and Izuku’s lips pressed to his ear. Later, he will wallow in it and drown. Later.)

Denki and Izuku wave goodbye to the Class A girls, looking around before their gaze inevitably lands on him. Denki brightens up significantly, jogging over where Izuku continues at a lazy pace. Hatsumei blinks up at them, deft fingers still messing with the gadget she has on hand.

“Hey, Hito! Hatsume!”

“Hey guys,” Hitoshi greets warmly.

“Pikachu,” Hatsume returns, “Freckles.”

“Genius, Hitoshi,” Izuku nods. He looms over Hatsume, expression curious. “What are you working on?”

As Hatsume goes on to explain in jargon that flies over Hitoshi’s head, he feels a sudden coolness, running his hands along his arms. Denki, who’d taken to leaning against him, much to Hitoshi’s internal panic, snorts.

“What’s up?” Hitoshi asks.

He can hear Denki’s grin, tilting his head despite their proximity to see it too. Soft, pink lips stretched a little thin and a row of crooked teeth. He has a soft chin dimple, almost unnoticeable if you don’t look.

But Hitoshi does.

“You felt the breeze, right?" Hitoshi nods. "Izu bent over a little to get a better look at Hatsume’s project and the floor underneath Todoroki’s right foot iced over.”

Hitoshi turns his head, noting a pink-cheeked Todoroki and the puddle of water under him, looking forward with narrowed eyes and a wrinkle by his brow. He seems put off and embarrassed, much to Hitoshi’s amusem*nt. He’d come to notice that Todoroki seemed particularly keen on Izuku this festival, his observations emphasised when Denki told Hitoshi about the powerhouse’s declaration of war against Izuku in the locker room before the introductions. He'd been curious after the heir whisked their friend away, commenting on the way he looked at Izuku as Izuku did him.

“Izuku’s pretty,” Hitoshi comments absentmindedly, recalling the heat he felt in his cheeks when Izuku looked at him backwards with a foreign expression of calmness after he’d braided his hair earlier. Izuku was pretty in a manner that was paradoxically soft to his general demeanour.

Though, he supposes Izuku’s allure is often overshadowed by his scars, eyes and piercings. Hitoshi recognises that if he wasn’t familiar with scars, wounds and heavy eyes, he too would’ve been more fascinated by the marks littering Izuku’s torso before he was his beauty. After all, his initial intrigue came from the glare in his eyes and the story behind his scabs, not the stretch of his torso and sweet, freckled cheeks.

“He is,” Denki agrees, leaning closer to Hitoshi, “almost as pretty as you.”

Hitoshi whips his head, eyes blown wide and ears feeling hot. Denki looks smug but earnest, finding Hitoshi’s flustering enjoyable, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

“Wha—”

“Hope everyone enjoys this recreational competition!”

Hizashi’s voice deafens the arena, bringing pause to the chatter and commotion.

“Once that’s over we’ll move on to the final event. It’ll be a formal tournament between the remaining sixteen members of the last four winning teams! A series of one-on-one battles!”

“So Izuku was right,” Denki murmurs, still by Hitoshi’s ear. Hitoshi fists his hands to keep from cringing.

Unknowingly, Izuku had walked over to them, standing on Hitoshi’s other side, arms folded across his stomach. Both Hitoshi and Denki startle when he breathes a sigh. Izuku turns to them, saying, “I know I predicted this but I’m disappointed they didn’t make it more creative. Last year was foam sword fighting.”

Somehow, Hitoshi is sure Izuku would still manage to injure whoever he fought against severely.

“Don’t you like spars?”

Izuku’s smirk is infuriatingly frightening. “I do.”

Midnight walks up to the stage, holding a box.

“The matchups will be decided through polls!” she declares, loudly enough to be heard. “Once that’s settled, we’ll move on to the recreational activities and then the tournament itself! The finalists are welcome not to join if they wish!”

The lots are drawn.

Hitoshi is first against Momo Yaoyorozu. He knows she’s in class A, and recognises the last name belonging to the conglomerate business, Yaoyorozu Industries.

“She’s the tall one in the cheer uniform,” Izuku tells him. “She’s incredibly intelligent and has a phenomenal quirk. I’m sure you’ll be fine so long as she doesn’t know how your quirk works, but after her, you’ll be against Hatsume or Iida and the cat’ll be out of the bag.”

Hitoshi hums.

“You won’t be going against me, Sir Lavender,” Hatsume says, standing up with her machine in hand.

“No?”

“I’ll be using him as a demonstration, I have no intention of winning," she explains with a manic smile. Hitoshi feels bad for Iida, and, though agnostic, makes him a silent prayer. "Can someone point him out?”

Denki does, and she walks off with a bounce to her step.

“Okay, so Tenya Iida.” Hitoshi asks, “Do you think I can provoke him?”

Denki, who’d been listening, nods with a snort. “No doubt. The man ticks like a clock.”

Izuku shakes his head, “But he is powerful. Don’t be too co*cky but don’t think you can’t win if he happens to stay silent.”

Hitoshi nods, Izuku’s words heavy like a threat.

Denki makes a contemplative noise, “Who’s Monoma, though?”

Hitoshi knows him. Remembers him talking obnoxiously in the halls after the USJ incident with Class A. Something about how they were seeking attention and how Class B was superior in every way. Hitoshi had felt empathetic about his disdain towards the continuous attention and praise Class A received; guilty about feeling empathetic knowing that the students almost died.

Envy was a heavy, heavy sin.

He points him out, standing by the silver-skinned man who was shot at their feet in the obstacle course and a pretty girl with flaming orange hair. He looks like he’d be offensive, lips curled in a sneer and eyes lit up with faux arrogance.

“His quirk?”

“I have no idea, sorry bud.”

Izuku tilts his head to the side. “I’m pretty sure it’s touch-based, but I haven’t read up on any of 1-B’s files since it’s not a part of my requirements as Nezu’s rep.”

Denki groans.

"Well what about you?" he then asks, staring at Izuku. "Tokoyami is another Class A powerhouse."

“Tokoyami will be a quick win, I think,” Izuku contemplates, “and I face Todoroki right after. Soon, then.”

“You might face Sero,” Denki points out, “if they win.”

Izuku shakes his head, looking over at the dual user. Hitoshi knows Izuku thinks he’s beautiful, beautiful enough to absolve his faults. He knows Izuku is intrigued. But his gaze is infinitely more intense in the split second their eyes meet, and Hitoshi has to wonder what they discussed. What could possibly burn the fire lit at their feet to reach for the clouds?

“No. I won’t.”

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku watches from the bleachers with Class A as opposed to Class C when the tournament begins, a better view for better observation. He smiles slightly towards Mikumo when he turns to him with a giant beam and flips off Dabi again when his roommate mimics waving pom poms in the air.

Present Mic announces the rules and introduces Momo and Hitoshi as they make their way over.

He’s preoccupied with thoughts of the Todoroki heir, who’d taken refuge in the locker rooms since his match was to follow. He’s praying for fire. He’s praying for his fire.

To taste it.

To see it.

To fall in love with it.

He's sceptical of his wants, though, and has no expectations. He’ll probably only see those towers of ice that he swears glitter. They’re beautiful too, the initial aspect of his beauty that caught Izuku’s attention.

Oh, but he met his intensity. Had seen it in his eyes. And his intensity is hot.

Present Mic announces the rules, taking Izuku's mind off their confrontations.

Hitoshi and Yaoyorozu are introduced, Izuku’s eyes catching the jerk in Hitoshi’s hands.

Hitoshi must feel hands squeezing his throat under so many stares.

Izuku’s confidence in him doesn’t waver.

Hitoshi will win.

Hitoshi

⛧ ⛧ ⛧

The round is over in a moment.

Denki is cheering. Izuku is clapping. 1-A follows.

Present Mic’s voice is moved with pride, his congratulations spoken in broken syllables like he’s trying so hard to keep himself together.

The air tastes like awe and fear.

Hitoshi leaves the tournament with a grin.

Shoto

❅ ❅ ❅

Shoto’s round against Sero is next.

He’s currently pacing the hall, trying to get the image of Izuku in a cheer uniform out of his mind before he casts a blizzard down the entire hallway.

(He has so many scars, so many scars like Shoto but he looked like someone Shoto swears you only read about in fantasy novels. He looks enchanting, with long hair tumbling down his back, outfit to his skin, a lean stomach on stretched-out muscle and strong thighs with wide hips. He has so many scars and bandages wrapped around his abdomen as deep and dark as the one on Shoto's face and such green, emerald eyes and a ferocious smile when faced with death and he makes Shoto feel weak.)

Their confrontation was a hammer to his ribs, took the breath out of him and made him feel scorched. It scared him and made him feel intense all over again the way he was with his father. Except he wants it. With Izuku, he likes it. He wants to stare down at the world the way Izuku does and fight it with the feralness of an animal.

He’d been docile, rebelled in the quiet as he choked back on his screams.

Izuku called him out on it, gripped his collar and shoved him against the wall and Shoto knees gave out. He looked Shoto down and threatened to leave him awash in his misery knowing Shoto'd been so desperate for his revolt.

‘Bite me.’

Shoto wants to tear out his flesh.

He’s so lost in his thoughts he doesn’t hear the sound of heavy footsteps and walks down the hall unaware, rounding the corner.

He looks up at his father, senses shutting down and anger swallowing him coldly.

“Get out of my way,” he says, walking around Enji. He swallows his fear when the heat radiating off the bastard's flame warms him, picking up his pace to get away, away, away.

“You’re a disgrace, Shoto.”

Shoto fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“You could’ve won both the obstacle course and the battle royale if you’d just used your left side.”

Shoto stiffens, frost dancing on his fingertips. His father can feel his ire as he can feel his father’s and the urge to punch him across the face makes itself known when he curls his fist. To plant a bruise like the thousand his father has planted on him, to infect him with frostbite even if it meant Shoto loses the tips of his fingers.

“Grow up, stop rebelling like a petulant child.”

Shoto wants to rage. His blood freezes over, his heart freezes over, his eyes, his mouth, his fire, his heat; frozen over.

“You were made to surpass All Might.”

Made. Made. He was made.

‘You were made. A thing. You’re a thing. A trophy. Not a human. Not a son. But a thing. Made. Like a robot. Like a piece of technology. You were made. With a goal. Made.’

“Understand? You’re different from your brothers!” Enji's voice picks up, and Shoto can feel his flames grow hotter. Hotter and hotter, and Shoto cringes, feels like ducking, running, fighting back. He brings a hand to his heart, beating loudly and fiercely and so, so slowly, every intake of breath too much, like he’s drowning in oxygen.

‘You ruined our brothers! You ruined my brothers! They’re not there anymore! They are not with me because of you! You are disgusting!’

Shoto wants to scream, oh Buddha he wants to scream. He wants to tear down the walls of this hallway just to get away from his father, from the oxygen he’s drowning in.

“You’re my greatest creation!”

Shoto’s cold. So. f*cking. Cold. Disgust curls his lips, the smell of burning flesh rancid and overwhelming as he continues to breathe. So. Much. f*cking. Oxygen. The same oxygen feeding his father’s flames. Making them grow. Threatening to set Shoto’s self on fire too. Too much.

“I’m going to win with Mama’s quirk.” Shoto promises. He doesn’t look his father in the eye. Can’t. His father is a monster and Shoto knows he will see himself in those eyes, the colour of teal reflecting orange flames and Shoto’s hatred. Shoto's wrath, a match of Enji's own.

“That may work with you as a student, but soon it won’t be enough.”

Shoto lets out a harsh, sharp laugh, full of his spite.

“Like you?”

He turns the corner just as his father’s flames light up the hall.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“Sorry.”

It’s whispered in the arena.

Izuku can read it on Shoto's lips.

The stadium is cold.

Sero never stood a chance.

The iceberg is beautiful. Is large. It swallows up the sky. Swallows up the sun.

Applause follows the stunned silence.

Applause follows the whispered apology.

It is all so freezing. So cold.

Shoto places his palm against the ice. It’s his left palm.

And it melts.

The glittering ice melts.

It’s tragic.

Izuku brings a hand to his largest burn scar, another through his hair. His eyes follow the empty shell of the boy who looked at him so powerfully mere moments ago. His eyes find the scornful gaze of the Number Two hero across the stadium.

Angry.

Treating himself like an extension of his father.

Hating himself for it.

Brokenly tragic.

And ice-cold rage.

Chapter 19: a summerchild and a cruel boy who share blood that swims with anger.

Chapter Text

Ochaco

❀ ❀ ❀

Ochaco rubs her knuckles against each other as she waits for Iida’s match against Hatsume to come to a close.

Midoriya had won his match against Tokoyami without a hitch, though the initial spectacle of the sentient Dark Shadow was supremely impressive, it whimpered against the bright, white and loud flashbangs Midoriya had flung at it. She admired the way the intimidating boy met the violence of the shadow monster with determination.

Truthfully, when she’d seen the brackets on the screen, her name across from Bakugo’s in bold, black font, she was terrified. Bakugo was angry like none other, the kind of anger that her Papa warned her about shortly after she’d told her parents about her dreams of pursuing heroics. Growing up in poverty, working under bastard heroes who took away her father’s business for their greed, Ochaco let her resentment take her by the wrist and wrap itself around her heart. Let it take part of her aortas and veins until she was thirteen, slamming her fist in the nose of a rival conglomerate who promised to help deal with her parents’ debt if they offered her as a down payment.

⚬⚬⚬

“My Summerchild.”

Ochaco remembers being three, for a moment, and the nickname ‘Summerchild’ following her around as she smiled at her parents with mud on her palms and dirt in her hair. So thoughtless to their life, so thoughtless to their misery.

She no longer was a summerchild. Naïevety was a privilege she could not afford.

‘Summerchild’ became a nickname foreign to her on the day of her fourth birthday, when she cried herself to sleep in the winter cold, wedged between her parents and knowing what it meant to feel greedy and gluttonous. They could not afford even a slice of cake.

Her parents still call her that though, try to preserve what is left of her innocence in their hands, knowing Ochaco no longer could. Keeping it with them until the day they hoped she'd learn to treasure that innocence again.

“‘M sorry, Papa,” Ochaco whispers with shame.

“No, no, don’t be sorry. He deserved that,” Papa reassures. “I’ll never be mad at you for defending yerself, Coco.”

“I woulda hit ‘im myself,” Mam adds, folding her arms across her chest with a scowl. “Who does he think we are? Propositionin’ our thirteen-year-old chile'.”

“Are we in trouble?”

Papa shakes his head. “He’s our boss’ rival, but we work under a more successful business, and it won’t blow over well if the boss finds out he tried to buy us.”

Ochaco glares at the floor.

“I hate ‘em both.”

Both her parents share a worried look.

“Them?”

“All 'em fancy business hero bastards. They’re greedy, money-hungry villains who’ll stop at nothin’ if it means more cash in ‘er pockets when ‘ey have more than enough to feed 100 starvin’ families 'n can still buy 'em fancy mansions!” Ochaco yells, angry tears springing in her eyes. “Why do they do this? Why us? Why did they take away yer business?! They’re disgustin’. I hate ‘em, I hate ‘em all!”

In her fit, Ochaco starts to levitate, and her father wraps his hand around her arm to keep her from hitting the ceiling.

“Coco, baby, calm down.”

Mam’s soft voice eases Ochaco’s adrenaline and anxiety, and she slowly falls back to the mattress they are sitting on.

“Sorry,” she apologises again, ashamed at her childish behaviour.

“There’s nothing wrong with righteous anger,” Papa promises. “But you should never let it consume you. You’re going to be a hero, right?”

Ochaco sniffles and nods.

For them. For people like us.

“Ye’ll meet many people like ‘r boss. Ye’ll meet people wi’ enough anger it’ll one day kill ‘em.”

‘Kill ‘em?’

“Holding onto that kind of rage is poison, Coco. I need you to promise me you’ll let it go. Fight for what you believe is good. Do what you want. That is our dream,” Papa states, Mam coming over to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Get angry, baby. But don’ be forgettin’ who ya are.”

“Who I am?” she repeats her mother’s words to herself.

“Our sweet, Summerchild.”

⚬⚬⚬

The match ends with Hastume stepping over the line, Iida still dressed in the gimmicks, berating her to no avail.

“Genius is f*cking fantastic,” Midoriya praises with a cruel grin, sitting in the front row at the end of the bleachers reserved for 1-A by Kaminari, head on Kaminari's shoulders, “I’d love to turn someone into a f*cking spectacle.”

“You’re already a spectacle on your own, Izuku.”

Midoriya rolls his eyes.

Ochaco, knowing she ought to get ready, stands up at the same moment as Bakugo, the two of them walking to their respective locker rooms.

“I’m going to crush you, Round Face,” Bakugo sneers, “you’ll be licking the sole of my f*cking shoe.”

Does he deserve that kind of anger? Is he worthy of it?

“Don’t count on it.”

Katsuki

✷ ✷ ✷

Katsuki fights a grin as he steps into the arena.

This is his. His terrain. His environment. How he thrives.

The crowd roars but it isn’t for him, so he does not bask in it. He has not won, not yet.

Round Face walks up right after him, her expression unnervingly soft, lips parted and tongue and teeth moving like she’s whispering something under her breath.

“If you plan on not coming at me with your all, you better f*ck off right now and throw the towel,” Katsuki warns, “I won’t be letting up if you start pleading for mercy later on.”

She looks up at him, round, large and sweet eyes narrowing, wrinkles by her forehead. There’s sweat on her brow and her lips are frowning in worry.

“Fat-f*cking-chance,” she says back, despite her clear nerves.

‘Good.’

Katsuki abandons her nickname and acknowledges her as an opponent, right then. Ochaco Uraraka with a five-finger touched-based quirk that can manipulate gravity, underdeveloped but almost impossible to out-manoeuvre if afflicted by. Strong shoulders and arms, decent oblique and calves, decent stamina. Excelling in strength with potentially poor speed, if Katsuki had to guess. (Deku probably could tell more. He doesn’t think about it then.)

“Start!”

She guns forward, aiming low. Not fast enough to reach Katsuki, who aims a strong explosion from the get-go, sweat gathering in his palms and lighting up. The ground breaks, rubble flying around and dust momentarily taking away his ability to see.

‘Too weak.’

When it clears, Katsuki aims another explosion for the ground, where she should’ve been, but his palms only light up a single piece of cloth on the floor, burnt, and Uraraka is out of sight. He whips his head right in time to catch Uraraka’s fierce expression, palms forward and aiming for Katsuki’s head. Present Mic’s commentary is proud and praised and Katsuki lets it pass through him to keep from losing his edge.

Katsuki isn’t a powerhouse walking on stilts of luck and talent. He’s practice, he’s hard work, he’s anger directed at every insult his mother spewed at him and every time he put in 200% like she asked only to slap him upside the head and ask for 100% more. He’s built his muscles to win the way he was taught, and trained and trained until his eardrums bled to clamber for his seat in the clouds, a gold medal on his neck and a matching crown on his head, dirt and blood stained with the efforts of his enemy. If they didn't go down coming at him like they were dying, it wasn't a victory.

He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and ropes made of his mother’s rage tying his wrists behind his back, and he’ll be damned if people dare undermine him the way she does.

It’s rinse and repeat and repeat and repeat.

She charges again. “Too slow.” And again. “Too slow.” Again and again. “Too slow.” “Too slow.” “Too slow.” It feels desperate, feels like a losing battle, but Katsuki doesn’t feel like a winner because she charges again. Vigorous. Strong. Vicious.

Again.

“Not enough.”

Again.

“Throw the towel.”

Again.

“Damn bitch.”

Again. Again. Again.

“Give up!”

And f*cking again.

Katsuki knows a losing battle, can see the tremble in her muscles and the sweat soaked through her shirt. Can see the blood on her cheeks and the cuts that litter her arm, the way she clenches like her stomach aches and the sick shade of green painting her skin.

He knows a losing battle.

“White flag.”

(Again.)

So why doesn’t this look like one yet?

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku bites back a grin.

“She’s f*cking wild,” he compliments under his breath.

“Don’t you think…” Denki trails off and Izuku spares him a calculating look, urging him to continue. “It’s a bit, well, harsh.”

“Don’t look at it through your eyes, Denks,” Izuku tells him, pulling Denki down so his lips ghost his ear, “look at it through mine. In the eyes of a kid who grew up with everyone after their throat.”

Denki does. Izuku doesn’t pull away, doesn’t let him straighten, forces him to slouch so he can keep his lips pressed against the curve of his jaw. He feels Todoroki’s gaze fixed on them, unrelenting. It’s curious, curious enough to tempt Izuku to go a little lower just to watch him react.

He doesn’t though. Keeps himself close until Denki mutters, “Oh. Oh, holy sh*t.”

“Wild, no?” Izuku reaffirms, pulling back and resting his head on Denki’s shoulder again.

“That’s suicide.”

“No, it isn’t,” Izuku rejects instantly, colder than intended. He knows Denki hears it. He knows he chooses to stay quiet. “It’s reckless, but Katsuki is objectively stronger than her in almost every way but leg and core strength, probably. This is her makings of a best chance.”

“Hey!” an audience member shouts, “Shouldn’t you just end this, it’s getting f*cking brutal.”

Across from Izuku, separated by a short distance, a member of 1-B—the one who’d lost against Denki after copying his quirk without having a better comprehension of his backlash—scoffs, “What an absolutely thick-headed dunce.”

“That was the most pretentious way I’ve ever heard anyone insult someone else,” Denki mumbles, impressed.

Izuku turns an eye to him. Neito Monoma, a petulant smile and eyes that sneered. He looked every bit as affluent and unpleasant as he sounded. A quirk that made it impossible for him to work without companions or acquaintances, but his classmates sat further from him than they did the others.

“Hell, if you’re that much stronger, just throw her out of the ring! This isn’t a hero’s win!” some heckler adds. “This is abhorrent!”

Izuku wonders what they yelled, whispered and boo-ed when he was on the faux apocalypse terrain.

Choruses and choirs of agreement and anger berating Katsuki for his brutality and demeaning Ochaco by hearing her punches as soft pillow sounds. More and more idiots in the audience yelling their displeasure.

“Stop toying with her!”

‘As if she’s not trying to win? As if he’s not exercising everything within himself to knock her out the way he knows means.’

“Who is the one who said he was toying with her? How many years has he been on active duty?”

Aizawa’s voice rings loudly as the opponents continue with their fight, explosion after charge, explosion after charge, explosion after charge. Uraraka’s taking heat and pain so closely that she’s brushed with cuts, scrapes and burns every time the dust clears.

‘Her final move will be one hell of a latch ditch effort.’

The hero in question startles, gazes turning to him. Izuku doesn’t hide his distaste, eyes narrowed where he props his chin over Denki’s shoulder to get a better look at the man.

“Shame he’s a f*cking idiot,” Izuku mutters, “I think the devil horns are a look.”

Denki chortles. “Only you, Izu.”

“If that’s really what you’ve gathered watching this match, you might as well start writing up resumes and going job hunting.”

A heavy blush dawns on quite a few of the audience members’ cheeks, others still proudly wearing looks of indignance like Aizawa was in the wrong. Izuku ignores the uncomfortable something trying to wedge its way in between his ribs. Aizawa truly was a teacher for the history books, faults and all.

Denki whistles, “Damn, Sensei.”

“She’s come this far and he knows her strength. He’s cautious because he recognises her worth, unlike you bigots.”

The accusation is bold and sits on everyone’s chests like ten-tonne anvils.

“It’s because he wants to win so badly, that there’s no room for carelessness or something as degrading as holding back.”

Always so audacious and always so cruel.

The hollering and howling come to an embarrassed silence, the single-minded onlookers bowing their heads in shame.

“Holy f*cking sh*t did our Sensei just teach them a f*cking lesson?” Mina questions dumbly, not loud enough to echo but to be heard by the hero course students in the bleachers.

Sero laughs, “Best Sensei ever.”

Eyes fall back to the fight at the sound of another explosion.

Izuku nudges Denki’s arm, beckoning him to lift it and hugging it close to his chest, keeping his eyes peeled. He’ll have access to recordings of this later to write out his analysis and critiques, but there’s nothing like a live spectacle.

Izuku knows Katsuki enough to read the words ‘Not won yet’ written across his features in the way he keeps his close and closed stance, palms still splayed out at the ready. He looks at Uraraka and reads ‘Not dead yet’ as she wipes her chin with the sweatbands on her wrist. They aren’t synonymous, murderers seldom win, even at escape or evasion, but at the moment, between hero student and hero student, Izuku swears they are. He watches the exact moment Katsuki’s eyes widen, face crumbling like notebook paper balled up in a closed fist, Uraraka’s lips moving soundlessly versus the roar of the audience and Present Mic’s commentary.

Monoma narrates, smugly, “Bakugo didn’t notice because of their proximity, but the pros in the stands who were behaving like toddler scoundrels should feel shameful for their observance. Or rather, lack of.” He points up, the less observant hero-class students following his finger. “She deliberately kept charging in low not only to help evade the explosions but to keep both Bakugo’s attacks and attention entirely fixated on the ground. Hence, she could ready her ammunition.

"The consistent attacks and vision-obscuring smokescreens kept him oblivious.”

Gasps, more noise, feet pounding the ground, cheers and jeers and a crescendo of shock.

“What a brilliant sacrifice, don’t you think?” the blonde praises with a tilt of his head.

It falls, no smoke screens or rubble or loud, hot, orange and white explosions lighting up the scene. Nothing to take away from it.

Izuku knows Katsuki won’t fall. He knows he won’t take it on his knees. It’s a thousand rocks, aiming for his head, but Izuku notes the moment his face turns to steel and his jaw clenches. This is not Uraraka’s win. Not at where she stands, not at Katsuki’s expertise.

But it is grandiose. It is a moment, absolutely glorious. A moment just shy of death, just shy of a proper suicide. Izuku's knees shake; he wishes he had Blackmist’s quirk so he could change places with Katsuki and take it all with a smile.

Katsuki raises a hand to the sky as the first rock slams against his shoulder.

Ochaco

❀ ❀ ❀

‘Ya ain’t dead yet.

‘Ya ain’t dead yet.

‘People like Izuku Midoriya would slit their wrists open in fron’ of hundreds o’ thousands o’ millions o’ pryin' eyes. People like Izuku Midoriya have their stories like brands on 'er skin and wear 'em like a cloak n’ a cape. People like Izuku Midoriya do the impossible before they fall to ‘er knees. People like Izuku Midoriya ain’t human ‘til you wan’ ‘em to be

‘'N people like Katsuki Bakugo ‘r the kind of people wi’ enough anger it’ll one day kill ‘em.

‘But yer angry too, aren’ch ya?

‘Yer mad, too, Coco.

‘So try yer hardest.

‘Yer sure as hell ain’t dead yet.’

Katsuki

✷ ✷ ✷

Katsuki can hear her words over the piss-baby crowd, over Aizawa’s telling them off, over the roar of his heart. Her words: loud, emphasised, and not for him but spoken to him. She’s stripped to her roots in her struggle to stay on her feet, and Katsuki can hear it in the way she yells.

“I’ve been strugglin’ wi’ my anger fer ‘s long as I could process it, Bakugo,” Uraraka tells him, heaving her words. Katsuki does not tell her to shut up; does not tell her to stay quiet. This is the last of her strength, and Katsuki would be damned not to face it like a headfirst collision. “But I ain’t never seen people like Midoriya before.”

‘Deku?’

She charges, low, always low, and Katsuki sets off another explosion.

It feels like fire in his blood. Always back to the boy who offered him humanity and met his rejection with a slap to his hand. Always back to the boy who made him choke on his regret when he left. Always back to the boy who’s been forcing it all out of his throat since he’s been back.

No longer the boy he knew, but him nonetheless. Still him, at the end of it.

“Ya got enough anger in ya that yer lettin’ it kill you, scares me sh*tless.”

‘Kill him?’

“But I met monsters, not assholes or villains, but real monsters, down to ‘er eyes, 'n ya sure as hell ain’t one of ‘em. People like ‘im are.”

Him. (Not the boy you knew.)

She charges low, constantly low, and Katsuki sets off another explosion.

Always back to Izuku Midoriya. Always back to the boy who offered him humanity and made him feel like they were children playing by the lake when Katsuki was supposed to be a growing God among them. Always back to the boy who made him cry when there was no body to grieve. Always back to the boy who never came back.

She charges, low, low low low, and Katsuki sets off another explosion.

‘She called him a monster.’

“I really gotta thank ya for not droppin’ yer guard.”

Katsuki is pulled out of his musings violently.

The audience had fallen silent, only for a second. It’s enough.

“I’m gonna beat yer ass!”

“It’s a meteor shower!”

Katsuki looks up, large and small rocks floating over him like a rainshower from hell. It’s insane, wild, and every bit the parts of Izuku Deku that Katsuki’s been privy to for the last month. Every bit desperate, and every bit feral.

She’s telling Katsuki that she’s like him, but fighting him like he’s the last opponent she’ll ever face. (And if Katsuki had known, back then, that people could...) With whatever she can. The way he liked it. The way he demanded it.

Katsuki lifts his arm, braces his feet, and sets off an explosion bigger and louder than he had before. It shoots him off his feet, shakes the ground and the audience, and blows the rocks aimed to kill him into nothing but more rubble that grazes their skin.

Uraraka still stands, still tries to stand.

“I ain’t dead…I ain’t dead yet.”

She isn’t, but she’s lost. Katsuki won. It’s over. They both know it, know it like they know their anger. The anger that made Katsuki human, to her. The anger that she said would kill him. (He thinks it did, a long time ago, as his mother bandaged the cuff marks on his wrists and scolded him until her throat hurt and his ears bled.) The anger she fought him with.

He gives her the respect of keeping up his stance. Let it be her final breath. Let it be until she wields. Until she can’t stand.

One step and she falls.

“Ah, Papa,” she whimpers softly, “Mam.”

Katsuki stiffens.

“Katsuki Bakugo moves on to the second round!”

═════════ ✷ ═════════

Katsuki makes his way to the 1-A bleachers. His eyes immediately look for Deku, who’s cuddled up against Dunce Face, facing the arena, where sh*tty Hair and a silver sh*tty Hair wannabe are arm wrestling. It seems their match ended in a tie then.

sh*tty Hair’s strong. He’ll win, Katsuki’s sure.

“Man of the hour,” Soy Sauce Face greets with a wide, toothy grin, gesturing to the two empty seats beside him. Assuming the one closer to him is for sh*tty Hair, Katsuki sits at the opposite end of Deku.

“Nice job blowing up a frail girl,” the sh*t face whose quirk Katsuki thinks is more like a hybrid of glorified super-glue and bouncy balls mocks Katsuki, pulling at his eye. Katsuki’s glare has him reeling back instantly.

“Don’t insult her like that,” he says, loudly enough to be heard by his class. “There’s not a frail f*cking thing about her.”

‘No one who fights like that is f*cking frail.’

“I would’ve gone easy on her,” Pervert says quietly, “she’s still a girl.”

“She would’ve beat your ass in three seconds flat,” Katsuki scoffs. It’s not a move to defend her, his classmates can tell. It’s what he thinks. Katsuki doesn’t flatter and doesn’t defend. He doesn’t need to or want to. Niceties meant nothing to him and meant nothing when faced with bitter reality.

“Katsuki’s right,” Deku tunes in before the pervert can defend himself, raising his voice enough to be heard by all the hero class students. “And if you don’t shut up, I’ll fold your ass in two.”

The pervert squeaks and goes quiet.

The boy who showed him humanity, described to be a monster.

‘Bullsh*t.’

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Uraraka is in the locker room when Izuku swings the door open.

She’s dressed in a few bandages and looks fatigued, staring at her phone—old, scratched, something Izuku knew grew out of fashion before the 2010s, cheaper than a fancy meal—forlornly.

She jumps, whipping her head to Izuku, eyes growing wider the longer she stares.

“Hi?” Izuku finally greets, dryly and a little confused. He is used to being stared at, but she’d had to have gotten used to his appearance at this point, otherwise, he’ll be immensely annoyed until their summer camp training is over.

“Ah!” she yelps with a jump, startled. “Sorry, sorry. I forgot this was where some students go during prep time. I’ll be out of your hair now.”

“It’s fine,” Izuku assures cooly, walking past her and to the locker where he’d left his support gear. She curiously turns to him as he does so, tilting her head, hair falling out of her face. There’s a bruise blossoming right at the cusp of her jaw he hadn’t seen earlier.

“Did they not heal you right?” he asks, gently putting down the flashbangs on the table.

“Huh?” She points at herself dumbly, blushing when Izuku spares her an unimpressed glance. “Sorry, I’m still a little out of it. But, they did. I’m just choosing to take it in sessions so I can still watch the rest of the Sports Festival.”

Izuku hums, checking the extra blades in the hilt of his knife and pulling out the belt.

“What are you doing?” she asks curiously.

“Re-equipping my support gear. I took them off after my round.”

Izuku tugs on the belt, ensuring it’s snug. Uraraka’s eyes move back to her phone and dim.

“You need to work on your speed and stamina,” Izuku tells her, uncomfortable with her expression.

“Huh?”

Her eyes don’t move from her phone. Izuku wants to break her neck, for a split second. Not out of anger or annoyance, but to keep her from looking like a f*cking kicked puppy.

“You. You need to work on your speed and stamina. We haven’t really made much progress with our quirks in class right? It’s because we need to hone our bodies first. You have good legs and core strength, stronger than a lot of the guys in our class considering your weight class, but your speed is leagues behind them. As for your stamina, it’s good, but if you want to beat people like Bakugo, the only thing you can do is work on it.”

Uraraka’s surprise lights up her face. She isn’t happy, though, Izuku doesn’t think.

“Oh. Well, yeah!”

She rubs the back of her neck awkwardly.

“Honestly, it’s a little embarrassing to admit, but I was thinking about you when I thought up the last move.”

Izuku regards her curiously, so she continues.

“Bakugo’s a little too out of my reach, right now. But I’ll keep looking forward. I don’t wann— want to lose again.”

“No one does. So long as losing doesn’t kill you, though, it doesn’t matter.”

She looks bleak. Izuku was compassionate, once. Empathetic, sweet. He still is, he supposes, thinking of Himiko and Dabi, Hitoshi and Denki. Of Todoroki. (He still is, he knows, but it’s become such a small and large part of him it’s torn off his limbs. It’s made him crazed.) But compassion can kill, empathy makes you so soft and easy to tear into. Uraraka is…soft, that is. Empathetic like Katsuki, in a way. But she doesn’t tear apart. (So why did she? Why did she? Why did she?)

“Are you not from here?”

Uraraka’s head snaps up.

“What?”

“Are you not from here? You have a slight twinge to your words sometimes, and everyone in first stands could hear what you screamed at Bakugo right at the end.”

“Ah, w-well. I’m not. I’m from a smaller prefecture a good bit away. Before I came here, my Papa, who isn’t from there, helped me straighten my speech so people wouldn’t judge me so much for being…umm…poor.”

‘Huh.’

“So you guys moved here?”

“No, my parents are still there because they can’t move for work. I live on my own in an apartment.”

‘On her own?’

“It’s not much, but I get what I got.”

“You know Yuuei offers scholarships and at-school dormitories for students, right?”

“What?”

“Talk to Aizawa about it, that way your parents won’t have to worry about paying for an apartment too,” Izuku suggests. Did the teachers not know anything about their students around here? Izuku knows he’s a special case, that Dabi writes up his papers with enough information to keep him from screwing people’s heads off their shoulders and in their shabby little hut where they aren’t safe but are okay. (And okay is enough, sometimes. Has to be when you're kids like them.)

“Time to start up the second rounds!”

Izuku stares up at the speaker in the room, tucking in his bo staff.

“Ah, sorry. I took up all your time talking.”

“Doesn’t matter. Just talk to Aizawa after this. And call whoever’s making you look at your phone like a lost child.”

Uraraka blushes, again, embarrassed, seemingly quick to redden.

‘Not as bad as Hitoshi though.’

“Ah, I will. And, umm…good luck.”

Izuku nods and walks off, the door closing behind him.

He hears her sobs at the sound of the click.

Ochaco

❀ ❀ ❀

“Hi Papa,” Ochaco says into the phone, blubbering. She listens to their congratulations. Listens to their praises and listens to her criticism being washed away by their love and her tears. She listens and listens, wiping her eyes with her knuckles like she is four again.

“You’ll be a great hero, one day, my Summerchild.”

Crying like the day she was no longer a summerchild. Crying like she still could be.

Chapter 20: our heat consumes us with lust (and love.)

Chapter Text

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku is going against Todoroki.

Shoto.

Shoto Todoroki.

Interest that’s been dogpiling since Izuku had first seen his quirk come to life as it swallowed up the Creature-From-Hell™ they fought their first week at Yuuei scratches his brain. It helped that he was so, so easy on the eyes. Izuku isn’t—contrary to what most people presumably believe—made of stone. The people who are with him and by him know this intimately, from the cuts on his skin to the smile he bears at death’s approach. It simply is that Izuku is tired (as exhausted as she was) and it’s easier to shut down than it is to break down.

Shoto Todoroki provoked something more visceral within him, penetrated him right through his chest and tore into him like he wanted to lick and feed at his blood-of-tar. Izuku’s met people who looked at him and burned—has met people from broken homes, has met people whose broken wills and bones were mended and re-written by anger and spite. He’s met dozens of people like Todoroki, but he’s never met anyone like Shoto Todoroki.

Izuku is anticipating the battle, spinning his knife between his fingers and wondering if he can still drag out Todoroki’s intensity in a way that makes him feel a thrill as opposed to the bitter cold and thinly veiled contempt for Todoroki’s life antagonists and self-defaming spite.

Izuku’s been taught the weapons of words and tongue, and he’s seen Todoroki’s ice melt and break under his only moments ago in the archway. Something happened between then and now that made it so when Todoroki stepped into his fight against Sero he’d felt the anger of an iceberg that shot for the clouds, and Izuku will be damned before he struck a match with that Todoroki knowing how he sounds and looks on the brink of depravity, desperate for something he thinks Izuku can offer in a declaration of war.

Fire to gasoline.

As Izuku rounds the corner, a sudden heat hits him, and he instinctively flinches away from it and steps back. It smells like rotting smoke, and his eyes, trained downward, find themselves staring at enormous and flaming boots. When he looks up, taking another step back and away from the man on fire, Izuku faces the mean scowl of Pro, Endeavor.

‘Ah. That must be what hurt Todoroki. This walking, talking, flaming dumpster pile in the shape of a giant man.’

Eyes narrowed in displeasure stare down at Izuku.

‘Jesus f*cking hell I know my growth is stunted but how f*cking tall is this man?’

“Hello.”

He sounds mean. Izuku’s met enough people aiming for his throat that he can pick up on malice well. Endeavor’s tone is malicious at every vowel, even if he intends to bring Izuku no harm.

“Endeavor?”

Izuku’s voice sounds void even to his ears. Endeavor is an abusive father who drove his wife to insanity with a quirk that makes him a glorified flamethrower. He is the larger, harsher, meaner reflection of the man who gave Izuku one of his largest scars. (And maybe that is why too, that he thinks of Shoto Todoroki and feels.)

“There you are.”

Still sounds mean. He sought Izuku out and is audacious enough to sound mean. Like Izuku is taking up his time. Honestly, the gall of a spotlight hero will always astonish Izuku. To feel like they do so much when Izuku knows that ‘spotlight’ takes precedence over ‘hero’ virtually always.

He doesn’t fault them. Money, fame, politics and power run the world, and there is no point saving a woman at knifepoint when an alleyway over there is another woman with a barrel to her head. It wasn’t special. But he’ll stay jaded, keep the fury like a close thing around his heart that he taps into when stepping into the heart of a ring made for carnivores and coming out alive.

“You’re not allowed back here.”

Izuku has gall too. Denki’s worried it’ll get him into serious trouble and Dabi tells him to hold his tongue to keep from a few lasting bruises when he walks through the slums, but Izuku’s nothing if not reckless with his life.

Endeavor raises a bushy, red eyebrow, face twisting into a look of displeasure at Izuku’s blatant disrespect. Izuku couldn’t give less of a sh*t. Respect wasn’t given without regard and men who hurt their children and beat their wives deserve less than.

“You have impressive combat skills,” he says, not as praise or compliment but to say, disregarding Izuku’s words. “It makes you stand out, as does your presence.”

“I’m aware,” Izuku deadpans, side-stepping the hulking man and twisting his fingers together to keep from thinking too hard about how warm he feels. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a match.”

Izuku walks a little too fast, putting as much distance between him and the fire hazard. He’s to turn the corner when the hero’s words make him freeze.

“Your match against him will be of value. My son will have to surpass someone of your combat skills,” he states, “just like how he’ll surpass All Might and any other obstacle in his way. That is why he was made.”

‘Made.’

“I expect you to put up a proper fight, Shoto has no time for useless opponents.”

Izuku feels like recoiling. He talks about his own-f*cking-child like something he built in a factory, something he designed for his making. Izuku had called Todoroki’s resolve pathetic, but, hearing the way this man spoke… it was a miracle Todoroki only refused his left side.

Izuku would’ve cut the man down using those very flames. Izuku would’ve ripped his hair out of his skin, tossed him in an oil spill, and let him cook and burn alive. He would’ve let himself be wrapped by the arms of villainy in his anger and spite just to watch what that man desired go up in flames too. A madman’s poetic irony.

Todoroki must be so very kind. So very good.

“That is all.”

And he turns like he has any right to walk away.

“Todoroki is not you,” Izuku says, letting it cut the air with the sort of pressure he’s been told tastes like bloodlust. Endeavor stills when Izuku turns his head, eyes bright with irritation. “He will never be you. It’s your faults and downfalls that keep you from surpassing All Might, not Todoroki’s. And it is not his responsibility to pick up on your slack.”

Endeavor’s anger can be felt, the parts of his skin and hair lit up with flames flickering and growing. His expression thunders, a silent threat made in the lock of his jaw. Izuku is not done.

“You may be a failure, but your son sure as hell won’t be.”

“You dare—!”

“I do,” Izuku interrupts the man’s shout. “I am not a hero, Endeavor, nor do I claim to be. I will skin you alive without blinking." Izuku smiles, letting it take up his entire face, manic as ever. “I will fight Todoroki with the intention to kill him because he deserves that respect. It has nothing to do with you.

“And when your son comes to set himself on fire, know damn well that it has nothing to do with you or your pitiful obsession with ranking and power.”

Izuku rakes his fingers through his hair, pulling it up high and tying it off.

“I hope he douses you in lighter fluid.”

═════════ ☻ ═════════

They are dangerous. They are strong. They are beaten. They are hurt. They are children. They are one. They are separate. They are frigid. They are ablaze. They are angry. They are voracious. They are…they are…they are…

They are of the same soil.

Wild.

Shoto

❅ ❅ ❅

Shoto doesn’t hear Mic’s commentary as he introduces the match.

He doesn’t hear his heartbeat, loud and ringing, or the sound of his breathing, laboured and expectant.

Instead, he hears Midoriya—Midoriya’s breath, Midoriya’s pulse, Midoriya’s vigour. He hears it and knows how easy it is for Midoriya to make him feel hot without it hurting. It scares him, knowing his father is seated in the crowd, arms folded across his chest and eyes scrutinising. He’s waiting for Shoto to set off, and Midoriya’s the perfect trigger.

“Start!”

Shoto doesn’t waste his breath, doesn’t waste half a second. He shoots his foot forward and a wave of ice slighter than the one of his first match engulfs the arena, a soft cold smoke taken by the wind obscuring the arena. ‘The match is over,’ a murmur sounds, ‘the match is over.’

Shoto should be inclined to think so too. Midoriya is strong—is nimble and fast and smart—but Shoto’s been broken and built to be the perfect trophy child, his ice frigid even to his touch, a chill he feels at the tips of his fingers. Midoriya is rebellion personified, and this is Shoto’s rebellion: ice, brittle and bitter.

Besides, Midoriya is quirkless and young, he hasn’t been trained the way Shoto has, hasn’t been beaten into tatami mats, sick from quirk overuse and overextending himself. Technique, strategy, quirk control, it hasn’t been drilled into him. He hasn’t been slapped with it, hurt with it, or singed alive to achieve it. Shoto hates who he is and what’s become of him, hates the foundations he’s been taught and how they’ve warped his sense of mind and self. Still, even a blind man could tell that it’s made him strong—a top hero in the making undoubtedly.

But Shoto’s seen Midoriya on the field, tenacity born out of a sense of survival. Midoriya, quirkless and young, hasn’t been trained but has learned to fight dirty and bloody. He fights like he’s on the brink of death. (Brain splatter across his cheeks, nose and chin. A joker’s smile carved into his face. Eyes gleaming with intensity and hunger.)

‘There’s no way he dodged that,’ follows the murmurs, ‘not when he hasn’t shown to have a powerhouse quirk.’

Shoto should be inclined to think so, but he’s met Midoriya’s insanity with pleas to be taken by it. So, when the soft smoke clears, he is not startled to find Midoriya, standing atop his ice, bo staff in hand and eyes hard.

Undaunted, Shoto slams his foot against the ground, another glacier climbing the previous one and heading straight for Midoriya. He needs to end it quickly, has to end it before Midoriya can dare speak, to wear him out before Shoto finds himself desperate enough to forget his father in favour of Midoriya’s lunacy. As Shoto’s been so achingly desperate for it, for his hands around his collar, for his teeth to be bared before him like a wild beast. Like something Shoto should but cannot bring himself to fear.

The ice shatters, the sound of it splintering echoing around them. Shoto shields his face from the icicles, ears picking up on the sound of Midoriya’s boots slamming against his ice as he nears him. He looks up to see the baton being held like a bat, Midoriya significantly closer to him than before.

Shoto knows how to fight close combat, has been pitted against his father before he learned how to write and has lost again and again, enough to know how to win. Nonetheless, he is not a close-range fighter; never has been. His quirk stretches for miles and miles, and an enemy subdued from a distance is an enemy too far away to maim him.

“Where the f*ck is the boy who swore he’d beat me?” Midoriya laughs mockingly. “Don’t tell me you’re a one-trick–wonder, Todoroki?!”

Shoto can feel the frost crawling up his legs and arms as he aims another attack to widen the distance, back hitting the wall of ice he’d set up behind him to keep him from falling outside the ring. The ice shatters, and Midoriya still stands proudly, red cuts on his face from the fragments.

Midoriya smiles. Midoriya smiles and it’s so damned cruel. Shoto's resolve wanes and hardens in the same second.

Midoriya sneers, “Didn’t you say you’d win?”

Eijiro

ᕤ ᕤ ᕤ

Eijiro watches the match between Midoriya and Todoroki with rapt attention. Todoroki is a fortitude, a mass of power, strength and attacks that dominate the arena. Midoriya evades the ice with agility and intelligence, meeting the attacks with the blow of his baton or slamming against the ice with the thinner end to jump over it and land on his feet.

But there’s only so much he can hit and evade, and Todoroki’s attacks are seemingly never-ending.

“It’s intense,” he comments, turning to Bakugo. “You and Todoroki can just fire off those insanely strong attacks like it’s nothing. I wonder how long Midoriya can fight them off.”

“Don’t be a f*cking moron,” Bakugo retorts, “quirks are still physical abilities. Run too much and you’re out of breath, work out too hard and you tear your muscles. Even he’s got a limit to his attacks.”

Kaminari, across from them, hums in agreement, voice carrying over.

“Look closely at Todoroki, man,” he says. Eijiro does, straining his eyes. He sees it for a second, as Todoroki takes a step forward, as Midoriya stands on a glacier, weapon still in hand.

“What a f*cking idiot,” Bakugo scowls.

“What? What’s going on?” Sero asks.

Eijiro doesn't so much as blink to confirm what he saw.

“Todoroki’s shivering.”

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku’s f*cking annoyed.

The heavier end of the bo staff worked well against the ice, though the force of the hit reverberated in his bones and the shattered icicles cut his skin. Years of parkour and street brawls taught Izuku the importance of agility too, and so jumping over the shorter glaciers proved easy. He wasn’t worried about slipping either, thanks to the gripping sole of his shoe.

Izuku matches the attacks, dragging out the match and dragging out the match because he’d feel condemned if he lost to the blizzard of Todoroki’s vendetta as opposed to the part of him that Izuku ached to devour. Izuku can feel the cold ache his scars and stiffen his joints, his breath materialising as white smoke.

“Are you trying to stretch out the match?!” Todoroki yells, anger like a shield. He looks off and Izuku knows he’s met his father’s eyes when he turns his head and spits, “I’m going to end this quickly.”

Izuku, unprepared, strikes with the bo staff clumsily, missing half the glacier. He kicks off the ice too far to the left in haste, the end of the iceberg stabbing his shoulder, piercing through it. He hisses, pulling off the ice just as fast, blood running down his arm and staining his clothes. He narrowly misses Todoroki, who’d used a large chunk of the broken ice to jump their distance and aim an attack right for Izuku’s head, fist slamming against the ground, surrounded by icicles. Izuku’s bent in an arch when a second attack follows right after. He hits upwards with the bo staff using his uninjured arm and reaches for a flashbang with the other, tossing it in Todoroki’s direction, momentarily blinding him. The ice above him shatters but below him catches his arm, and he uses the momentary distraction to rip off the ice and straighten his back, feeling his skin tear and bones snap.

Though the smoke hasn’t cleared, Izuku feels another wave of cold hit him at full force and sprints off to the left, kicking up one of the taller icebergs and sitting at the highest flat point. He pulls his knife out of the holster, scratching it against the ice as the air clears.

Todoroki stares up at him, the lust of his heat still so impossibly far away.

Izuku is still aching, his blood smeared against the ice in vivid crimson. The commentary passes through him like liquid seeping through his palms. Todoroki is infinitely more than his quirk; everything, from his mobility to his judgement, has been honed to near perfection. Izuku’s been paired against bastard after bastard in his miserable life. Men who have taken lives for less than a penny. Men who revel in an opponent's pain. Men who have put revolvers to their heads like they were stronger than death.

Shoto Todoroki could fold their asses in a heartbeat. Like this, cold, detached and angry. Like this, bruising himself for the sake of spite. Like this, so far away from the boy who caught Izuku’s attention mere hours ago.

Izuku wants more. He wants to meet his eyes and a vision of the world as it burns.

“You’re severely injured,” Todoroki calls out, “you won’t be able to take my attacks head-on in that state.” He takes another glance at the audience, another glance at his father. “I have to thank you, though. He looks real pissed.

“I said I’d beat you, so let’s end this.”

‘Like hell are you beating me.'

Todoroki aims for another attack. Izuku's injuries weaken the strength of his swing and isn't sure if, even with the heavier ends, he'll surely be able to shatter the next attack entirely. He grips his knife tighter, adrenaline picking up and numbing him to the pain. (He’d dealt worse, has dealt with worse.)

“When the f*ck did I say I was done?!” Izuku shouts, stabbing his knife right through a fragile, less sturdy pillar of ice. He slams the bo staff against the hilt of the blade like a hammer to an ice picker. Todoroki’s eyes widen just as the pillar breaks and tumbles, an avalanche slamming against the weakened attack and gunning right for his opponent. Izuku falls, left arm slamming against the uneven ground, splinters piercing more and more skin, wrist shattering on impact.

Todoroki narrowly avoids the avalanche by gliding across a new ravine of ice, looking at Izuku with an expression of disbelief and confusion.

“What are you doing?”

Izuku scoffs. “What am I doing?”

Louder, he repeats, “What am I doing?!” Todoroki flinches, but Izuku is lost in the dizzying pain of ripped skin and broken bones, is lost in his ache to break what Todoroki swears makes him whole, is lost in his cravings for that desperation he’s met only twice and has become an addict for. “What the f*ck are you doing?! What? Do you think you’re infallible? Quirks have limitations too, asshat!

“And you’re trembling like a f*cking leaf.”

Izuku extends his bo staff with his right arm and a strong whip, striking the ground behind him to push off of and sprinting for Todoroki. In a state of shock, Todoroki’s reaction is slow enough that Izuku lands a hit across his stomach and another at the bottom of his spine. Todoroki shoots an iceberg weak enough that Izuku feels bored when slamming against it and jumping up, hearing it crack despite his weakened strength.

“You plan on letting yourself pass out from hyperthermia again, huh, sh*thead?” Izuku yells, sprinting forward with his broken arm extended, knife cutting through Todoroki’s uniform and grazing his skin. Izuku swears under his breath when Todoroki’s fingers brush the skin of his wounded shoulder, the sensation of frost melting into his wound like that of a burn no slighter than the burn of heat.

‘So his ice can burn too.’

And come the thought comes a new ferocious vigour to bring out his fire too. If Todoroki burns, regardless, he should burn in glory. He should burn knowing he was human. He should burn as himself. And he should burn for Izuku, the way Izuku demands, the way he aches to. (Izuku had seen it, a first declaration, a provoke, a threat.)

Izuku slams the hilt of the switchblade against his shoulder, the pain like electrolytes flooding his bloodstream. He feels the familiar claws of depravity reach for him with madness, and Izuku, for the first time in four years, pulls away from it.

‘Not yet. Not yet.'

They are still strapped in Todoroki’s blizzard, Izuku needs to crack his world down the middle and reach its blazing core.

“You f*cking hypocrite!”

Izuku first met Todoroki’s declaration with distaste, found it too pitiful and dishonest, but found the desperation enticing.

“You plan on winning with half your quirk?”

Izuku then promised to kill him as he found himself, for the first time, craving the intensity of fire. He met it and meant it, feeling Todoroki’s coolness melt in the face of their shared heat, as he pressed him against the wall of the alcove, as Todoroki’s fingers reached for his sleeve and he swore to win.

“You came to me, said you’d beat me, and you f*cking dare not give it your all when you come to fight me!”

And now they fight in an arena covered in broken ice and shattered glaciers and icebergs Izuku can climb, Todoroki shivering and Izuku’s arms limp at his side as he resists what makes him feel alive.

He wants an inferno.

“I swore I’d kill you!” Izuku screams.

He’s screaming. He’s been screaming. He’s been raising his voice when he’s so used to cutting through the noise by keeping quiet and steady. He’s loud, trying so fiercely to reach Todoroki again.

“So you better be f*cking trying to kill me too.”

Izuku raises his knife, his mangled hand and his broken arm.

“Or else you won’t leave this damn place alive!”

Shoto

❅ ❅ ❅

‘What is he doing?’

Shoto’s dying.

He must be. That is the only explanation for the way he feels so set alight. His heart is soaring and plummeting, his legs are too heavy but his feet are light. He isn’t tempered but he doesn’t know what he is so he thinks it is anger, driving him forward, intending to close the gap between them with Izuku so heavily injured.

His attacks are hurting him, freezer burns crawling up his arm, chafed by his uniform. They’re weak, too weak because Izuku evades them too easily; Shoto is slammed in the chest by the end of his switchblade, hard enough to steal his breath. (It’s impossible. Midoriya’s standing on broken bones and a gaping hole where his arm meets his shoulder. It’s impossible, and yet he strikes Todoroki hard enough to take his breath away.) He narrowly dodges the actual blade as it cuts across his chin, skidding backwards.

“Why are you going so far?”

Shoto is dying; asks the question like it’s the last he’ll ever get to utter.

“You know why I’m doing this, why I’m fighting against it all. What are you trying to achieve?!”

Midoriya strikes the ground with the bo staff as Shoto tries for another weak attack. The frost is crawling across his chin, across his face. Every breath comes out in puffs of condensation and Shoto’s lungs burn with the effort.

“I do not fight the world, Todoroki! I have never tried to fight the world. I am not a hero!

“But you, you want to be. You want to save, you want to be everything he isn’t.”

Shoto is slapped by the memory of his name as he chose it at 11, spoken by his father, hardened and serious. Shoto loves his name, it makes him feel clever and reminds him of the way his mother called to him before she was taken. But at that moment, in that second when his father dared repeat it, he wanted to do nothing more than discard it. To try again and again, until his father rejected his choice so thoroughly that he never dared utter it in the first place.

Another strike that nearly throws him out of the ring reorients his focus.

“I am not you, and I will never be,” Midoriya says, “but I’ll be damned if I ever let the scum in my life dictate how I live and what I do and do not do to fulfil my agendas.” He laughs, brokenly, loudly, frighteningly. “Unlike you, a puppet who never learnt to cut off his strings.” And he laughs as Shoto dies.

“Shut up!”

“Maybe you don’t want to prove anything, maybe you’re just like me and the f*ckers I’ve met on the street. Just living to spite. Because the way I see it, you becoming number one, denying your father, proving to him that you’re good, you don’t want any of it. You just want to smirk as he scowls at you for making a mockery of your ambitions and the efforts of everyone you come across.”

“I said shut up!”

But Midoriya promised to kill him. He regarded Shoto, who came to him, who was looking for him, who ached for the kind of resilience he carried on his back like nothing. He regarded him and swore to kill him.

So Shoto promised he’d win. (Even if it means dying.)

⚬⚬⚬

“I don’t want to be like him, Mama. I don’t want to be like a man who bullies you, Mama.”

Mama strokes Akari’s head, her cheek; wipes at the spit and vomit dribbling down her chin. She holds her closely, does not aggravate her bruises but soothes her.

Akari feels inexplicably warm despite her Mama’s touch being cold.

“I hate him, Mama. I hate him so much, I’m scared.”

“Oh, Akari.” Her mama speaks of her so fondly. “You still want to be a hero though, right?”

Akari sniffles and nods.

“That’s fine, then. You are my brave little girl. You are my strong, beautiful child.”

Mama runs her hands through Akari’s hair, fingers gently scratching her scalp.

“I promise you, Akari…”

⚬⚬⚬

If I were to tell you that you are the sum of your parts, am I being honest?

If you say yes, why?

Are you building blocks of the trauma you endured and how it tore you open? The warmth that is followed by the affectionate caress of someone’s hand? Are you glued by the tenderness you never received? Or the broken love that you did? Are you held together by the writings of vengeance that you keep cupped in your palms; hands that have been scarred and burned by those who tore you down and took away what you swore made you soft and good and kind?

So I tell you, you are the sum of your parts, the parts that broke you again and again until you were put together with the foreign pieces of other’s ire and other’s resentment.

Foreign Pieces: When your father beat you so hard at five years old you were crawling in your puke and spittle.

Foreign Pieces: When he dragged you away by your limp and bruising wrist as you longingly stared at your siblings kicking a ball in a beautiful large garden that you were never allowed to play in.

Foreign Pieces: When you stood in front of your mother, holding her bruising cheek, yelling at your father to leave, to die, to burn in hell with the flames he was so proud of for daring to bully her when she is the only one who dared to love you.

Foreign Pieces: When your brother died and everyone was allowed to mourn but the following night you were still pulled into the training room to be broken a thousand times over.

Foreign Pieces: When you caught your sister begging, on her knees, for your father to be good, for them, to hold them together with their broken pillars because family was so dear to her.

Foreign Pieces: When your brother, the one that lived, stared you down and said it was you, you, ‘daddy’s perfect trophy’, who ruined them.

Foreign Pieces: When your mother, so shattered she could no longer stand on her own two feet, poured water hotter than any flame your father has burned you with over the parts of you that reminded of him, and in frantic guilt froze it over to remind you how bad the cold could burn, too.

I tell you you are the sum of your parts, and those are the parts you say shaped you.

The reason you are a personification of spite. The reason you refuse to fall for the lust of heat that never burned. The reason you chase after rebellion. The reason you will never be whole.

If I were to tell you that you are the sum of your parts, am I being honest?

═════════ ❅ ═════════

“Do you think I’ll let you f*cking win like this? When you're acting so goddamn pathetically I feel embarrassed making a promise to kill you!”

Midoriya moves faster than can meet the eye, faster than Shoto thought possible, fast enough that Shoto can do nothing but fall to the floor, heaving in pain, as Midoriya bats him with the end of his staff and stabs him through the hand, twisting his knife as he yanks it out.

The pain is violent and startling and Shoto bites back a scream.

He doesn’t feel cold.

“My father…” he starts, but Midoriya dives in and Shoto's voice is caught in his throat as Midoriya locks his legs underneath Shoto’s and flips him onto his back, holding a blade to his throat, staring him down, burning.

And Shoto doesn't feel cold.

“Your fire, your heat, what you challenged me with and what I met with the same rage, none of it was your bastard, wife-beater father’s,” Midoriya tells him lowly.

Shoto is staring at the devil-incarnate. Midoriya’s hair casts a shadow over them, over him, his eyes all the brighter for it. His knife is pressed against Shoto’s throat because he swore to kill him, and Shoto feels the promise like vines woven down his spine, over his heart, and across his skin. Shoto can see holes where his piercings usually are, blood and scars on his face and down his shirt from the brushes of death Shoto thinks Midoriya fell in love with.

Shoto is staring at the devil-incarnate, eyes so desperate and hungry for a glimpse of Shoto he caught in a moment. A glimpse he decided, right then, as it oozed out of Shoto with fever, was worth drawing out a fight that broke his arms.

Midoriya looks bewitching.

“I am not fighting Endeavor. I am fighting you. Shoto Todoroki.”

‘You. Shoto Todoroki.'

⚬⚬⚬

“...you are not blood-bound to your father Akari. Like All Might said, like I am telling you. You are your own, and you will grow up strong. You will choose who you become, and no one else.

“My fire-and-ice warrior.”

⚬⚬⚬

“Will you let me kill you whole?”

═════════ ❅ ═════════

If I were to tell you that you are the sum of your parts, am I being honest?

If you say no, why?

Is it because you believe, you finally understand, that no matter how much you shatter, no matter how desperate the memories you have try to tear you apart, or the number of pieces scattered before you made of your broken self, you still yearn to feel whole?

Do you remember how you ripped off the chunks of yourself that were foreign and tried to fix yourself with those bloodied fingers? Your fingers.

Do you remember the helping hands that stitched you slowly and softly and sweetly? That slow, soft, sweetness you thought was left for dead.

A stitch: The gentle caress of your mother’s hand?

A stitch: The bright, beautiful colour of your dead brother’s fire?

A stitch: The worry in the eyes of the brother who lived?

A stitch: The strength of your sister as she pulled you up when you felt the world fall under your feet?

A stitch: The desperate thirst you now meet in eyes so green they light up, waiting for you to set on fire in a heat he promises is yours, so he can kill you whole?

Like you’ve always been whole? Like you were never the sum of broken parts, but simply being, existing, choosing what you let in and what made you grow?

Or maybe you are? Maybe you are the sum of what broke you.

But are you not also hugged by the way you were loved, cared for, respected, and seen?

If I were to tell you that you are the sum of your parts, am I being honest?

═════════ ❅ ═════════

You call me a liar who speaks the truth.

Like the blend of fire and ice.

You decide it makes perfect sense.

Because you are the sum of your parts.

For burning can feel cool.

For coolness can burn.

And you are whole.

═════════ ❅ ═════════

Shoto is alive.

It hits him then, in that moment, that he is alive. That he is so very lucky to be alive.

No longer cold. Not in that moment. Not for that second.

“I will,” Shoto replies.

His heart is set on fire.

“I’ll ignite.”

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

Izuku jumps off Todoroki just in time to avoid being burned.

The arena is shadows of red, orange, yellow, and white. Fire. So loud and proud and strong, so hot, so stunning, reflected in Todoroki’s captivating eyes.

‘Is it the colours of sunset or sunrise?’

Izuku hears no one but Todoroki; the adrenaline he’d been fighting off for this very moment consumes him entirely. Izuku smiles, so brightly, so wildly, baring teeth and fangs and heat. Shoto smiles too, and Izuku wonders if that is what he looks like.

Deranged.

Beautiful.

“What happens to you is out of my control!” is Todoroki’s only warning.

“Likewise, Pretty Boy.”

Smiles, blood, fire, heat, agility, adrenaline, the promise to win, the promise to kill. The arena is a battlefield like none other. Izuku’s never met anyone who made him tick like this. (He loves it almost as much as he loves the promise of death. Like how he loves his Denki enough to live for him. Like how he loves Himiko enough to sit with her as she eats, as the hours pass by and she swallows the last bite of her chicken leg with a proud smile on her face. He loves it. He wants to cherish it. To keep it close to him.)

‘I want him.’

Izuku throws one of his strongest flashbangs just as Todoroki’s fire envelops the arena.

It’s the quietest, most gentle whisper Izuku’s heard, but he hears it like the entire spectacle has gone mute.

“Thank you.”

═════════ ═════════

The chilled hair was heated in an instant, expanding.

The flashbangs are flammable, setting up a perfect eruption.

Mic’s commentary is deaf to the sound of it.

The audience’s gasps ring silent.

It’s hot and cold and the ground shakes beneath their feet.

When the dust clears, both the opponents are still standing, tears in their clothes and soot on their cheeks.

Izuku Midoriya’s switchblade is stabbed right through his foot, surrounded by puddling blood. His bo staff is slammed into the ground, broken asphalt spider webbing from it where it's anchored.

The ice wall behind Shoto Todoroki has shattered in the impact, the fire-and-ice wielder unsteady on his feet, stumbling backwards in an attempt to regain his balance.

His right foot slides past the boundary line.

“Izuku Midoriya moves on to the next round!”

Shoto

❅ ❅ ❅

Shoto stares at his father, disgusted by his triumphant smile. He’s on his way to the clinic, having denied needing to be taken by stretcher—despite winning, Midoriya was in infinitely worse shape—when his father bothered to approach him, a second time.

“I’m disappointed in your loss, but I’m glad you’ve finally gotten over your childish rebellion. Now you can work at my agency after you graduate and—”

“As if.” Shoto sneers, cutting off his father. “I still reject you and every part of you you tried to beat into me."

He scoffs at the incredulous look on his father's face, clarifying, “It was just, in that moment, I forgot you existed. You were nothing to me.”

Enji’s eyes widen, his flames growing with his anger.

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. I need to think. Now, if you’d excuse me, I’m bleeding.”

Shoto can't help when he snidely adds, "Not that it's ever stopped you before," as he walks away.

As he’s turning the corner, Enji loudly whispers, “Did the bastard you fought tell you to say that to me again?”

Shoto freezes.

“What?”

Endeavor doesn’t give more, clicking his teeth and walking away.

'Again? Did Midoriya berate my father?'

Shoto imagines it.

His cheeks feel hot.

Izuku

☻ ☻ ☻

“I will inform Hizashi and Shota that we’ll need to postpone your next match. You’re lucky you don’t need surgery, young boy!”

Denki’s hand atop Izuku’s is the only thing that’s keeping him from hightailing it out of the clinic.

“And what is taking Shoto Todoroki so long to get here? He should’ve just come on the stretcher, for goodness' sake!”

Recovery Girl pinches her nose and sighs. “I need to have Toshinori make a public announcement to keep you young heroes from hurting yourself. My gods. I will be back in a moment, you boys watch over him, and if Todoroki comes, please direct him to the cot by yours.”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am,” Denki promises with a salute.

Just as she’s out of their line of vision, Hitoshi immediately turns on Izuku and admonishes, “What the f*ck is wrong with you?!”

Izuku rolls his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Yeah, and I’m f*cking Spiderman,” Hitoshi sneers. “Why the f*ck would you provoke him like that? Sure, the cameras don’t pick up on the audio well, but we sure as hell can hear the screaming. You were egging him on until he tried to roast you like steak.”

“Speaking of,” Denki interrupts, eyes gleaming, "I could’ve sworn that look at the end was you absolutely wanting to f*ck the living daylights out of him.”

Izuku raises an eyebrow.

“Sure you’re not projecting?” he deflects, eyes moving back to Hitoshi with no subtlety. It is only Hitoshi still being frustrated with Izuku's blatant lack of self-preservation that keeps him from noticing.

Denki blushes, cheeks going pink, and rebuttals, “You sure you’re not? You admitted that you found him attractive, like, right before the tournament. And then, in the end, you know, before you stabbed yourself in the foot—”

“Which we will be talking about,” Hitoshi promises.

“—you looked like you wanted to pounce on him.”

Izuku stays silent. It isn't entirely untrue.

Hitoshi rolls his eyes.

“Who he does or does not want to screw doesn’t f*cking matter. Why the hell would you stab your foot?”

“To keep from moving?” Izuku offers in a blasé, unimpressed tone. “It was pretty obvious.”

“You stupid f*ck—”

A knock on the clinic door cuts off Hitoshi’s spiel.

Shoto Todoroki is staring at the three of them, bloodied hands cradled to his chest, looking worse for wear with a slight flush to his cheeks.

“Yo, what’s up, Roki!” Denki greets cheerily.

“Hello,” Todoroki responds. “Hitoshi Shinso,” he follows up with a bow, then turning to Izuku, and slightly clumsier but still with the stance and tone of a rich kid moulded to be the perfect image, “Izuku Midoriya."

“You kn…kn-know m…m…m-my na-name?”

Todoroki nods. “I know the name of anyone who might be a future competitor to me.”

“A c…c…c-competitor? Me? Against y…y…y-you?”

Todoroki, with proper confusion, nods again.

Izuku quips, “You sound nothing like the bastard who promised to defeat me because he was, what was it? Objectively stronger?”

Much to Izuku’s amusem*nt, Todoroki lowers his head, embarrassed.

“I apologise for that.”

Izuku shrugs, unbothered. His eyes dance with amusem*nt. “No, I’m glad you did. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be where we are right now.”

Todoroki looks up and meets Izuku’s gaze. Charged.

“Well,” Denki clears his throat, “RG said to just wait by Izuku. Me and Hitoshi are gonna bounce.”

Denki leans over to kiss Izuku’s cheeks lightly, leaving with a, “Stay alive.”

Hitoshi, in similar sentiment, says, “And don’t f*cking stab yourself, f*ckhead.”

Izuku waves them off.

Todoroki narrows his eyes at the ground as he clambers onto the cot, sitting upright and facing Izuku. It’s quiet for a second before Todoroki meets his eyes again, and questions, bluntly, “Are you dating Kaminari?”

Izuku barely refrains from hiccuping in surprise.

'Todoroki really does ask the most random f*cking questions.'

Shaking his head, Izuku replies, “No.”

Shoto’s eyes soften a degree, his expression melting into lighthearted confusion.

He asks, “But you touch him a lot. Isn’t that what people in love do?”

“Some people. I love Denki more than I’ve loved anyone in a long time, but I am not in love with him. I don’t think I could ever be.”

“Oh.” Todoroki tilts his head. “That sounds nice.”

“It is,” Izuku agrees, and then, bold and fearless, tacks on, “Want me to touch you like I'm in love with you?”

Todoroki’s eyes widen. His cheeks burn a furious shade of pink.

“Huh?”

Izuku lets himself admire the deer-in-the-headlights look for a moment, before clarifying, "You don't spend time around your other classmates. Why not, from now on, spend it with Denki, Hitoshi and me? I'll show you what it's like." Izuku adds, "I also promised your piece of sh*t scumbag of a father that I'd come for his neck and integrating his son into my life and showing him the ways of a queerplatonic relationship."

"Queerplatonic relationship?"

"Something a little closer and more intimate than having a normal friend. That's the relationship I have with Denki, and maybe, Hitoshi. I like you, Todoroki. I want you."

Much to Izuku’s delight, Todoroki isn’t the slightest bit put off by his audacity. In fact, his looks eager at the proposition.

“I’d like that.”

Todoroki smiles. He smiles so quietly like he’s afraid this moment of happiness lapsed between them is seconds away from being ripped from him. So, Izuku, with half-healed injuries and half-healed bones, leans over and gently grabs Todoroki’s hands, uncaring that the boy was still bleeding.Todoroki tenses like he’s about to yank away, before complying and threading their fingers. His touch is wet from blood and defrosted ice. Izuku likes it, likes the sensation of knowing he is holding him, touching him, no matter how innocent.

“To us, Todoroki.”

“Please, call me Shoto,” he requests. "I chose the name for myself. It's the name I want to hear you say."

Brazen.

“Then call me Izuku, first.”

He does not hesitate.

“Izuku.”

Izuku doesn’t know if he smiles or frowns or grimaces at the pleasant feeling of fairies swimming in his blood.

All he knows is the way thename feels on his tongue.

“Shoto.”

Chapter 21: legacies are followed by a trail of their headless bodies' footprints.

Chapter Text

Toshinori

☮︎ ☮︎ ☮︎

Toshinori has found him. He believed so before, and he believes it now, intrinsically and in his blood.

A boy with vigour, with power, with strength. And, above all, a heart that years to protect. A heart that moves without thinking. The heart of the boy who will save the world. (Who will take on the burden Toshinori will never acknowledge he is lifting off his shoulders and onto another. A necessary sacrifice, he will call it. A necessary consent to a life of slavery for the public. Besides, he is dead…he has to be, this will be nothing like what Toshinori went through, what his master and her master and their masters had to endure; to die for.)

Izuku Midoriya is one of the best-fitting candidates he’s seen to date. He looks like a beast and fights like one too. Toshinori is sure he has spilt the blood of plenty and is not afraid to spill more. But, time and time again, he’d seen the true nobility in his heart. The day they met he protected the young boy who’d clung to Toshinori’s leg like it was his last lifeline. (And it was, but Toshinori knew none of that, too blinded by self-pity and desperation); the following hours he’d put his life on the line for Young Bakugo, trapped in flames and fire; the glimpsing encounters Toshinori came across when the boy was interacting with his friends; and now, at the festival, determined to save Endeavor’s son from whatever was keeping his fire caged within his heart.

Midoriya might not come across as benevolent, but he was kind when it meant something, and he moved like he could do nothing else.

That was enough.

So, upon the incredible and terrifying display of power between the two heroes-to-be—it was said Midoriya had stabbed his foot clean through, into the concrete, to help keep in place, and though an abysmal way of going about things, Toshinori could admire the drive—Toshinori intended to have a one-on-one conversation with the boy. It must’ve been fate that Midoriya had already stumbled upon half his secret, Toshinori is sure now. Not a moment of bad luck, but a premonition for this very moment.

He gently knocks on the clinic door twice before letting himself in as Yagi. It would arouse less suspicion should Young Todoroki still be in the clinic, or any other patients for that matter.

Toshinori’s precaution proves valuable when, indeed, in the cot across from Midoriya’s (have they been moved to be pressed closer together? It seems so) the two boys converse quietly as Shujenzi puts away what appears to be bandages and bruise cream.

They all turn to him at his arrival. Todoroki looks unbothered, if a little confused, Shujenzi is irritated at him, though Toshinori hasn’t a clue why, and Midoriya looks generally displeased.

‘Well then…’

“Yagi, what are you doing back here?”

“Who is he?” Todoroki asks Midoriya softly.

“A coward,” is Midoriya’s immediate reply, loud and accusatory as his eyes narrow at Toshinori.

Todoroki, noting Midoriya’s displeasure, directs a harsher gaze at Toshinori as well. Toshinori swallows his discomfort, unused to such looks of hostility from people outside of the villains he captures, especially young hero-fledglings.

As well, Toshinori’s ego is bruised by the accusation. That moment on the rooftop was one of weakness; he wouldn’t go so far as to call himself a coward. He’s laid out his life on the line again and again in the pursuit of justice, and though it will never be enough, it has worn him weak and gaunt. It has blessed him as a symbol of heroism, and a symbol of peace. The foundations upon which hero society is built are held so heavily by his hands, and Toshinori has been reminded, reprimanded, and re-told again and again about how fragile that is, how careful he must be to keep it from falling over.

(But is this the answer? To carry it over to a person with smaller shoulders that might break under its weight? What else is there? What else can he do? It is a sacrifice that’s been made eight times over. The weight of it has been chipped away, bit by bit, with every passing second. It is lighter than it has ever been. Light enough that Toshinori does not think it is heavy at all. He’s grown numb to it; sees it as something praise-worthy to have walked his life chained to its burden.)

“Don’t be rude,” Shujenzi admonishes lightly, turning her attention back to Toshinori, expectantly.

“Ah, right. I’m Yagi, by the way,” he introduces to Todoroki, “I work at Yuuei.”

Todoroki regards him coolly, muttering, “I think I remember seeing a tall stick man, I just thought it was a lamppost.”

The statement—and that is what it was, a statement, said not to be an insult but just to be said—startles a harsh laugh out of Midoriya. He reaches over, laying a surprisingly careful hand on Todoroki’s knee, and compliments, with a smile, “Shoto that was the best description of someone I’ve heard in a while.”

Todoroki places his hand atop Midoriya’s, looking shades brighter.

“I didn’t mean to be funny, but I’m glad to make you laugh.”

‘Hm?

‘Were they this close before the match?’

Shuzenji, who’d waddled over to Toshinori on her cane, smacks his leg lightly, beckoning him to bend down to better reach her.

“They’ve been sweet to each other since I came to treat them. I think the match blossomed a specific kind of friendship; reckon they’ll be something more pretty soon.”

Toshinori looks back the moment Midoriya flips over his hand to thread their fingers together.

The weakened hero blinks black at the sudden feeling of forlornness. Shujenzi was always a soft-hearted gossip for young love, but Toshinori himself could never think of such things in such a rose-tinted way. Bearing One For All, fighting All For One, losing Nana…everything he never acknowledges save for on the worst of the worst nights where he swears he can feel where half his stomach was gone, it made things like the innocent sweetness of these two young boys holding hands impossible.

‘Ah, stop thinking like that. This power is a gift. My title is a great honour.’

Recognising that the boys probably want to watch the following matches and the time crunch they were on in how many minutes it took for Cementoss and Powerloader to rebuild the arena, Toshinori awkwardly clears his throat.

Midoriya turns to him slowly, disinterest and annoyance in every wrinkle by his brow and corner of his lips. Todoroki looks mildly put off, too.

“Sorry to disrupt, but could I speak to young Midoriya for a moment?”

Both Shujenzi and Midoriya eye Toshinori wearily, the latter with an insulting amount of distrust considering the only time they’ve interacted was the day on the rooftop. Embarrassingly, Toshinori had been going out of his way to avoid Midoriya, and, much to his relief, the boy seemed rather disinterested in the hero as well. As arrogant as it sounded, he wasn’t worried about his secret getting leaked. It’s a cruel truth that appearances held significance, and the word of someone like Midoriya was worth the weight of a feather when faced with Toshinori’s words of weighted platinum. Rather, he was avoiding the boy because of his inflamed sense of pride and preservation.

Toshinori can admit he is far from perfect, and Midoriya has seen it. (Many people have, but Toshinori doesn’t like to think about that. Refuses to.) He could read him to filth in an instant.

Besides, he never had any reason to seek him out, and Midoriya hadn’t over-sought any of Toshinori’s classes yet.

It’s different now. He knows Midoriya is the candidate, the imperfect perfect hero-to-be he’d been looking for since his injury.

“In private,” Toshinori adds, looking off to the side to avoid the scrutinising gazes.

Midoriya sags, moving to slide off the cot and let go of Todoroki’s hand when Shujenzi’s voice stops him.

“Now, Yagi, need I remind you Midoriya is still not fully healed. If you so much as—”

“Just a conversation, honestly,” Toshinori promises.

She purses her lips.

“I was about to dismiss them both anyway,” Shuzenji relents. She turns to the two boys, reminding them, “Midoriya you still have to see me during the interlude between this and the next round for your wrist. I don’t want to fatigue you too much by healing it so quickly after your first session.”

Midoriya nods.

“You can use my clinic to talk, Todoroki-kun can wait for you at the stands.”

Todoroki presses his lips, gripping Midoriya’s fingers tighter in reluctance.

“It’s alright Sho, just take the seat beside Denki if you’re alright being next to me. Besides, I can’t miss the matches anyway, part of my duties as Nezu-sama’s rep.”

At Midoriya’s reassurance, Todoroki nods, hesitantly letting go before following Shuzenji out of the door.

Midoriya turns to Yagi, though doesn’t meet his eye.

“What is it? I thought you were avoiding me.”

“I—” Toshinori splutters, mortified. “It wasn’t intention—”

“Save it, Yagi-san. If this is about your secret, I didn’t tell anyone.”

“No, no,” Toshinori hurries, “it isn’t about that, though I do appreciate you keeping quiet about it.”

“Who’d believe someone like me anyway?” Midoriya retorts.

Toshinori doesn’t have a response, having thought along the same lines himself only moments ago.

“Um…w-well, anyways,” Toshinori stutters, steering the direction of the conversation, “I wanted to ask about your goals for the future?”

The look Midoriya gives him is drier than the Sahara desert.

“I mean,” Toshinori continues, still stumbling over himself clumsily, “I mean at our school? I’m aware you work underneath Nezu as an assistant to oversee Aizawa’s lessons with 1-A and contribute your own observations, but you’re in 1-C, why is that?”

Toshinori didn’t know much about the students’ situations, having been working during the entrance exam observations and the following briefing. He taught heroics and only worked with the first years considering his lack of teaching licence and experience, and, outside of Togata Mirio, no student had shown promising potential to inherit One For All either.

“Although you don’t seem to possess a powerful, physical quirk, whatever mental or internal quirk you have and your own efforts make you more than qualified enough to be enrolled in—”

“I’m quirkless,” Izuku interrupts, shocking Toshinori silent. “I don’t have a mental or internal quirk.”

“You’re quirkless?”

“I am. The only reason it hasn’t spread around the school is because the people in my class don’t believe it and are afraid of me.”

“Oh!” Toshinori brightens.

‘He really is the perfect candidate!’

"That makes this conversation easier then.”

Midoriya co*cks an eyebrow. “What? No spiel about how I need a quirk to be a hero.” He mumbles something under his breath following the jab.

‘Right. The rooftop, with the little boy.’

“Ah, actually. I have the perfect solution!”

(Solution, Toshinori said. Like it was a mathematical equation without an answer after the equal sign. Solution, Toshinori said, when Midoriya never once stated it was a problem.)

“Pardon?”

Toshinori lowers his voice, humbling his expression. His mind is racing. Thinking ‘perfect, perfect, perfect’ and ‘you’re losing time’ just as repetitively. Too impulsive, too fast, never looking at Midoriya and seeing how he foretells rejection is in his every move, from the curl of his toes to the way he breathes.

“What I am about to share with you is a top-secret, young Midoriya. You mustn't tell anyone.”

Midoriya’s protests fall on deaf ears because Toshinori is so sure that he’s found the one. (He is dying and he sees it in his reflection, the blood that leaks past his lips and the smaller utensils he has to use as he eats. He’s been desperate, and has hit his peak, in a small clinic, facing a boy who foretells rejection in his every move.)

Toshinori, with tears (/tir/) not in his eyes but tears (/ter/) in his throat, recounts the better parts of a story of a quirk like a torch, flames dampened with injury and strengthened with years. He tells it like a story with pages sewn together by threads made of gold, words written in ink like silk and a quill that never broke.

Proud.

Toshinori Yagi, The Symbol of Justice. In the footsteps of his master. With a power passed down like a crown of heavy gold and a thousand diamonds. (It is a heavy weight on his head, on the heads of those before him. It sunk into their skin until they were bleeding from their scalps with indents in their skulls. They never see those scars, always hidden under their head of hair; forget they exist until identical marks have found themselves on another victim's crown.)

“It is a power only wielded by those with an untamable fire in their hearts, a desire to save lives!”

(Midoriya sees it for what it is, a pretty lie of glory and justice: hair matted with blood.

Toshinori sees it for what it is, a pretty lie of glory and justice: a crown of gold and diamonds.)

“And you, my boy, have that! Why, I noticed it the day you helped Bakugou-kun from the slime villain! Your legs moved before you could think, right? That is what a hero is. You outshone everyone despite not having a quirk!”

It's said in a quick, fast, breath. Toshinori is so sure he’ll say yes, like how Toshinori said yes to Nana so many decades ago, so ready to take the world on with his fists alone. To save everyone pretending it wasn’t impossible. (Pretending it made him enough. Made the sacrifice worth it, worth them.)

“I’m not interested.”

Toshinori’s shoulders drop.

“H-Huh?”

“No.”

“My boy this isn’t—”

“No.”

“Midoriya-kun—”

“f*ck no.”

Toshinori straightens.

“Is this because you are quirkless?” His words come out of him like vomit, all over his image of infallibility. “Because that isn’t a problem. This will grant you a quirk. Besides, I was quirkless myself, I know what it’s like to start—”

The air chills.

“What?”

Toshinori lags.

“I’m…I— s…s-sorry, I—”

“No. What did you say?” Midoriya’s tone is not calm, or angry, or loud. It sounds like what Toshinori thinks swallowing cold poison would feel like. “You were quirkless?”

Toshinori is lagging, as it doesn’t hit him yet, not for a second, why Midoriya is so suddenly full of despise, not until…

“You were quirkless and you had the f*cking audacity to tell a ten-year-old quirkless child with bruises on his face on a desolate rooftop to give up on his dreams of being a hero?”

‘The child? What does the child…’

“How dare you?”

‘Oh.’

“You know, even briefly, of the isolation and exclusion we face. You know it’s only gotten worse as our population dwindles. You know that telling a f*cking quirkless child to ‘be realistic’ is suicide and you still did it.”

“No, suicide is—”

“And here I am, living proof that what you said was bullsh*t. Wasn’t Sir Nighteye your sidekick? Did he not fight villains without a quirk to f*cking aid him most of the time? What about Aizawa against mutants, when his quirk is functionally useless? Or, better yet, what happens to him when someone scoops out his eyeballs? What happens to Present Mic when someone sews his lips shut? Midnight when someone skins her alive? Endeavor trapped in a body of water?

“What happens to you, to the Symbol of Justice, the All Might, when someone rips out your stomach and leaves you for dead?”

═════════ ☮︎ ═════════

This is not the first time you will be told about lethality.

Lethality

noun. the capacity to cause great harm, destruction, or death

In a world of heroes, villains, and powers that can cause mass destruction at mere thought, lethality is so easy to obtain. Pain, hurt, murder, annihilation, carnage; what it takes to bring down a building; what it takes to bleed out a man.

People are massacres in the making.

But you do not need a gun, a knife, a bullet or a tank to be lethal. You do not need a quirk that's morphed your fingers into knives or lets you spit acid through your teeth. You do not need to be trained like a weapon of mass destruction, whipped until you learn to not cry.

No. A silver tongue is aeons more lethal.

Because you will be labelled a coward, and you will flinch like you’ve been struck.

You will be scolded for acting too impudent, and you will fight back tears as if you’ve been burned.

You will be yelled at for not being enough, and you will faint like you’ve been starved.

You will be reminded that you cannot save everyone, and you will scream like you’ve been stabbed.

You will be told that you are human, and you will fall like you’ve been killed.

That is lethality.

Toshinori, you are a coward. You are impudent. You are not enough. You cannot save everyone.

Toshinori, you are human.

You were made of nothing.

And turned into someone with enough worth to bear that crown on your head. To bear its glory, to bear its pain. To bear its burden.

And yet you have been killed by a lethal silver tongue.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

═════════ ☮︎ ═════════

Midoriya stares down Toshinori. Down, at a man who stands over seven feet.