Chapter Text
Before he can voice any of that confusion, though, Yamada cuts in with a hurried, “Dinner incoming! Toshi, give me a hand and some dishes,” and Shinsō tosses his phone across the table to Izuku before going to rifle through a cabinet for bowls. He’s lucky Izuku has good reflexes, because otherwise his bandaged fingers would have absolutely ended with the phone crashing to the floor. Why.
Eraserhead glances over his shoulder, dark eyes landing on Izuku as he turns off the stove and leans over to pull open what must be a cutlery drawer. “How’re your hands feeling, kid?”
Oh. He’s— he’s talking to Izuku. “They’re— um, I guess not bad?”
“Scale of one to ten.”
On a scale of… well, it’s not as bad as the time with Sachiro, and it’s not as bad as Kacchan’s burns, and it’s definitely not as bad as suffocating, so… “Two?”
For a moment, Eraserhead pauses just long enough to blink at Izuku, the same way a cat does what is with this family and cats please someone tell Izuku he’s not going crazy here— “Correction: on a scale of one to ten, where one is ‘no pain whatsoever and you can punch mountains’, and ten is ‘begging for the sweet release of death’. Be generous.”
Bowls clatter as Shinsō nearly drops the pile, visibly smothering a snort of laughter. Izuku takes a long moment to process the amendment, before slowly answering, “… maybe a five, then.”
“Describe it.”
W h y. “Um, I guess it— I don’t mind it, but I can’t really hold things for too long or it gets worse.”
Eraserhead frowns, staring down at Izuku’s hands until he pulls them out of sight. “… the nurse didn’t give you anything for pain?”
“I— I have a pretty high pain tolerance, sir.”
“That’s not an excuse.” Abandoning the cutlery drawer, Eraserhead makes for the stairs, calling back over his shoulder, “Any allergies or medicinal specifications?”
Okay, weird question. “Um, dandelions, and I had a bad reaction to— uh, I think it was amoxicillin? But that was just as a baby, so we don’t really know if it still—“
“That’s all I needed to know.”
Eraserhead disappears upstairs, leaving Izuku to stare numbly at the empty stairway as Shinsō helps Yamada portion out the udon into four bowls, tempura draining on a rack nearby. Did he mess up? He doesn’t think he messed up, that was— he was just answering a question, right? Eraserhead’s not gonna come back downstairs with a handful of dandelions and shove them in Izuku’s face, is he? No, he wouldn’t do that, who keeps dandelions in their house anyways?
Cutlery clatters as Shinsō leaves the rest of the food to Yamada, laying out chopsticks and napkins at four place settings around the table. Izuku… does a poor job of trying not to stare at the ones in front of him, because… is this a prank? Is he being pranked?
Glancing over his shoulder, Yamada chuckles. “Haven’t seen those before, huh? Those types of chopsticks are designed for people with motor control disabilities, but they also work for hand injuries.”
“Really?” He can’t help the question bursting out, because that’s fascinating. Of course something like that exists — there’s gotta be all sorts of accommodation utensils for people with issues like that, or quirks that make it hard to hold stuff normally. Actually, especially for the latter, how has he never thought of this before? Of course mutation quirks would necessitate more variable utensil designs! But everyone here has hands like Izuku’s, so why…
Shinsō catches his eye and snorts. “Pro Hero household, and Dad fights hand-to-hand a lot. He and Pops are way prepared.”
Which is about when Eraserhead reappears, silent on his feet once again like a cat seriously does no-one else notice this stuff, and sets two small tablets in the table next to Izuku’s accessible-for-hand-injury chopsticks. In the time it takes Izuku to process and formulate a question, the man grabs a glass from the cupboard, fills it with water, and sets it down beside the tablets. “Here, take those. And— good, Hitoshi gave you the ‘Ow Fuck My Fingers’ chopsticks.”
… the WHAT chopsticks?
Snickering, Shinsō gets himself a glass of water as well and flops back into his chair. “See, you make that face now, but calling ‘em that is better than Pops always saying ‘the Special Boy Chopsticks’, or Dad calling them some weirdass different thing every month.”
“Language, Toshi.” Eraserhead shoots his son a narrow look, before jerking his head at Izuku. “Take the tablets. Just over-the-counter, but they’ll help for dinner.”
Fuck. Izuku tries not to rely too much on painkillers — after all, things would get a lot worse for him if they lost their effectiveness — but he can’t just disobey a Pro Hero at said Pro Hero’s dinner table, in front of said Pro Hero’s husband (who is also a Pro Hero) and son (who is going to become a Pro Hero). And if the pills are supposed to help during dinner, he has to take them now so they’ll have time to work. Sort of. Hypothetically.
As his brain freezes, urge to follow his habits at war with the urge to Not Disappoint An Authority Figure, Eraserhead fixes Izuku with a narrow look. "Something wrong?"
"No!" Whoops, too loud. "No, just— um. I just." Damn it, Izuku really wishes he could crack his knuckles right now. Anything to distract from his stupid brain. "I don't want to— to use them when I don't need to? Or else they won't work as well when things are really bad, and—" The reasoning sounds a lot flimsier out loud, and he ducks his head away from the three sets of eyes looking his way. Great going, Izuku. They invite him into their house, go to all the trouble of making dinner and giving him chopsticks he can still use with his busted-ass fingers, and then when The Eraserhead gives him painkillers from his own medicine cabinet Izuku refuses them. Could he be any more immature? "Sorry, I didn't mean to— I'll take them, sorry."
With a sigh, Eraserhead steps away from the counter and sinks into the chair beside Izuku. His hands, barely within Izuku's field of vision, twist together for a moment before releasing and resting open on his knees. "Midoriya. Can you look at me?"
“Sorry.” Look at you, disappointing the one Pro who’s helped. Way to go.
“Midoriya.” Eraserhead’s hands flex, almost like they want to move against his will (without thinking), and the man sighs again. It’s too soft a sound. “Hey. I’m not mad at you.”
And that really shouldn’t be what finally triggers the waterworks, but—
First, it was Sensei and everyone in class laughing because Izuku wanted to go to U.A., even though everyone else did too. Then it was eating in a bathroom stall again, hoping nobody would come find him. Kacchan wrecking another notebook (swan dive), nearly dying with sludge in his lungs and nobody around to find him, All Might’s terrible secret and brusque words and the narrow edges of his silhouette as Izuku’s idol walked away. Standing on the edge of that rooftop, watching the smoke rise, and stepping into that weightless feeling—
None of the heroes had tried to save Kacchan. Not even All Might, even though he had to have seen. If Izuku hadn’t done the stupid (suicidal) thing, if he hadn’t been the only one to take a risk and try, Kacchan would be dead. And even after that, everybody just scolded him. Like always.
And then, someone — someone finally listened.
Izuku’s tears come, as they always do, in a torrential flood, and he shoves the bandaged clubs of his hands against his eyes to try and hide the damning evidence. He can’t cry in front of Eraserhead, not now, not in front of the first person in — in Izuku’s life who’s actually taken him anything close to seriously. Now he’s crying, and Eraserhead’ll think he’s just a weak quirkless nothing like everyone else does. Even though, even though—
“Hey, Midoriya— hey, shh, it’s okay.” Chair legs scrape across the floor, and muffled footsteps lead off somewhere. Hands brush against Izuku’s arms, pausing when he flinches before resting more firmly. “Can you tell us what you need right now?”
Izuku wants to be alone. Izuku doesn’t want to be alone. He can’t let them — these kind, kind people — see him like this, but—
“Don’t— please don’t leave, please—“
Slippers shuffle across the floor. A warm, heavy something drapes over Izuku’s back, and the hands leave his arms just long enough to pull it into place — just the right amount of weight to ground him to the Here and Now, making swan dives nothing more than a distant memory. Another hand brushes just barely across his head, running fingers through his hair before settling to rub circles on his back. The air is warm tempura, and his cat-patterned slippers blur into watercolors.
“We’re not going anywhere. Okay?”
Three people breathe, and somehow — somehow, Izuku breathes too.
“Okay.”
The hands on his arms shift, thumbs making what feels like a side-to-side rubbing motion as Izuku slowly, slowly brings his aching lungs back under some semblance of control. At some point, a box of tissues — in a case shaped like a plush cat, of course — is pushed into his lap, and he pulls a few out to wipe at his eyes and blow his nose. And then a few more, just to be safe.
Seconds tick by, the shape of the world shifting from watercolor blues of emotion back into solid colors and senses. Eraserhead sits back as Izuku straightens cautiously, one hand keeping the tissues from falling while the other rubs at his now-itchy eyes. The sound of something scratching the floor catches his ears, and Izuku turns to see Shinsō nudging a small rattan garbage basket his way. No doubt the tissue box and blanket were his doing, too. Still, Izuku does his best to summon a smile. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” Shrugging, Shinsō waits far too patiently as Izuku deposits the used tissues into the waiting receptacle. One corner of his mouth quirks up, looking almost wry. “Sounds like you needed that.”
For once, it doesn't sound like the mockery it's always been — 'oh look, it's Crybaby Midoriya again, snotting it up'. Izuku watches Shinsō's face, ever-so-slowly working up to meeting the other boy's eyes, and — it doesn't look like a mockery, either. Instead, it looks like... it looks like 'I get it, I've been there too, I won't judge'. It looks like understanding. The sight of it almost overwhelms Izuku, vision blurring briefly before he resolutely swallows back the urge to start bawling once again. No matter how much crying may or may not help, he really shouldn't keep everyone else from eating. (The tempura smells really good, and maybe he's a little hungry too).
Eraserhead straightens the blanket, expression thoughtful as Yamada sets bowls of food onto the table, one-by-one. "... How about this. The tablets can stay there, but you don't have to take them unless you feel like you need to. Okay?"
"Sor—"
"You don't need to apologize." The words are blunt, but their tone remains gentle. "It's your body, you get final say. If the pain makes it too hard to eat, though, will you consider it?"
Izuku nods, because — that much is reasonable, that much he can do. (To be fair, he's pretty used to eating through pain, but— well, yeah, nobody wants to miss a good meal because their hand hurts). Plus, worst come to worst, he's decent enough with his off-hand that he should be able to at least get the food from bowl to mouth, even if it looks a bit awkward and graceless. And foreign as it seems, he doesn't think anybody here will judge him for that either.
Seeming satisfied, Eraserhead steps back and returns to his seat, tucked around the table to Izuku’s right. Yamada sits down next to him, once all the bowls are in position and a large square plate in the center of the table proudly displays the rest of the tempura, and Shinsō scoots his chair counterclockwise until he’s practically shoulder-to-shoulder with Izuku. Or at least, shoulder-to-shoulder while still allowing adequate elbow room, should Izuku need to use his off hand after all. None of them seem bothered, even though it must feel more cramped than usual with Izuku taking up a quarter of the space — they arrange themselves around the table like his presence is natural, like he’s a friend that’s been over a dozen times instead of a pitiful stranger that was dragged in practically off the street.
Nobody’s… ever made space for Izuku like that. Nobody but Mom, who doesn’t need to because it’s only ever been her and Izuku. At school, the other students avoid his table like the plague, or chase him right out of the cafeteria. And he and Mom never really go anywhere to eat, not restaurants or friends’ houses.
But these people… they do. They are.
It feels surreal, hearing ‘itadakimasu’ coming from four voices instead of two, having people on either side of him instead of just across the table. Eating dinner with Mom is always pretty quiet, but Yamada’s just as talkative over a meal as he is on the air, and his chatter draws Shinsō and Eraserhead in with a fervor Izuku wouldn’t have expected. He talks about his students, his radio show, the day’s Heronet news (oh gods, please don’t mention the slime villain, please), and seemingly whatever else crosses his mind.
It’s… strange, but not in a bad way. Izuku can sink into the noise, let it fill his ears like music as he focused on holding his chopsticks and tasting the food. (Which, for the record, tastes great. Maybe working with Lunch Rush pays off. Does U.A. offer cooking classes — or for that matter, dietary health? After all, it probably is an important part of a hero’s lifestyle, and Lunch Rush can’t be spending all day in the kitchen, can he?)
“Now that’s a great idea, li’l listener!”
Izuku nearly drops his chopsticks in an aborted motion to cover his face with his hands, because he had not meant to say that out loud.
Yamada just smiles, gesturing with his free hand. “Now, I know we do have a first-year Health course, but I can’t recall how the diet section goes! I’m sure he’d have good advice, though — I’ll mention it next time I see him, see if he’s interested.”
A small, completely unbidden squeak escapes Izuku’s mouth at the thought of another hero hearing any of his ideas, even secondhand. So embarrassing, beyond the human limits of embarrassing, he might spontaneously combust! What if Lunch Rush really does spend all day in the kitchen, and this sort of idea cuts into valuable work time? Or what if he prefers to cook and doesn’t have any interest in teaching, and this puts him in an unasked-for situation and he can’t decline without risking job security and it’ll just make everything worse and—
“Midoriya,” Eraserhead’s mild tone creaks through the rapid whirlpool of Izuku’s thoughts, and the man tilts his head just enough to make it a gesture. “It’s a fine idea, but nobody is going to force him if he’s not interested. He’s a Pro — he knows how to say no when he needs to.”
Somehow, more than anything, that concept boggles Izuku. Isn’t the job of Pros to— to do everything they can, to go beyond? Obviously not beyond reason, but— like the old PQ comics said, ‘with great power comes great responsibility’, and being a Pro means having great power in some form or another, doesn’t it? Why would he say ‘no’, if other people want him to do it, and it could help?
In the distracted periphery of his vision, Izuku sees Eraserhead and Yamada exchange a Look. Leaning forward, chopsticks placed carefully in their rest, Yamada posits, “Midoriya, may I ask you a question? Or rather, a prompt.”
“A— sure?” Like Izuku could ever say no.
“How would you describe the purpose of the Heroics Support field?”
Huh? Where did that come from? But it’s Present Mic asking, so Izuku does his best to gather scattered thoughts into some semblance of cohesion. “Ah, well— um, the support industry, broadly speaking, is anybody working within the professional field of heroics support who qualifies for membership in the SUPURO Support Workers Union.” What else does the official union website say, again? Gosh, it’s been a while since Izuku last looked it up. “They— um, they’re responsible for the design, regulation, and intellectual protection of the costumes and support equipment used by professional heroes and sidekicks—“
“Wow, Dad, I think he swallowed one of your lectures.”
“—and many cutting-edge developments in quirk-adaptive technology are the result of support-funded research and development, like the FLEX fabrics used in a great deal of gigantification-friendly clothing brands and REVERSI lenses for non-mutable ocular emitters. They’re also the leading contributors to a lot of modern quirk safety regulations, and— um,” Izuku swallows hard, wilting under the weight of three sets of eyes on him. The dinner that tasted so delicious minutes ago, churns like a warning in the pit of his stomach. “Did— did I get something wrong?”
Yamada shakes his head, something indiscernible peeking from the upturned corners of his lips. “Not at all, li’l listener. That was a great answer, well-informed! But, how about the other sub-divisions of SUPURO?”
“Other…?”
“The SUPURO Support Workers Union,” Eraserhead explains over the sound of Shinsō muffling snickers that feel more directed at his parents than anything else, “encompasses any and all trades that contribute support to licensed pro heroes, provisional heroes, and sidekicks.” He sets his own chopsticks down, leaning back with his arms crossed. Izuku catches the barely-audible sound of a foot tapping the table leg. “While it is dominated by support equipment engineers, its members also include analysts, quirk counselors, coaches and trainers, and psychiatric specialists with hero support licensing. People who are professionally equipped to help heroes improve their skills, and their own well-being.”
Dark eyes, darker under their strong brows, turn to fix Izuku with a gaze that pins him to his chair. Like a butterfly, in a box. “Heroes need support staff, because no hero can save people endlessly without also taking care of themself. Learning personal limits is a key part of any hero’s education.”
Is this still about Lunch Rush? Is this still about whether or not one hero knows his own limits? Why does it feel like Eraserhead is staring straight through Izuku, straight through the words and the gestures and the reassurances and straight into the sinuous, razor-sliver echoes still dominating the useless cavern of his mind? Why does it feel like he’s being told something without any words? (Why does it feel like this is about something far away from here, far away from U.A., far away on a rooftop watching All Might’s back disappear?)
A low whistle escapes Shinsō’s corner of the table, distracting Izuku briefly from the whirling mire attempting to take over his mind. “Dad-sensei, coming in strong.”
Izuku blinks burst flares out of his eyes. “… Sensei?”
Grinning, Shinsō jabs his chopsticks towards Eraserhead, earning himself a sharp chiding from his other father in the process. “Yeah, you wouldn’t think it from Mr. Grumpy-pants here, but he teaches at U.A. with Pops. Puts the fear of yellow in all those mighty hero-hopefuls, right?” In a softer tone, like he senses how stormy Izuku’s thoughts have grown, he leans over to nudge Izuku with an elbow. “Don’t worry, him lecturing you means he likes you. ‘Best students actually listen’, and whatever. Bet you twenty he’s already writing your lesson plans in his head.”
Best students. But Izuku’s not— he isn’t— “I’m not a hero, though. I’m…”
“Well,” Porcelain clinks as Yamada stands, gathering empty dishes, “That’s the point of programs like U.A., don’t you think, li’l listener?”
“But I can’t be a hero!”
Shinsō cocks his head to the side, like a puzzled cat, and no it’s not funny anymore. “Why not? I mean, if you think I can, what’s stopping you?”
“I’m—“ No, no, why is he drowning now? Everything was just fine, they were eating, they were talking, everything was comfortable and warm and easy, why is Izuku drowning now? Why is the food gone, the distraction gone, why are they all looking at him again? Izuku’s bowl lies empty, the ‘Ow Fuck My Fingers’ chopsticks placed beside the absence of comfort where he set them when the conversation turned into questions he wasn’t sure he answered right. Is this it? Is this where they tell him to leave? Is this where they realize inviting Izuku into even this minuscule piece off their lives was a mistake?
Izuku’s voice catches in his throat. Suffocates. “I’m—“
(Kacchan’s voice whispers, ‘swan dive’, crackling and weeping and furious. All Might’s face frowns around the words, hollow with secrets. Kacchan cries angry and sets a burning hand on Izuku’s shoulder. All Might’s mouth spells, ‘swan dive’. Kacchan shakes his head.)
Shinsō’s mouth scrunches, confusion. “I’m… huh?”
(I’m sorry, young man. I don’t think…)
Across the table, Yamada scolds, “Toshi, don’t push him, clearly he’s not comfortable with—“
(—take a swan dive, and—)
Eraserhead’s eyes pin Izuku, like a bug to a wall.
The drowning strangles in his throat, like sludge and secrets and the vast emptiness of rooftops, and Izuku can’t choke on it any longer. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He—
“—I don’t have a quirk.”