Chapter Text
“Kacchan knew me probably better than anyone else. I won’t lie, we weren’t best friends – but we were close.” Izuku pauses as he speaks to his reflection in the mirror. He’s seen better days. The boy lost weight and refused to speak for an entire day. He crumples the tear-ridden script in his hands and throws it onto the floor.
For the past week, his mind had been plagued with guilt. Why? If only I were close enough. I could’ve grabbed his hand. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Izuku was never meant to reach him, though; Kacchan would never take his help. Not when they were children in the creek, not when the sludge villain attacked, and not when the league had chosen Kacchan.
He doesn’t deserve to deliver a memorial speech for Kacchan. It took everything in Izuku to not say no to Masaru when he showed up at his door. Kacchan’s father had always had a placid look, but when he showed up at the Midoriyas’ door, an unsettling sadness showed on his face. His eyes drooped, his wrinkles deepened, and his skin looked almost grey.
“I’ll have a speech ready for you; I can send it to you too for you to read it over,” Izuku stated as the pit in his stomach deepened. He is a horrible, horrible person.
His guilt was cut short by the soft, soothing voice of a mother.
“Izuku, honey,” his mother called out. She herself had not been spared the pain. She’d practically raised Katsuki as well. Sure, she may not have seen – or liked Kastuki – in his preteens, but she was a mother. A kind, empathetic, loving mother. Katsuki’s disappearance left a hole in her heart that no amount of kind words or hugs could fill, and she knew a deeper one had engraved its way into her son’s. After all, he is a mama’s boy.
Tears welled in the teen’s eyes. He stumbled as he fell into loving arms. For a brief moment, Inko wondered. When was the last time Mitsuku got to hold her son? Did she ever get to console him? Did he miss her when he was kidnapped?
Selfishly, she held her son tighter.
She ruffles his curls and looks down at the taller boy. “Don’t force yourself, please. If you’re not ready, it's okay. I love you, so so so much. Please never forget that.”
Izuku finally speaks up, in a voice so low and small his mother could barely hear, “People keep lying”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
Inko wishes she could tell her baby that everything would be okay. That whatever truth there is would be uncovered. That Katsuki is in a better place. That Izuku would be okay. But she’s not a liar.
She is, however, a coward.
“Izuku, sweetie, I love you. And, seeing what happened to him… I can’t have that happen to you.”
“Mom, I'm not quit-”
“Please.” She begged. “Look what happened to him. His body was completely deconstructed. I love you. I know you’re brave and strong and capable, but please. I’m sorry, I'm selfish. But I can’t. He was so young, and so are you. God knows what could happen. You kids aren’t indestructible. I was already so scared to send you.”
The silence hung heavy between the two, only broken when Izuku’s panicked breaths crescendoed, “No!” He yelled. “You can’t. You can’t make this choice for me. I know what I want. What's the point of everything I did then? I can’t quit. Especially not because of him. Mom please. I mean, if he were still here, he’d scream at me for quitting.”
“But he isn’t! Izuku, he’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Baby, I can’t lose you.”
“Mom, please.”
“I won’t take you out…but…don’t forget what happened to him.”
I don’t think I ever will, Izuku never says. He nods sweetly to his mother as he stays in her arms. He wonders, when was the last time Kacchan had ever been held? Just what happened in there?
Suddenly, his mother lets go, and the suffocating air bites him once again.
“I made you Katsudon. I’ll bring it here for you to eat.”
“Thanks.”
And like that, Inko leaves the room, along with the warmth she radiates. The floorboards crackle as Izuku steps out and heads towards the room. On his desk lies his hero notebook. Years of analysis of heroes, friends, and quirks sit inside. The book hasn’t been opened since last week.
All Izuku can do now is remember. Every moment of his being now is tainted with the absence of his childhood friend.
Summer was approaching. Days grew longer, and the warm air lingered for a little more with each passing day. In a city like Musutafu, everyone is in their own little bubbles. News doesn’t spread rapidly – unless it’s something national. Honestly, it really only seemed like the Midoriyas and Bakugous were grieving. Sure, there were protests at UA, but none of those people knew Kacchan. They weren’t grieving a friend or a son. There’s no way they could've. How can one grieve for someone they’ve never met? Sympathy is nothing to a dead person.
The thing about grief is that it's born of absence and grows with memories. It’s a constant loop on replay.
Izuku blinks, and suddenly there’s a warm bowl of Katsudon on his desk.
He should go down and say thank you to his mother.
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Mitsuki hasn’t gone out in a week.
She simply misses her son. She knew she shouldn’t have sent that brat to UA.
Her mother had always told her a story of Mitsuki as a child. She and her mother had been on a girls' trip to the local market. Some festival for the celebration of spring had begun, and the air was filled with hope and a lingering chill from the passing winter. The two girls inspected the oranges on sale – well, her mother did. The colorful rides had caught Mitsuki’s eye. Mitsuki had begged her mother to let her go to the festival rides at the opposite end of the market. Her mother tried to reason, but there’s no way to stop an 8-year-old from going on a teacup ride.
“Please, mama! I’m literally 8-and-3-quarters! I can go! I’ll do it myself! Please!”
Her mother let out a resigned sigh, “Fine, Suki. For 10 minutes only.”
Mitsuki let out a cheer and ran before her mother could be the one to send her off. Her mother chose not to go any further and lingered at the orange stand, taking in the scent of citrus.
The market was honestly not that large. Her mother could’ve easily gone to the end and still been within reach of her daughter, but something pulled her away from it.
Only 2 minutes had passed. Suddenly, the smell of citrus shifted to acid. There was no hesitation. Her mother ran, and in a moment, Mitsuku had sifted from a pink teacup to her mother's arm.
Before Mitsuki could voice her tantrum, a bang was heard from behind them.
It really was the perfect day for a villain to ruin.
Mitsuki was told that the two had simply exited the scene and returned home.
Her mom always called it a mother’s intuition.
Mitsuki looks down at the scrapbook resting in her hands. She’d looked over every picture of Katsuki since Aizawa had given the news. Katsuki was a direct copy of Mitsuki. He was her baby, her pride and joy.
Sure, he was a foul-mouthed teenager with a big ego, but he was her baby. Anyone who’d met Mitsuki could testify to the overwhelming love she had for him. She still does. Sometimes, she opens his bedroom door, hoping that she’ll find her baby sleeping in bed. The house has been quiet. Far too quiet.
Their home has never been silent. Katsuki’s music would either be heard from his room; Masaru would cook without a care for the sound his pans made; Mitsuki never had the courtesy to lower her voice in any conversation.
She needed to yell at someone. She’d already mouthed to Aizawa and All Might – for failing her son. They weren’t even there. The cause of her son’s death is yet to be identified. There’s no real reason yet. She decided to see what remained of her son.
There’s no one else left for her to blame except herself.
Maybe it truly was her fault. She had so many chances to take Katsuki out of that school. When she sent him there, she had a gut feeling; she knew something would go wrong. But for the sake of her son's happiness and pride, she shoved her feelings down.
Maybe if she had been a better mother, this could’ve been avoided. Maybe Katsuki would be reasonable. God knows what stupid decisions he made that got him to where he was.
Oh well. She’ll never know.
The front door opens, and Mitsuki looks over to see her husband.
Masaru has turned into someone new. He hasn’t shaved, and it looks as if someone has sucked the life out of him.
He speaks as he slides his shoes off and treks towards the sofa, “I got some floral arrangements. I also took pictures of some of the urns that I thought looked nice, and I thought you should have a say in it too. If you’re up to it, we can go together tomorrow.”
The thought of going out has Mitsuki disheveled. No one really teaches you how to grieve a child.
“I don’t know if I can,” she admits.
“Then I’ll handle it.” Masaru takes her hand. They’re both cold. “Let’s just go to bed.”
Mitsuki takes a look at the mess of the table in front of her: Katsuki’s belongings, trinkets, clothes, and birth certificate all lay. His death certificate will be coming in the mail tomorrow morning.
Masaru leads her up to the bedroom. As they pass through the silent halls, both their eyes linger on Katsuki's door.
Mitsuki can’t help but look in.